This dewy morning

This dewy morning                                                                                

A green trail left in the morning dew 

where I have walked to the newly turned garden.

No point in asking where the dew

will be later on in the day

nor where it was the crisp cold evening last.

That’s all being taken care of by someone else.

I bend to work the hoe in dew-drenched hands,

till the dewy soil, strike with the blade

the occasional dew-like, hidden pebbles.

I anticipate a succulent harvest a few months hence,

fitting myself as best I might into this small patch

of the universal scheme, accepting whatever the price

and stipulations of its brief sustenance and bounty.

Everything else is being taken care of by someone else.

O child of God, surrender is a quiet thing,

begun every sunrise in humble, laboring silence.

Unencumbered of woe

Unencumbered of woe                                                                                   

Holding Meher Baba’s umbrella,

my long legs, tall frame keep pace

as He strides the rough terrain 

of early Meherabad. 

We halt in the middle of a field

and after a long silence He turns,

gestures for me to step nearer,

out of the harsh sun into the circle of shade.

I obey and leave beyond its rim myself,

my quest and all such fearsome bindings;

leave behind the rest of the world. 

No need for anything else

save His Presence, this shelter

beyond attainment, beyond understanding.

O child of God, to trust Meher

is to become unencumbered of woe.

The perfect me

The perfect me                                                                                  
 
Forgive me, humanity, I have not been
the human being – the father, son, brother,
 
husband, partner, friend – I had hoped to be.
Nowhere near, not within a country mile.
 
What I am and have been –
to complete perfection – is the perfect me.
 
No one could ever come close
to being as perfect a me as me.
 
Soon enough I’ll meet the perfect death,
this version of self ceasing forever to exist
 
and move on to what is next.
I will dutifully ask forgiveness from God
 
and then thank Him for sharing with me
the opportunity to serve, 
 
(fitting so aptly into His plan)
by expressing precisely all He wished
 
to be expressed, attaining all that
was required by my particular incarnation.
 
O child of God, don’t worry.  Be happy.
Perfection is in the eye of the Beholder.

The turn of a knob

The turn of a knob                                                                                      
 
I hold my tongue (as You suggested
through a lifetime of silence)
 
and meet You in that immeasurable space
where real things are exchanged.
 
Even in these raw, preliminary stages,
I’m allowed through that door
 
where at the turn of a knob
I’m greeted by Your silence.
 
There to listen instead of barter,
quiescent rather than seeking,
 
immobile instead of on the prowl,
humble instead of scheming –
 
o Lord, I am the silence I listen to.
You are the silence I listen to.
 
We mingle there as one –
as I mutely place my hand in Yours.
 
O child of God, continue with your raucous verses.
Meher’s silence contains all sound.