Crossroads
A drop in the ocean
exists only
when removed abstractly
from its milieu;
then we may put it under
a microscope –
assign it innocence or
guilt.
At the crossroads of a
dreamscape,
which way is valid? East or west? North or south?
Of what use is an
elaborate tea ceremony,
if the drinking water is
contaminated?
Truth concerns not Itself
with choices.
Eruch said, ‘True love is
no sacrifice.’
Suppose Abraham’s
terrible freedom
was established in the
raising of his knife;
Isaac’s freedom in the
trust of his father --
one surrender tucked
securely within the other.
And perhaps there was
another, mutual surrendering --
beyond imagination and
conception,
union requiring some sort
of reciprocal dissolution --
the illusory drop
absorbed into the oceanic whole.
O child of God, free will
is cutting you to bits.
Only those who have no
choice are free.
Nonetheless
Liberation? You offer servitude.
Attainment? Lowliness.
Empowerment? Helplessness.
Purity and bliss? Ghamela yoga:
pain, grime, exhaustion –
ground to dust under Your
heel.
You drive a hard bargain,
Sir! What sort
of fools signs up for
that tour of duty?
Pilate thought to wash
his hands of Jesus.
You make sure we get ours dirty –
graves deeply dug; Your garment’s hem
muddied and twisted in our fists.
Desperate, prodigal and impaired?
Yes.
Apprehensive and imprudent? Yes .
. .
nonetheless, I love and
am slave
of the Slave of the love
of His lovers.
O child of God,
servitude? You bleat
at each pinch of the
fetters, each tug of the chain.
Reading the label
The mystery can’t be put
into words
but it can be written in
blood;
shaped by the arrangement
of certain human bones.
Truth walked the earth;
took in the view,
Your rambunctious body
upsetting the bullock cart –
pulses aflutter;
necks craned and
blushing,
ears pricked up;
heart-throats,
long empty, suddenly
filled with song.
The blood of Jesus is
precious
because it runs thick
with the mystery of Love.
Reaching for the hem of
Your garment –
(when You wore Your Jesus robe)
the infirm woman needed
not scripture ...
but the soul-stirring
presence of the Soul of souls
moving majestically
through the pressing crowd.
O child of God, please
understand – reading
the wine bottle’s label
will never make you drunk.
Sky blue coat
I followed a map of the
world. It led
down a narrow path to the
ocean.
From there I could see --
nothing matters
but the folding of myself
into You.
Let love be my measure
... and my guide.
I’ve known love enough in
this lifetime
to know it’s not blind,
but wide-eyed and
vigilant;
not intoxication but an
unearthly sobriety
penetrating the chronic delirium
of the false view.
How wondrous the heart –
at the same time
an encrusted anchor and a
fluttering bird;
bruised rose and captured
hare;
a torch, a goblet;
an upraised fist and
weathered valise.
The pages where my story
is written –
fold and tuck them away –
into the pocket
of my Beloved’s sky blue
coat.
O child of God, drop your
bags and run
headlong into the
Master’s arms.
