Wallflower
peace
I’ve got this song stuck in my head.
It’s got a good beat. I
give it a 95.
When will I cease dancing to its tune?
Get caught up instead in the silence
of my Lord?
Trade in these irksome gyrations
for the wallflower peace
of obeisance and remembrance;
quit the party irrevocably
for my Lord’s chamber.
Have us there a marathon
here-and-now heart to heart,
me folded up securely at His feet,
silent and rapt, enchanted
by His ancient song of love.
O child of God, do not absent yourself
for a moment, advised
Hafiz.
The
all-pervasive One
Everyone
is dreaming (per Meher),
yet
we are always alone in our slumber.
Alone
but for the all-pervasive One.
In
our dreams and the dreams of others
we
come and go, yet we dream ever alone,
alone
but for the all-pervasive One.
Two
souls may share a life
but
they dream it apart and alone –
alone
but for the all-pervasive One.
In
intimacy we speak, share,
caress,
know and love each other,
but
we undergo it separately –
never
to share the same dream.
Alone
but for the all-pervasive One.
O
child of God, you are and always have been
and always shall be (per
Meher) the One Without A Second.
Book-learning
I’m caught up on my book-learning –
exterior
evidence; second-hand Truth.
All
I have of the Mystery
is
a satchel full of words –
inspiring
tales that I have read or heard,
concepts
I have contemplated and surmised.
Truth
has never jumped off the page at me
though
sometimes it clangs an underwater bell
or
strikes an eclectic chord,
touches
an ecstatic nerve –
something
that might give
a
seeker a bit of forbidden hope.
But
I will most likely, at this late date,
go
to my grave, Meher Baba as my Lord,
hopelessly
clinging to all my slipshod constructs,
seeking
from words far more than words could ever tell.
O
child of God, you will attain the Truth
at the precise moment
of your appointed destiny.
Pretend
game
Meher
referred to existence as the divine game –
but not
a contest; not a flag to capture.
A
pretend game. A masquerade.
And once
you find yourself
a
mandated participant, the only course left
is to
play your role best you can.
The only
way, apparently,
to bow
out is to make that
holy,
hair’s-breadth shift of perspective
where
every moment you act
not for
the moment but for the eternal,
ever
aware of the pretense, recognizing
yourself
and your fellow players
under
the make-up and costumes to be
none
other than God playing solitaire,
God the
great ubiquitous pretender.
O child
of God, follow the clues as best you can
until you are able to see through the charade.
