A slow roast

A slow roast

I’m in a holding pattern,

awaiting further instructions.

I have rummaged my way   

through this world’s various offerings

and what once engaged me

is now but a shadow play,

a Punch and Judy show

before an unruly crowd.

This spiritual longing is a slow roast

and it’s no fun – all my worldly desires

 

condensed into and focused upon the One,

His Presence ever near,

His sharp flame gathered at the point

like the head of a spear.

O child of God, no need to flee the world –

let the world flee from you.   

               

Until you remember

 Until you remember

There must be some mistake. 

The name on my birth certificate,

the photo on my passport.  That’s not who I am.

I’m not a white, male homo sapiens.

I am not an American, a Southerner,

an earthling.  I am not a seeker,

a poet, a Libra, a lover.

I am not a brother, a father, a grandfather, 

(though my loved ones call me that).

I am not a Baba lover,

(though Lord Meher is my Beloved).

I am not a collection of attributes.

I am none of the labels

that have been placed upon me

by others and by myself.  

belong to no category. 

Not this, not that. I am nothing

but a living lie (per Meher) of the truth that is me.

O child of God, you will remain a spectral wanderer

until the moment you remember Who you really are.   

 

Meanwhile

Meanwhile
 
Do not seek the truth;
advised Zen Master Seng-ts’an
 
way back in the sixth century –
only cease to cherish opinions.
 
Meanwhile, here in the modern world,
it seems that most of my contemporaries
 
consider strong convictions to be a badge of honor,
swiftly expressing an opinion on any and every subject.
 
The old pejorative opinionated
has become an adjective of praise.   
 
But pray we keep in mind, o pilgrims,
it is our false selves
 
with our inherent prejudices
and limited perspectives that form our opinions,
 
ofttimes losing sight of our common humanity     
and separating us from Truth’s inviolable whole.  
 
O child of God, to cease to cherish opinions         
          is nigh impossible.
To admit their inherent limitations, less so.   

 

On the threshold

On the threshold
 

I’ve moved into a mixed neighborhood.

A Zen Buddhist lives to the left of me.

A mystic Christian to my right.

In the park across the street,

a dervish whirls daily among the trees.

At night they gather on my porch

to serenade me with Christmas carols. 

Meher Baba interprets for my deaf ears.

I stand in the doorway, wishing

I had the throat to join them.

In or out, Baba gestures to me.

Not on the threshold.  In or out.  In or out.

O child of God, it’s sung in every language –

this world is not my home.