Unencumbered of woe

Unencumbered of woe                                                                                   

Holding Meher Baba’s umbrella,

my long legs, tall frame keep pace

as He strides the rough terrain 

of early Meherabad. 

We halt in the middle of a field

and after a long silence He turns,

gestures for me to step nearer,

out of the harsh sun into the circle of shade.

I obey and leave beyond its rim myself,

my quest and all such fearsome bindings;

leave behind the rest of the world. 

No need for anything else

save His Presence, this shelter

beyond attainment, beyond understanding.

O child of God, to trust Meher

is to become unencumbered of woe.

The perfect me

The perfect me                                                                                  
 
Forgive me, humanity, I have not been
the human being – the father, son, brother,
 
husband, partner, friend – I had hoped to be.
Nowhere near, not within a country mile.
 
What I am and have been –
to complete perfection – is the perfect me.
 
No one could ever come close
to being as perfect a me as me.
 
Soon enough I’ll meet the perfect death,
this version of self ceasing forever to exist
 
and move on to what is next.
I will dutifully ask forgiveness from God
 
and then thank Him for sharing with me
the opportunity to serve, 
 
(fitting so aptly into His plan)
by expressing precisely all He wished
 
to be expressed, attaining all that
was required by my particular incarnation.
 
O child of God, don’t worry.  Be happy.
Perfection is in the eye of the Beholder.

The turn of a knob

The turn of a knob                                                                                      
 
I hold my tongue (as You suggested
through a lifetime of silence)
 
and meet You in that immeasurable space
where real things are exchanged.
 
Even in these raw, preliminary stages,
I’m allowed through that door
 
where at the turn of a knob
I’m greeted by Your silence.
 
There to listen instead of barter,
quiescent rather than seeking,
 
immobile instead of on the prowl,
humble instead of scheming –
 
o Lord, I am the silence I listen to.
You are the silence I listen to.
 
We mingle there as one –
as I mutely place my hand in Yours.
 
O child of God, continue with your raucous verses.
Meher’s silence contains all sound.

Ocean shell

Ocean shell                                                                                        
 
Cup this shell to your ear
and listen to the ocean –
 
its hollow, hushed white noise
somewhere between a silence and a roar.
 
Shell to ear, ear to heart,
this is the silence Baba left
 
(with its intimate roar)
to drown out the world’s bellow,
 
its furor and anguish, 
sham and shallow glamour;
 
the mind’s incessant stream of self.
Cup this ocean shell to your ear
 
and leave the populous shore
for the solitude and intangible promise
 
of the deep high seas, farther out, farther out
towards oblivion and soundless nonexistence.
 
O child of God, ride the ocean waves
until you lose your boundaries in its briny vastness.