The
ol’ soft shoe
I
was a child, younger than most,
when
I first took up dancing –
tap,
the shuffle, the ol’ soft shoe.
A
routine for every occasion.
Always
on notice, on alert,
to
dance apropos to the tune
of
my elders, my betters, my cohorts,
my
inner promptings, dance, dance, dance
until
I lay exhausted in my bed each night.
All
my former partners have left me now,
or
I them, for different partners and the latest tunes
except
for the One who has always stuck by me,
silently
pressing me now, as the music drifts and fades,
to
come to a halt. To sit this one out, to leave
off
every
surefire flourish of my old routine
and
just listen, observe and come to a rest.
O
child of God, you’ve gone through the moves
your whole life long,
yet rarely have you ever danced for joy.
These
old bones
The
end of a long life coming up
and
I have accomplished nothing;
everything’s
been a gift and a loan –
like
this poem.
I’ve
been an intruder upon a dream,
nothing
mine, least of all myself.
Lifelong
I have engaged
in
the business of ideas,
rather
than investigating the source
of
all such insubstantialities.
Crumple
up this paper and toss it in the fire.
It
might come to some use warming these old bones.
I’ve
discovered the wordless truth
of
these shaky hands and tired old bones –
nothing
but the scenery changes;
nothing
but the scenery.
O
child of God, the Mystics say you are a witness
beyond
the reach of time, decay and death.
The
tomb of the heart
There
is a Tomb on a hill at Meherabad
made
of discarded stones.
People
come from around the world to bow down.
It’s
a long journey. Even for those who live
nearby.
Such
a journey that no one quite remembers
when
and where they took their first faltering steps.
Just
as no one knows when and where it will end.
It’s
a pilgrimage within a dream
and
it leads to another tomb,
this
one simply a shallow grave
only
as deep as flesh and bone will allow,
where
the Awakener truly lies. And from where
He
summons His lovers to the Tomb on the hill
so
they may, after a more circuitous journey,
come
to the end of their search
and
find their way into the tomb of the heart.
O
child of God, your pilgrimage begins and ends
(per Meher) in a
realm without time or distance.
Of
birdsong caliber
If ever
this poetry could touch the dulcet chirruping of birdsong,
each
word’s import would become superfluous to its charm.
Nonsense
syllables would be at its heart,
the gist
of a riddle giving everyone a good laugh;
each
poem an ornament hung from the neck,
a stud
in the lobe of an ear, a beauty that speaks for itself
rather
than this old hair shirt cut to fit, dutifully gilding
the
dissonance and duplicity of both words and thought.
This
birdsong poetry would then take flight
and I
would follow, no longer grounded
by my
inarticulacy, ignorance and desire.
Truth
and beauty would appear together onstage,
in pure
harmony singing the story of existence –
a love
song without meaning beyond the telling of the tale,
the love
that creates and sustains it
and the
love of which it is constructed.
O child
of God, if ever you are able to write poems
of birdsong caliber, you will have no need for words.
