Saturday, December 28, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
It was love
It was love
I'd painted myself into a corner --
I felt pure there and wise;
one hand tied behind my back;
watching the paint dry; no room
for a wrong move, the only unfinished part
now tucked firmly under my prayer mat.
Reverently, I pledged my life to You.
This is your life? You asked.
A corner where two walls meet?
It was love that lured me into the sunlight,
lifted me from the mat, escaping
precariously through an open window.
Love that enlivened me, made me more
(for better or worse) human.
Love God-sent, threaded through a heart
human like mine, but fearless, roaring like a lion.
Hold My hand, You said.
I'll give you a tour of My creation.
O child of God, offer no gesture
cheapened by fear and accommodation.
I'd painted myself into a corner --
I felt pure there and wise;
one hand tied behind my back;
watching the paint dry; no room
for a wrong move, the only unfinished part
now tucked firmly under my prayer mat.
Reverently, I pledged my life to You.
This is your life? You asked.
A corner where two walls meet?
It was love that lured me into the sunlight,
lifted me from the mat, escaping
precariously through an open window.
Love that enlivened me, made me more
(for better or worse) human.
Love God-sent, threaded through a heart
human like mine, but fearless, roaring like a lion.
Hold My hand, You said.
I'll give you a tour of My creation.
O child of God, offer no gesture
cheapened by fear and accommodation.
Due inheritance
Due inheritance
Soon after birth, she was left beside a bridge.
They had not the heart like so many others
to throw her into the river.
It’s easy now –
and then – to trace the royalty of her blood,
the inherent beauty, the glow of her holiness.
In fact, it’s evident in all their faces –
everyone born into this realm is abandoned at birth.
Who, then, dares implant such a longing
that each child should expect sheltering
and nourishment, indulgence and praise?
O fellow children of God, heirs to the kingdom,
when shall we accept the mantle of our nobility?
When shall we demand with trembling voice
and shaking fist our due inheritance – and nothing less?
The heart will hold its tongue for millenniums,
submissive to the senses, to circumstances,
ignorance and death, but it knows, it knows.
And once it begins to unfold, to strengthen and rise,
our demeanor and likeness to the King become
ever more transparent, self-evident and undeniable.
O children of God, assume the kingdom’s throne
by becoming who you already are.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
The secret
The secret
I go around with a crushing desire
to talk about that which I do not know.
Something to do with a Lion
Who devours Its lover.
Love - the big cat
Who stole my Lord's tongue,
swallowed up Merwan
and began a silent prowling.
Love is a secret, my Lord said, to be kept.
All I'm saying, Lord -
let me in on the secret.
Let me keep it with You.
Let me keep it with You forever
until forever is no more.
O child of God, prove trustworthy;
He'll whisper it in your ear.
I go around with a crushing desire
to talk about that which I do not know.
Something to do with a Lion
Who devours Its lover.
Love - the big cat
Who stole my Lord's tongue,
swallowed up Merwan
and began a silent prowling.
Love is a secret, my Lord said, to be kept.
All I'm saying, Lord -
let me in on the secret.
Let me keep it with You.
Let me keep it with You forever
until forever is no more.
O child of God, prove trustworthy;
He'll whisper it in your ear.
Imaginary wristwatch
Imaginary wristwatch
I haven't much time, You gesture,
(turned up at my door for a visit)
wagging a finger, tapping
an imaginary wristwatch. Stay present,
You say. Fearlessly value each moment.
But, serving tea, I begin to worry --
my china set cheap and tarnished;
my tea of low quality, fingers trembling,
words awkward. I get shaky
whenever You look my way.
I worry some imprudent word or gesture
might send You prematurely to the door.
Which prompts a vision of my house
even bleaker than before
with You gone from it.
After a time, You rise,
take Your leave. Next time,
You gesture, next time,
(tapping the imaginary wristwatch) --
trust Me with your life!
O child of God, how foolish! Afraid
of losing that which is eternally present.
I haven't much time, You gesture,
(turned up at my door for a visit)
wagging a finger, tapping
an imaginary wristwatch. Stay present,
You say. Fearlessly value each moment.
But, serving tea, I begin to worry --
my china set cheap and tarnished;
my tea of low quality, fingers trembling,
words awkward. I get shaky
whenever You look my way.
I worry some imprudent word or gesture
might send You prematurely to the door.
Which prompts a vision of my house
even bleaker than before
with You gone from it.
