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.
Wallflower
peace
I’ve got this song stuck in my head.
It’s got a good beat. I
give it a 95.
When will I cease dancing to its tune?
Get caught up instead in the silence
of my Lord?
Trade in these irksome gyrations
for the wallflower peace
of obeisance and remembrance;
quit the party irrevocably
for my Lord’s chamber.
Have us there a marathon
here-and-now heart to heart,
me folded up securely at His feet,
silent and rapt, enchanted
by His ancient song of love.
O child of God, do not absent yourself
for a moment, advised
Hafiz.
The
all-pervasive One
Everyone
is dreaming (per Meher),
yet
we are always alone in our slumber.
Alone
but for the all-pervasive One.
In
our dreams and the dreams of others
we
come and go, yet we dream ever alone,
alone
but for the all-pervasive One.
Two
souls may share a life
but
they dream it apart and alone –
alone
but for the all-pervasive One.
In
intimacy we speak, share,
caress,
know and love each other,
but
we undergo it separately –
never
to share the same dream.
Alone
but for the all-pervasive One.
O
child of God, you are and always have been
and always shall be (per
Meher) the One Without A Second.
Book-learning
I’m caught up on my book-learning –
exterior
evidence; second-hand Truth.
All
I have of the Mystery
is
a satchel full of words –
inspiring
tales that I have read or heard,
concepts
I have contemplated and surmised.
Truth
has never jumped off the page at me
though
sometimes it clangs an underwater bell
or
strikes an eclectic chord,
touches
an ecstatic nerve –
something
that might give
a
seeker a bit of forbidden hope.
But
I will most likely, at this late date,
go
to my grave, Meher Baba as my Lord,
hopelessly
clinging to all my slipshod constructs,
seeking
from words far more than words could ever tell.
O
child of God, you will attain the Truth
at the precise moment
of your appointed destiny.
