For
what it is worth
No
time like the present, they say.
In
fact, per the Mystics,
there
is no time but the present.
The
Eternal Now likened
to
a still frame in the aperture of a projector,
preceded
and followed by
a
continual series of still frames
that
produce the Illusion
of
motion, space and change,
while
answering God’s
whimsical
query, Who am I?
The
answer is thus provided
through
an illusory witness and experiencer
who
escapes (only apparently)
the
timeless inertia and omnipresence of God’s Original
(per
Meher) unconscious state of absolute Oneness.
O
child of God, after so many years, still you seek
to explicate the
Mystery rather than embrace it.
A
plumb dead stop
Call
me Ishmael these days. Cleaving uneasily
to
a coffin lid upon these high, rolling seas.
A
mighty joke, said Meher, is life.
Share
it with me, Lord.
I
could use a good laugh.
These
stage lights have been on for ages
and
I’m yearning now for a darkness
as
I move toward another drowning
which
seems little more than a change of clothes.
Meanwhile,
I plead for annihilation,
but
all I ever get is death.
This
spinning planet appeared first to be fun,
but
then the motion sickness set in.
A
long dose of nothingness, just about now,
would
seem to be what the doctor ordered –
the
pendulum coming to a plumb dead stop.
O
child, you can always depend upon God,
but not to exempt you
from your destiny.
Zero-sum
game
I’m
a born again Christian –
born
again and again and again,
body
to body and moment to moment
so
that no one is ever at home.
Brahma,
Vishnu, Shiva have hold of me
as
my essence flits and flickers
through
the momentary transitions
of
creation, preservation and destruction.
My
body is subject to the physical laws
but
(per Meher) I’m ever as young
as
the moment at hand and ever beyond
the
reach of Life-in-Illusion’s zero-sum game.
O
child of God, you are not the body nor the mind,
not this or that. You
are (per Meher) Truth eternal.
Little
white lies
This
cold, familiar world seems so hardy,
but
don’t you believe it –
it’s
but a fragile, shimmering dream,
liable
to disappear at any moment.
To
grasp the gist of this poem,
read
between the lines
after
the words have petered out.
Their
white bleakness is the message,
the
emptiness that frames our lives,
the
comfort we take in the familiar
as
we chatter casually among ourselves
from
our various foxholes.
Take
care, o child, take care. Let not the world
entangle you in the
web of its little white lies.