After a time, You rise,
take Your leave. Next time,
You gesture, next time,
(tapping the imaginary wristwatch) --
trust Me with your life!
O child of God, how foolish! Afraid
of losing that which is eternally present.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Sky blue coat
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.
(from A Jewel in the Dust)
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.
(from A Jewel in the Dust)
Crowded house
Crowded house
You often slip my mind
but are lodged ever firmly in my chest -
the best part of me now. The real part.
Neglected at times in the crowded house -
guests milling about, unintended, uninvited.
Luminous in Your flowing white gown,
I inch toward You, working the crowd,
strangers tugging at my sleeve,
inserting themselves between us,
spinning me around by the shoulder.
Everyone has something important to tell me.
I reach You and fall at Your feet.
When I lift my head the house is empty
save for You and me. I keep all sorts
of images like this in my head.
But, I want to know You in my chest -
aglow in the iron-ribbed furnace,
cheeks ruddy, neck flushed,
eyes green fire, tears unbidden.
I want You to leave me impaired -
sated, wondrous and bewildered,
mouth clamped shut so no smoke escapes.
O child of God, oneness begins with constancy
so complete it shatters the illusion of duality.
You often slip my mind
but are lodged ever firmly in my chest -
the best part of me now. The real part.
Neglected at times in the crowded house -
guests milling about, unintended, uninvited.
Luminous in Your flowing white gown,
I inch toward You, working the crowd,
strangers tugging at my sleeve,
inserting themselves between us,
spinning me around by the shoulder.
Everyone has something important to tell me.
I reach You and fall at Your feet.
When I lift my head the house is empty
save for You and me. I keep all sorts
of images like this in my head.
But, I want to know You in my chest -
aglow in the iron-ribbed furnace,
cheeks ruddy, neck flushed,
eyes green fire, tears unbidden.
I want You to leave me impaired -
sated, wondrous and bewildered,
mouth clamped shut so no smoke escapes.
O child of God, oneness begins with constancy
so complete it shatters the illusion of duality.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Precious cargo
Precious cargo
Read it until it sings in your veins!
You said of God Speaks.
All remembrance should be like that --
vascular, in the marrow; a deep
and irresistible recognition; a light
dispelling the shadows
in which incredulity and indifference breeds,
reestablishing our ancient-most
connection with reality;
. . . until it sings in your veins!
On the practical side, it should be sturdy
and lightweight, wieldy -- a convenient apparatus
for exposing and relinquishing
the temporal and the illusory;
unable to grasp our intended
distractions and indulgences,
finding our hands (heads, throats)
ever full and otherwise occupied
by a pure and most precious cargo --
Your name, Your image, Your presence
O child of God, Remember Me is a question.
Search your innermost depths to find the answer.
Read it until it sings in your veins!
You said of God Speaks.
All remembrance should be like that --
vascular, in the marrow; a deep
and irresistible recognition; a light
dispelling the shadows
in which incredulity and indifference breeds,
reestablishing our ancient-most
connection with reality;
. . . until it sings in your veins!
On the practical side, it should be sturdy
and lightweight, wieldy -- a convenient apparatus
for exposing and relinquishing
the temporal and the illusory;
unable to grasp our intended
distractions and indulgences,
finding our hands (heads, throats)
ever full and otherwise occupied
by a pure and most precious cargo --
Your name, Your image, Your presence
O child of God, Remember Me is a question.
Search your innermost depths to find the answer.
Truth be told
Truth be told
Truth be told, my Master was silent.
Truth be told, silence was the essence
of His message. O, He promised
on numerous occasions to speak
the Word of words -- some forty-odd years
but nary a word He left us -- no goodbye,
no parting wisdom, trading one silence for another.
Such is our dilemma, o lovers, in telling others
of His silence and His broken promises,
of our fascination with the One
Who refused to be glib, pedantic,
predictable in the Truth; Who spoke
somehow beyond throat and ear, beyond
forced and roughly shaped sounds.
I suggest we must, in the end,
resort to our own brand of silence
and pray Truth be told, His Truth --
in all its palpable, wordless splendor --
be told, be told, be told within each
God-conscripted, fatefully chosen breast.
O child of God, your job is to love Him.
His job is everything else.
Truth be told, my Master was silent.
Truth be told, silence was the essence
of His message. O, He promised
on numerous occasions to speak
the Word of words -- some forty-odd years
but nary a word He left us -- no goodbye,
no parting wisdom, trading one silence for another.
