Such
is my destiny
Up
on the Hill, Meher offered me
a
cup of wine. I politely declined,
then
sat down to soberly write a poem
about
intoxication. Such is my destiny.
All
the while, I was thinking the center
of
the universe was eight thousand miles away –
enamored
of myself, my pleasure, comforts,
my
conformity, rather than any nearby Beloved.
Back
home, trudging through my old routines,
sobered
by fear, uncertainty, impermanence.
Now
that the darkness has begun to lift a bit,
the
dream is fading. I don’t mind so much.
I’m
bone-tired, looking forward to a reset
and
somewhere far away, or perhaps,
just
at my elbow, a new invitation
to
partake of His holy, liberating wine.
O
child, your liberation is per Meher’s schedule.
Rue and regret are but
an impotent indulgence.
The
ol’ soft shoe
I
was a child, younger than most,
when
I first took up dancing –
tap,
the shuffle, the ol’ soft shoe.
A
routine for every occasion.
Always
on notice, on alert,
to
dance apropos to the tune
of
my elders, my betters, my cohorts,
my
inner promptings, dance, dance, dance
until
I lay exhausted in my bed each night.
All
my former partners have left me now,
or
I them, for different partners and the latest tunes
except
for the One who has always stuck by me,
silently
pressing me now, as the music drifts and fades,
to
come to a halt. To sit this one out, to leave
off
every
surefire flourish of my old routine
and
just listen, observe and come to a rest.
O
child of God, you’ve gone through the moves
your whole life long,
yet rarely have you ever danced for joy.
These
old bones
The
end of a long life coming up
and
I have accomplished nothing;
everything’s
been a gift and a loan –
like
this poem.
I’ve
been an intruder upon a dream,
nothing
mine, least of all myself.
Lifelong
I have engaged
in
the business of ideas,
rather
than investigating the source
of
all such insubstantialities.
Crumple
up this paper and toss it in the fire.
It
might come to some use warming these old bones.
I’ve
discovered the wordless truth
of
these shaky hands and tired old bones –
nothing
but the scenery changes;
nothing
but the scenery.
O
child of God, the Mystics say you are a witness
beyond
the reach of time, decay and death.
The
tomb of the heart
There
is a Tomb on a hill at Meherabad
made
of discarded stones.
People
come from around the world to bow down.
It’s
a long journey. Even for those who live
nearby.
Such
a journey that no one quite remembers
when
and where they took their first faltering steps.
Just
as no one knows when and where it will end.
It’s
a pilgrimage within a dream
and
it leads to another tomb,
this
one simply a shallow grave
only
as deep as flesh and bone will allow,
where
the Awakener truly lies. And from where
He
summons His lovers to the Tomb on the hill
so
they may, after a more circuitous journey,
come
to the end of their search
and
find their way into the tomb of the heart.
O
child of God, your pilgrimage begins and ends
(per Meher) in a
realm without time or distance.
