The remote promise

The remote promise                                                                                    

It doesn’t take much to become dust.

I mean, it’s not like you start out a hero.

You have not to yield anything of real value.

Not a sacrifice really but the overseeing of a collapse.

It takes obstinacy, mind you, an obsessive vigilance;

persistence through constant failure;

a disheartening familiarity

with your own depthless inadequacy;

faith in the remote promise of a distant victory

constructed upon utter defeat.      

But what else is there to do when your Beloved

rouses in you the first inchoate stirrings of humility?

When He speaks of love and you discover your poverty,

your heart aloof and non-comprehending?  

What else to do with the shame from a lifetime

of duplicity, mistrust and a dearth of pity?

What else to do when your effort might bring

a brief smile, a nod of the head from your Lord

while you both wait for the one miracle

He promised He has come to perform?

O child of God, what else on God’s green earth

has more value than the dust gathered at Meher’s feet?

The crust of armor

The crust of armor                                                                                             

After laying down the sword

the self must unhand its shield,

climb from its crust of armor naked and doomed.

Surrender comes not only when the soldier

finds his cause hopelessly lost

but also unworthy, his rebellion needless,

his allegiances distorted, his submission righteous,

his adversary, in truth, his liberator.

And when the armor is abandoned

(per the mystics) the self proves to be

the armor itself – superfluous, illusory,

enclosing an ancient and ineffectual ghost.

O child of God, surrender is impossible without

the solace and beguilement of the Saviour.

The end of my eternity

The end of my eternity

Since my Beloved told me I am an eternal being,
much of the old urgency has fallen away.
 
Since I stopped believing in myself,
ceased rattling my karmic chains,
 
played my hunch on the law of must,
time matters little to me now.
 
Wherever it is I’m bound, God will get around to it,
my arrival as precisely orchestrated as the flight of stars.
 
How could it be otherwise under His exacting command?
If I’ve misjudged my position there will be
 
an abundance of time to correct the error.
What’s a few more centuries plastered on
 
to the end of my eternity?
Or an additional allotment
 
of illusory binding and suffering
before my fated release into the infinite sea of bliss?
 
O child of God, time is naught when the heart
becomes fixed upon the eternal now.

 (drawing by Rich Panico)

The old P.C.

The old P.C.
 
You invited me to walk with You
up the hill to the Tomb.
 
I’ve spent the last thirty years
trying to lace up my shoes.
 
It’s difficult when you’re drunk
on the world’s wine
 
and the ground keeps
shifting under your feet.
 
I’ve lost my bearings again
beneath an endless blue sky
 
as the hot winds rattle the wilted neems.
The cool stone images
 
of the Samadhi’s interior beckon me,
but I am heat-weary and sleepy
 
for my next nap and the sunlight
is dazzling beyond the shaded eaves.
 
O child of God, how infinitely patient is the Master,
waiting you out on the veranda of the old P.C.  

(Painting by Mark Hodges)