Such is our dilemma, o lovers, in telling others
of His silence and His broken promises,
of our fascination with the One
Who refused to be glib, pedantic,
predictable in the Truth; Who spoke
somehow beyond throat and ear, beyond
forced and roughly shaped sounds.
I suggest we must, in the end,
resort to our own brand of silence
and pray Truth be told, His Truth --
in all its palpable, wordless splendor --
be told, be told, be told within each
God-conscripted, fatefully chosen breast.
O child of God, your job is to love Him.
His job is everything else.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Foreign shore
Foreign shore
The dot of an umbrella thwarting
the mighty sun and the rain – imagine that!
The ball of an eye containing mountains.
God (You say) is the Ocean of Love.
Why on earth then, is Love such a rarity?
If it shines everywhere, falls like rain
and I don’t know enough to strip down
and run around in it, why then
is there such a longing in my soul?
One cup of wine – I get weepy, incoherent.
Imagine an Ocean of It!
I’m too small to drown,
too lightweight, too hard-shelled
to soak It up and sink to the bottom.
Grimly, I clutch that bit of debris
known as other-than-Ocean, floating,
ever floating, upon the surface
of my obliteration and liberation, tossed up
again and again onto the wild, foreign shore.
Otherness is illusion, Meher said.
You and I are not we, but One.
O child of God, otherness is illusion.
You and the Ocean are not two, but One.
Sprawl and tangle
Sprawl and tangle
Imagine a path not a path
for a pilgrim to follow but, a path
which follows the pilgrim;
freely chosen yet, prior and post,
with strings attached, a woven web
in a realm obscure and deceptive,
every effort and action determined
by the soul's karmic sprawl and tangle.
Unable to choose wisely or freely
yet, unable to refrain from choosing,
inexorably wrought by the cast of a die
to live it, accept it, acquiesce
and yet, somehow, make it better,
holier, humbler, nearer to the goal.
Everything is necessary, my Beloved says,
until it is no longer necessary.
Everything, my Beloved says, is necessary
until it is necessary no longer.
O child of God, you are free, like Eruch, to choose
to become the slave of your Beloved
Imagine a path not a path
for a pilgrim to follow but, a path
which follows the pilgrim;
freely chosen yet, prior and post,
with strings attached, a woven web
in a realm obscure and deceptive,
every effort and action determined
by the soul's karmic sprawl and tangle.
Unable to choose wisely or freely
yet, unable to refrain from choosing,
inexorably wrought by the cast of a die
to live it, accept it, acquiesce
and yet, somehow, make it better,
holier, humbler, nearer to the goal.
Everything is necessary, my Beloved says,
until it is no longer necessary.
Everything, my Beloved says, is necessary
until it is necessary no longer.
O child of God, you are free, like Eruch, to choose
to become the slave of your Beloved
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Chanji
Chanji
He found you in Chowpatty
washed up on the beach
by life's betrayals, cruel vicissitudes.
You were ready to drown by then,
not caring if you lived or died.
He persuaded you
to go a-travelin' with Him.
Apparently, the Way is so narrow
there's only room for one
to walk it at a time
which doesn't mean
we go it alone
but, that we must become one
with our traveling companion.
Chanji, by the end of his days,
was one with You, ready for drowning,
not caring if he lived or died
as long as it pleased his Master.
O child of God, nothing ever changes . . . it just gets larger --
more height, breadth and depth than we could ever imagine.
He found you in Chowpatty
washed up on the beach
by life's betrayals, cruel vicissitudes.
You were ready to drown by then,
not caring if you lived or died.
He persuaded you
to go a-travelin' with Him.
Apparently, the Way is so narrow
there's only room for one
to walk it at a time
which doesn't mean
we go it alone
but, that we must become one
with our traveling companion.
Chanji, by the end of his days,
was one with You, ready for drowning,
not caring if he lived or died
as long as it pleased his Master.
O child of God, nothing ever changes . . . it just gets larger --
more height, breadth and depth than we could ever imagine.
The last resort
The last resort
Most people come to You
(You have said) as a last resort.
There's a fundamental wounding
in coming to You, a violation of the self
in even our most timid of intimacies with God
or any of His manifestations.
In Your infinite mercy, You draw us past
our intuited fear and allow us our first
quavering steps toward annihilation,
gathering us in, tucking us under Your wing.
