Drink this poem

Drink this poem                                                                              

This poem, o lover, might lead you

down a lost lane into a dark woods.

Or, it might become a gate

opening onto a sunlit, holy vineyard.

This poem, like any other,

can never tell the Truth –

but, it might expose, at times,

Its skeletal remains;

like the empty casks and kegs,

cups and flasks

of a holy celebration

we’ve yet to be invited to;

dregs of a wine whose taste –

even the nuance of its fragrance –

intoxicates and enraptures.

Poetry never tells the Truth,

but, it might, at times, become a rope-gate

opening onto the lush, green, fragrant

grape-laden rows

of a sunlit, holy vineyard.

O child of God, drink this poem (and others)

when the Tavern is shuttered and dark.

                        (Unpublished)

The ashram's ox

The ashram’s ox                                                                                 

The ashram’s ox, Rajah, wandered away.

Two disciples were assigned to recover it – 

Ramdas plunged headlong into the task –

tracking down every lead;

interviewing all parties;

organizing searches into the surrounding area.

Shamaji wandered out alone,

bellowing the ox’s name.  
           

Months passed without success. 

Shamaji, the itinerant madman,

calling,  “Rajah! Rajah! Rajah!”, 

eventually, like the ox, wandered away. 

Ramdas became a valuable fixture in the ashram.

The Guru often spoke highly of him.

Concerning Shamaji, the Guru would only say,

“I am no longer his master.”

O child of God, explore the mystery’s infinite facets

or follow Shamaji into the hills beyond.

                            (from A Jewel in the Dust)

You fill my quiver

You fill my quiver                                                                             

In the Great Seclusion,

You drew back Your bow.

I draw back mine now

to escape this great, desperate seclusion –

an arrow hurled across the space between us;

cleaving the Oneness You insist exists.

Yes, this poem says, like any other --

I am not You;  We are not One;

heart is not Heart; throat is not Ear.

Yet, this is our parley and our communion.

You fill my quiver.  I empty it, a note

of praise and complaint attached to each shank.

How did the world change

when Krishna abandoned His flute

for arrows, quiver and bow?

When Cupid first unfurled his wings

and went beating about

doing God’s bidding?

O child of God, pray to become God’s prey.

A good poem is an arrow sunk deep in the chest.

                       

Loose change

Loose change                                                                                    

The taste of love is bitter in my mouth.

I can’t swallow it; I can’t spit it out.

Give me the definition of love -- 

          but don’t use any words.

I’ve been given enough words.  

All day long I beg for it

but, at night, when I empty my pouch –

there’s nothing but loose change.

How will this beggarly life ever make me rich?

Show me where to dig to strike the secret vein.

How do I split myself open just right

so that key of Yours might be

inserted into the padlock?

O child of God, in your quest for wealth, ask yourself,

‘Who is the one so impatient and dissatisfied?’

                        (from A Jewel in the Dust)

A taste for crow

A taste for crow                                                                       

I used to pray for a heartskin

bursting with wine.  Now I ask for milk.

I used to study dervish tales, now I listen

for my grandfather’s ghost

sweeping the hallways of the old junior high.

On my return from star-gazing last night,

I tracked the temple floor with mud.

I prayed to the Holy Ghost, elbowing aside  

the fellow on the prayer rug next to me.

This dream of realization is covered in dust.

I’m reluctant to smudge my clean white gloves …

or to acquire a taste for crow.

My heart is a star, burning blue-white, but 

yielding no warmth across space.

O child of God, Your Beloved is everywhere,

yet diligently you guard the gates of your true Self.

                         (from A Jewel in the Dust)

Jesus for adults

Jesus for adults                                                                                 

“Suffer the children to come unto Me.”

I was a child when I first heard those words.

‘Suffer’, it was explained to me, means ‘allow’.

Jesus for adults in our church

was the Lamb of God, but to the children

He was the Shepherd and we were His flock.

Later, from Meher, I learned Jesus was not here

to save me from the cross

but to show me the Way to hang,

shouldering that weight for me

as far up the hill as He could get.

Suffering real, unavoidable, bitter as gall,

heavy as those rough-hewn timbers;

sharp as spikes and thorns.

Jesus loved the adults from high on a cross

but He took the children into His arms, heart to heart,

teaching that our love for Him

is as important as His love for us.

O child of God, surrender is the way of liberation.

To suffer means to allow.

                        (from A Jewel in the Dust)

The merest shadow

The merest shadow

O Beloved, before I met You I was a devout believer,

clinging to a hundred stolen truths.

Now I find I am slowly losing my religion.

When it’s gone, when my pockets are empty,

I will float above this world like an angel.

Jesus drove the moneychangers from the temple,

those who judged and measured,

bargained and quibbled,

those who accumulated and divided.

O Beloved, when You get through with me there’ll be

          nothing left –

not the vaguest hint of a semblance of the merest shadow

          of a dream.

I removed my sandals at Your threshold,

but my bare feet stained the surface

          of Your pure stone floor.

This unholy container of flesh and blood, shit and piss,

          mucous, phlegm, sweat and tears

tainted the atmosphere of Your immaculate shrine.

O Beloved, what is at the heart of me

          that You tolerate such intolerable insults

and move, ever closer, ever more intimate and involved?

O child of God, if you are made of clay, how will you

          ever be scrubbed clean?

Know that your Beloved is drawn to the inviolate Source

          of who you really are.

                           (from The Garden of Surrender)

Yesterday's tea

Yesterday’s tea                                                                     

Joshu said, “First empty your cup.”

But You, ready or not, started pouring –

spattering everywhere the stagnant residue,

the spent rends of yesterday’s tea.

Roughly scoured, deeply discolored,

my cup (one tomorrow)

will be crushed under the Master’s heel.

Ryokan offered the moon,

but content was the pitiable thief

to wrap himself in the old man’s robe.

Don’t confuse the moon with the finger,

Ryokan would say.

You say the moon and finger are One.

How confusing!

What You have poured into my cup –

I have drunk to the pungent dregs,

whether medicinal tea ... or mulled wine,

my beard and chest soaked 

and darkly stained, waving frantically,
pounding the table and clamoring for more!

O Master, You know how to shake up the ol' teahouse!

You’ve invited the moon inside to drink from Your cozied pot.

O child of God, Truth is One.

Contradictions are merely apparent.