My
terra firma
My
ship is churning in circles,
round
and round, round and round.
The
stars have shifted from their ancient
arrangements
and I’m lost again.
Gusts
of wind carry an old sea shanty,
the
chorus chanting homeward bound.
Yes,
my Lord, many times
I
have turned my back on You
to
venture out upon this watery realm
but
You are my terra firma
to
which I’ve always returned
for
stillness, solidity and refuge
in
this vast and lonely,
storm-riddled
expanse.
O
child of God, the world is round and self-contained.
You
always end up where you first began.
(painting
by Mark Hodges)
Wordless
poetry
Shall
I recite a wordless poem?
Just
to give my jaw a break.
Composed
of heart mumbles,
murmurs,
cadences and rhythms.
The
world begs for salvation
but
all we ever get is eloquence,
pomposity
– towering shelves of books,
volumes
and volumes of explanations.
No
wonder my Lord was silent.
After
reading the fine print,
I’ve
learned that Truth doesn’t enter
the
heart through the eyes or ears.
It
is not explained by the mouth,
nor
realized in the brain.
So
let us idle our useless tongues
and
pray for a poem composed
of
the Master’s Silent Word, the one
we
have been ever longing to hear.
O
child of God, words are never more
than inert descriptions
of the evanescent Truth.
A
drop in the bucket
I’m
being asked for my identification –
I’m
a bit player in some grandiose production,
a
walking heartache, passing through
a
shit storm on my way to the glory land.
My
thoughts are a broken record;
my
intended destination that distant blue range.
My
poetry is turning into a diary
and
who wants to indulge in that confusion?
Who
I am is a drop in the bucket.
A
drop in the ocean, shifting with the tides.
A
drop of perplexity
and,
by faith, of divinity.
O
child of God, you are being prompted,
in your latter years,
to trek through the wilds.
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.