But, even after we become Your lovers,
years later, we often come to You
in pain and fear only when our most familiar
worldly comforts have been tried,
exhausted and found wanting,
our last resort yet . . . because
within every surrender, every intimacy with God,
incrementally, now and then, here and there,
moment to moment, there is a fundamental
wounding, a violation of the self as we move
so timidly -- a gesture, a word, a few steps,
an embrace -- closer to our own annihilation.
O child of God, come unto the Ancient One,
the last resort, the final refuge of the soul.
Most people come to You
(You have said) as a last resort.
There's a fundamental wounding
in coming to You, a violation of the self
in even our most timid of intimacies with God
or any of His manifestations.
In Your infinite mercy, You draw us past
our intuited fear and allow us our first
quavering steps toward annihilation,
gathering us in, tucking us under Your wing.
But, even after we become Your lovers,
years later, we often come to You
in pain and fear only when our most familiar
worldly comforts have been tried,
exhausted and found wanting,
our last resort yet . . . because
within every surrender, every intimacy with God,
incrementally, now and then, here and there,
moment to moment, there is a fundamental
wounding, a violation of the self as we move
so timidly -- a gesture, a word, a few steps,
an embrace -- closer to our own annihilation.
O child of God, come unto the Ancient One,
the last resort, the final refuge of the soul.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
The cleft of flesh
The cleft of flesh
It shone through, Mani said.
It shone through. Your divinity.
Particularly as the coat frayed;
split-seamed and threadbare.
Your lovers clamored those latter days
for the nectar of Your presence --
It shone through. And nowadays
in a random soul, coat perforated
by the casual sorrows of human existance,
the loneliness and the long night-vigils,
whose faith and the thread of Your Light
have kept stitched together,
It shines through. Shines through.
With God's Light behind every star
and space a threadbare cloak,
so through the cleft of flesh
the Light pours into this dusky realm.
Cleft, o lovers, for thee and me.
O child of God. There was a glow,
said Mani. There was a definite glow.
It shone through, Mani said.
It shone through. Your divinity.
Particularly as the coat frayed;
split-seamed and threadbare.
Your lovers clamored those latter days
for the nectar of Your presence --
It shone through. And nowadays
in a random soul, coat perforated
by the casual sorrows of human existance,
the loneliness and the long night-vigils,
whose faith and the thread of Your Light
have kept stitched together,
It shines through. Shines through.
With God's Light behind every star
and space a threadbare cloak,
so through the cleft of flesh
the Light pours into this dusky realm.
Cleft, o lovers, for thee and me.
O child of God. There was a glow,
said Mani. There was a definite glow.
An unnumbered lifetime
An unnumbered lifetime
An unnumbered lifetime in its sixty-fourth year.
Unknown the destination . . . nor how far away.
I gauge the distance by the depth of my fear.
No milestone to mark the highway from here;
no house of rest at the end of the day.
An unnumbered lifetime in its sixty-fourth year.
When shall the harbor lights of home appear?
I labor and pray to keep demons at bay
and gauge the distance by the depth of my fear.
An unsteady hand sets the course I steer.
Each crucial point pitches my soul astray.
An unnumbered lifetime in its sixty-fourth year.
If courage emerges as conviction grows clear,
if peace comes to those who trust and obey,
I gauge the distance by the depth of my fear.
Not for the faint-hearted, said my Lord, Meher.
Unknown the destination . . . nor how far away.
An unnumbered lifetime in its sixty-fourth year.
I gauge the distance by the depth of my fear.
An unnumbered lifetime in its sixty-fourth year.
Unknown the destination . . . nor how far away.
I gauge the distance by the depth of my fear.
No milestone to mark the highway from here;
no house of rest at the end of the day.
An unnumbered lifetime in its sixty-fourth year.
When shall the harbor lights of home appear?
I labor and pray to keep demons at bay
and gauge the distance by the depth of my fear.
An unsteady hand sets the course I steer.
Each crucial point pitches my soul astray.
An unnumbered lifetime in its sixty-fourth year.
If courage emerges as conviction grows clear,
if peace comes to those who trust and obey,
I gauge the distance by the depth of my fear.
Not for the faint-hearted, said my Lord, Meher.
Unknown the destination . . . nor how far away.
An unnumbered lifetime in its sixty-fourth year.
