The
Storyteller
This
poem is momentous . . .
and
momentary – like each of our lives.
Just
a series of breaths . . . and yet, and yet.
Just
words . . . and yet, and yet.
O
Issa! Your dewdrop is all there is!
Ephemeral,
yet eternally ephemeral.
Baba
said, You and I are one –
separate
as Beloved and lover;
one
as His Whim unfolding every moment.
In
the beginning was the Word
and
the Word was with God
and
the Word was God . . .
and
the Word is God.
The
Storyteller is the Story.
O
child of God, you are a cast member
and also the only one
in the audience.
The
fallacy of two
There
are two sides to every story.
Per
Lao Tzu, the One
giving
rise to the two, the three
and
then the ten thousand.
On
a hot summer’s day, the drive-in’s
wide
screen is high and empty; pure white.
Sundown
will bring
multitudinous
images,
color,
movement and sound
projected
from One creative source.
Reality
is One – momentary and eternal,
projected
through the lens of the Now.
Illusion
is the passing show – ephemeral,
enigmatic
and ever-changing.
O
child of God, Truth is One. One is
Truth.
Illusion is created
by the fallacy of two.
A
returning
Time
to go home, I pray; time to go
where
there is no time and, perhaps,
no
imaginable sort of home.
This
dream of creation
is
fraying at the edges, bursting at the seams.
Even
the Perfect Ones Who we faithfully entreat
for
comfort and aid are not free
from
human fates and frailties –
the
sorrow, illness, pain and death of this realm,
each
One dutifully bound to return, per schedule,
to
where it all begins . . . ends and begins again.
Round
and round, up and down –
a
returning, always a returning,
to
what must be (we surmise) a perfect stillness,
an
unassailable serenity, an eternal slumber
in
a realm where time dares not enter.
O
child of God, you have no choice
but to trust the
benevolence of your Creator.
A
hillbilly song
I’m
performing my usual juggling act –
one
red apple, a bowling pin and a chainsaw
while
walking a tightrope far above
the
three rings, the caged beasts
and
the roaring crowd and I wonder –
will
anyone request a hillbilly song?
Mightn’t
it help some fallen soul?
Provide
perhaps a ray of hope?
Baba
said to become helpless and hopeless
but
I don’t think He meant it thisaway.
I
live in a little trailer behind the big top
and
all I can do is sweep out
its
daily accumulations as I spy them
through
these age-beclouded eyes.
O
child of God, someone in the crowd
is requesting Angel
Band and Sweet Beulah Land.