I gauge the distance by the depth of my fear.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
The cabin in the woods
The cabin in the woods
The windows are frosted over
and made of that primitive glass
that distorts every image but, through it,
shivering in the dark, I see a roaring fire,
a food-laden table, bottles of wine.
Why can't we go inside? I ask
the companion who brought me.
In due course, he answers. Once we enter,
he says, everything turns back to zero.
Everything will cease to exist
except that roaring fire which is,
at this moment, oblivious to itself.
We'll all go back . . . to begin again.
The only way for that fire to be glimpsed,
to be desired and pursued,
captured and savored
is for it to first be viewed
from the outside looking in --
through these narrow, muddled,
distorting panes of glass.
O child of God, every moment has its value.
There is no place to get to.
The windows are frosted over
and made of that primitive glass
that distorts every image but, through it,
shivering in the dark, I see a roaring fire,
a food-laden table, bottles of wine.
Why can't we go inside? I ask
the companion who brought me.
In due course, he answers. Once we enter,
he says, everything turns back to zero.
Everything will cease to exist
except that roaring fire which is,
at this moment, oblivious to itself.
We'll all go back . . . to begin again.
The only way for that fire to be glimpsed,
to be desired and pursued,
captured and savored
is for it to first be viewed
from the outside looking in --
through these narrow, muddled,
distorting panes of glass.
O child of God, every moment has its value.
There is no place to get to.
Thread the needle
Thread the needle
How many miles to
Babylon? the children chant.
Three score and
ten, comes the reply.
Can I get there by
candle light?
Yes, and back
again. And back again.
All there is to do
in the game is laugh and run
and hold on tight –
as the line weaves
and circles back and, one by one,
thread the needle,
one by one.
How many miles to
Babylon? Insurmountable
the distance,
millenniums away and back again
yet, the game has wafted
down as the children chant,
their queries if
not replies resonating
in quickly-beating,
childish hearts; run, laugh
and hold on tight. Lord, we want to know –
how far and how we
might arrive
at our destination
and return home again.
All there is to do
is to laugh and run, hold on tight.
Thread the needle,
o child; thread the needle.
O child of God, play
the game, hold on tight,
though the journey
seems uncharted and endless.
Random photos from past and present
 |
| Athens Group at 2001 Southeast Gathering |
 |
| Brother Barry -- check out on Youtube, esp. Good and Faithful Servant |
 |
| Brother Brent |
 |
| David McNeely recently at Lakeview Kitchen |
 |
| Lilly "Black cat on a rampage" Finch |
 |
| Brother Ben |
 |
| Mom |
 |
| Nancy and Debbie |
 |
| Brian at Sheriar Bookstore |
 |
| Lily, Odette, Kathy and Sam |
 |
| The Darnell Boys -- Elijah Neesmith, Caleb Darnell, Gus Darnell, Austin Darnell, Patrick Wiese -- Check out on Youtube |
Saturday, November 2, 2013
My prayer-cupped hands
My prayer-cupped hands
Muslim men in the East, I'm told,
smoke biddies channeled
through cupped hands --
Mohammed having forbid tobacco
to ever touch their lips.
This is the kind of love song
with which I nightly serenade my Beloved,
exploring the convoluted ways
I might obey my Lord
and savor the smoke at the same time.
It is the illusion of our maneuverability
that keeps paradise just out of grasp.
Until I become that fabled ant
beneath the elephant's foot,
my cleverness and desire will ever reach out
for the birds in the bush and let loose
the one captured and singing
in my prayer-cupped hands.
O child of God, obey your Beloved and refrain
from the lies you tell yourself daily.
Muslim men in the East, I'm told,
smoke biddies channeled
through cupped hands --
Mohammed having forbid tobacco
to ever touch their lips.
This is the kind of love song
with which I nightly serenade my Beloved,
exploring the convoluted ways
I might obey my Lord
and savor the smoke at the same time.
It is the illusion of our maneuverability
that keeps paradise just out of grasp.
Until I become that fabled ant
beneath the elephant's foot,
my cleverness and desire will ever reach out
for the birds in the bush and let loose
the one captured and singing
in my prayer-cupped hands.
O child of God, obey your Beloved and refrain
from the lies you tell yourself daily.
Recommended -- Alice Klein's first book of poetry
While I was at the Center last weekend I visited Sheriar Bookstore and bought Alice Klein's book of poetry, What the Heart Wants. I enthusiastically recommend it. These poems are deep, painfully honest, lovingly rough-edged and open-hearted. They are also expertly written and presented. Published by Sheriar and available at various Baba venues. Jai Baba, Brian
Death poem
Death poem
I hope to pen a farewell poem, jisei
(in the Zen-haiku tradition)
my very last day on earth but, I'm thinking --
why wait? This empty page tempts me
to leave it blank beneath the provocative title
but, that's not the story -- not the whole story.
You have given me -- are giving me --
words with which to fill in the blanks,
tainted to be sure, approximated,
strained through the human brain and heart
but, divine in origin, intent and gravity.
I find my voice when You begin to speak
through my throat and fingers. O Lord,
may the last poem we write be love divine
put impossibly into words, my part being
the unread, empty spaces between the lines.
O child of God, pray your death poem to write
someday in the dust beneath your Master's feet.
I hope to pen a farewell poem, jisei
(in the Zen-haiku tradition)
my very last day on earth but, I'm thinking --
why wait? This empty page tempts me
to leave it blank beneath the provocative title
but, that's not the story -- not the whole story.
You have given me -- are giving me --
words with which to fill in the blanks,
tainted to be sure, approximated,
strained through the human brain and heart
but, divine in origin, intent and gravity.
I find my voice when You begin to speak
through my throat and fingers. O Lord,
may the last poem we write be love divine
put impossibly into words, my part being
the unread, empty spaces between the lines.
O child of God, pray your death poem to write
someday in the dust beneath your Master's feet.
Meher Center October 2013 - Photos by Debbie Finch
 |
| Long Lake at sunrise |
 |
| Boat house at sunrise |
 |
| Guest house living room |
 |
| Guest house kitchen |
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Room for God
Room for God
Humility is hard to come by
(and I have so much to be humble about).
A toothless lion -- pride; a gnawing rat.
Brave men have no pride;
even a humble man's courage
is not there when grasped;
a humble man -- he's no hero . . . nor saint.
Humility and its poverty
leave room for nothing else
except, maybe, God
to enter when the walls are rubble,
where a man stands
naked and armless, without pride or courage.
Then, maybe, there's room for God.
O child of God, Meher's love, so freely given,
apparently, demands every last thing in return.
Humility is hard to come by
(and I have so much to be humble about).
A toothless lion -- pride; a gnawing rat.
Brave men have no pride;
even a humble man's courage
is not there when grasped;
a humble man -- he's no hero . . . nor saint.
Humility and its poverty
leave room for nothing else
except, maybe, God
to enter when the walls are rubble,
where a man stands
naked and armless, without pride or courage.
Then, maybe, there's room for God.
O child of God, Meher's love, so freely given,
apparently, demands every last thing in return.
My baffled heart
My baffled heart
The heart is a seed buried in the chest
due for an eventual flowering
or grit, perhaps, for a future pearl. Or, say,
the heart is a bird, its singing muted
by layers of flesh. I tell repeatedly my sons
I love them lest they forget, lest they doubt;
lest they drift away, my throat bearing
a mere trembling resemblance to the truth
my baffled heart is unable to express.
You wore, o wordless One, Your heart
invariably on Your sleeve; Your love,
Your presence, speechless and palpable,
awakened in Your lovers' chests; in their own hearts.
Such were the human changes You wrought.
Long after the husk and flesh were shed,
Your naked seed buried in that rocky soil,
Your presence, Your love awoke
in my stone tomb, my human, baffled heart --
Your love -- wordless, eloquent, shared
across the chasm, through the lover's flesh,
lest I didn't know; lest I had forgotten; lest
I should ever doubt and become estranged.
O child of God, hold on to the silence
in which real things are given and received.
The heart is a seed buried in the chest
due for an eventual flowering
or grit, perhaps, for a future pearl. Or, say,
the heart is a bird, its singing muted
by layers of flesh. I tell repeatedly my sons
I love them lest they forget, lest they doubt;
lest they drift away, my throat bearing
a mere trembling resemblance to the truth
my baffled heart is unable to express.
You wore, o wordless One, Your heart
invariably on Your sleeve; Your love,
Your presence, speechless and palpable,
awakened in Your lovers' chests; in their own hearts.
Such were the human changes You wrought.
Long after the husk and flesh were shed,
Your naked seed buried in that rocky soil,
Your presence, Your love awoke
in my stone tomb, my human, baffled heart --
Your love -- wordless, eloquent, shared
across the chasm, through the lover's flesh,
lest I didn't know; lest I had forgotten; lest
I should ever doubt and become estranged.
O child of God, hold on to the silence
in which real things are given and received.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
And the Word was God
And the Word was God
Small word -- god. Like a grunt,
a groan breaking from our throats.
Capitalized, modified by the pious.
Used profanely by sinners.
Forgive us, God, this small begrudged word
wedged into our vocabulary as an afterthought.
Words of worldliness: pleasure, flesh, riches,
savored by our mouths: luxury, lavish; sexuality,
sumptuousness, triumph, lasciviousness . . . .
O pilgrim, take god -- that hard nugget of a word
and nurture it in your core
until it breaks you open,
breaks your world apart,
until a tree from its seed grows,
stretches, brushes leaves and branches
against the farthermost ends
of your thoughts, depths, faith,
experience and imagination.
O child of God, in the beginning was the Word . . .
and the Word was God.
(Unpublished)
Small word -- god. Like a grunt,
a groan breaking from our throats.
Capitalized, modified by the pious.
Used profanely by sinners.
Forgive us, God, this small begrudged word
wedged into our vocabulary as an afterthought.
Words of worldliness: pleasure, flesh, riches,
savored by our mouths: luxury, lavish; sexuality,
sumptuousness, triumph, lasciviousness . . . .
O pilgrim, take god -- that hard nugget of a word
and nurture it in your core
until it breaks you open,
breaks your world apart,
until a tree from its seed grows,
stretches, brushes leaves and branches
against the farthermost ends
of your thoughts, depths, faith,
experience and imagination.
O child of God, in the beginning was the Word . . .
and the Word was God.
(Unpublished)
A nod and a wink
A nod and a wink
How ya' doin'? I ask friends,
acquaintances, total strangers --
a form of greeting, no reply necessary.
No one knows the answer anyway.
Just the asking -- throat to ear,
saying, we're all on the same ship,
surrounded and overwhelmed in our frailty,
our mortality, ignorance and ephemerality
by the Infinite, the Unpredictable and the Eternal.
We pass each other on the bridge
and ask , how ya' doin'?
The answer's always the same --
I'm alive. Surviving; on the edge of terror
and catastrophe; skating
this depthless, unfathomable sea,
breathing moment to moment as freely as possible
in this inexplicable, fearsome
and wondrous existence of which
we have no real knowledge or conception.
We have only our faith and each other.
O child of God, how ya' doin?
Answer with a nod and a wink.
How ya' doin'? I ask friends,
acquaintances, total strangers --
a form of greeting, no reply necessary.
No one knows the answer anyway.
Just the asking -- throat to ear,
saying, we're all on the same ship,
surrounded and overwhelmed in our frailty,
our mortality, ignorance and ephemerality
by the Infinite, the Unpredictable and the Eternal.
We pass each other on the bridge
and ask , how ya' doin'?
The answer's always the same --
I'm alive. Surviving; on the edge of terror
and catastrophe; skating
this depthless, unfathomable sea,
breathing moment to moment as freely as possible
in this inexplicable, fearsome
and wondrous existence of which
we have no real knowledge or conception.
We have only our faith and each other.
O child of God, how ya' doin?
Answer with a nod and a wink.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Love interest
Love interest
Existence You compare to a motion picture
with God playing every role.
You, of course, are the love interest.
When Your face hits the screen
every pulse quickens.
Let the storylines get too sad, predictable
and You are thrown into the mix,
to stir up the plot by espousing
the most difficult task in existence.
Love God, You say. Love God.
Again and again, You enter the picture
to round out and soften
God's rough edges, awaken
the human heart to love. To love.
You make it easy -- so that we might begin
our arduous approach to God;
to love God, to become God,
to become God the Beloved.
O child of God, impossible to love the self;
next to impossible to love the Self.
Existence You compare to a motion picture
with God playing every role.
You, of course, are the love interest.
When Your face hits the screen
every pulse quickens.
Let the storylines get too sad, predictable
and You are thrown into the mix,
to stir up the plot by espousing
the most difficult task in existence.
Love God, You say. Love God.
Again and again, You enter the picture
to round out and soften
God's rough edges, awaken
the human heart to love. To love.
You make it easy -- so that we might begin
our arduous approach to God;
to love God, to become God,
to become God the Beloved.
O child of God, impossible to love the self;
next to impossible to love the Self.
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