Even your bones

Even your bones

By daily loss, the Way is gained,
the masters say, loss upon loss 

until at last comes rest.  Everything to God belongs 
when you own nothing,

inside and out -- from your endless, fleeting thoughts
to the mighty, roaring stars, the heart's collapse,

the soul's painful duties -- nothing
for your shoulders to bear, even your bones

belong to Him and the clinging flesh, the fallen sparrow,
the numbered hairs, the firmament and the depths.

The world is won by those who let it go!
Let God snatch it from your hands, heart

and head, strip you of the illusion 
of attachment and limitation.  

Acquiesce, o lover, the masters say.  
Surrounded by God, come out -- hands up and empty,

your heart an open palm, your head
a flowing stream laid at the Master's feet.

O child of God, -- but, when you try and try
the world is, then, beyond the winning.

                      

An arrow in my chest

An arrow in my chest

World weary and how am I to rest?
Day and night, I writhe and twist.
There is an arrow in my chest,

delivered at the Friend's behest,
borne upon a waking kiss;
world weary and how am I to rest?

Stinging blade within me pressed,
does agony portend the promised bliss?
There is an arrow in my chest.

Yes, I know my unworthiness
and my heart's inability to resist.
World weary and how am I to rest?

When shall this suffering crest
then, most mercifully desist?
There is an arrow in my chest! 

By God, I have become obsessed.
My heart is gathered into a fist --
world weary and how am I to rest?
There is an arrow in my chest.

                   (Unpublished)

Song -- Not Just Roses

Tickle and flinch

Tickle and flinch

Ticklishness is a trust issue --
like flinching but, more benign.

We are all ticklish or, worse
when God puts His hands upon us --

spasmodic, spooked and shy.  Trust must become 
inherent and entrenched then, transcended.

Love transcends trust.  Does away with it.
I've only had a crumb of that pie --

but, enough to know it tastes of annihilation.
The tongue is closer to the truth

(who would have thought?) when still,
than the ear or eye.  The city of Paradise

lies beyond a great chasm.  It's towers notch the sky.
Trust keeps us walking the rim of that chasm.

Love -- annihilation -- must somehow
give us the wings to go the distance

between the gates of heaven
and the ground upon which we stand;

between God and His creatures; His children.
Only annihilation -- when the game is over --

the great castle dissolved into non-existence,
only annihilation (You say) bridges the gap.

O child of God, come to terms with your solitude.
The Beloved wants you all to Himself.

                       

Who He said He was

Who He said He was

His claim of Christhood should give one pause --
words of a madman or charlatan --
or, perhaps, He was Who He said He was.

Was and is and of the noblest cause,
returned to earth, the great Godman.
His claim of Christhood should give one pause

but, point out His arduous mission's flaws;
moments not under His full command ...
or, perhaps, He was Who He said He was.

At home equally with harijans or rajahs --
gathered unto Him a motley band --
His claim of Christhood should give one pause.

Heedless of worldly disdain, applause,
His lifelong silence ... mere slight-of-hand?
Or, perhaps, He was Who He said He was.

In adoring crowds such a Being draws
or, in the solitude God's work demands,
His claim of Christhood should give one pause ...
or, perhaps, He was Who He said He was.

                        (Unpublished)

Hope, sturdy beast

Hope, sturdy beast

Become hopeless, You say, instilling hope
in a pilgrim's heart -- paradise within reach

and power.  Hope, sturdy beast of burden,
bearing souls and suffering

toward the gates, must be abandoned,
You say, reinless among the dunes --

a fly in the ointment, oil in the lamp
whose flame prevents our eyes

from growing accustomed to the dark.
Tiny circles of illumination

to which we cling (except where we are --
our shadows deeper than the vastness beyond).

When the desire to know the Truth
pales before ecstatic wonder,

surrender gains a foothold, truth darts
from the window, a winsome bird.

Only the moment exists, every moment
sliced thin and quick enough to hold no hope,

nor truth, no angle of light -- only love.  Only love,
You say.  Only love, You say.  Only love.

O child of God, exchange the emptiness
of hope for the fiery annihilation of Love.

                       

A superior baptism

A superior baptism

I'm not the least bit nostalgic
for earlier times You broke the bread

of my body and dipped it
in Your blood red wine;

lit the plaited fuse, soaked the sponge in fire.
What a preposterous creature --

under the influence 
of a faith so absolute it couldn't fit

inside my head, my mouth, my body;
a faith -- the ocean itself --

in which I swam and breathed.
I don't want to go back down

the way I came.  The catch
is this -- faith without proof is, perhaps,

a thousand kisses stronger in the clenches,
a barrel full of heady wine; my tears

a superior baptism; my hand above the flame
the needed tempering for a greater joy.

To a green heart, You once gave grace --
jubilant wonder and faith unforced,

its tattered shell and remnants now,
dear and sacred as any proof I might bear.

O child of God, your Father gives what's necessary --
else, the least to the greatest faiths are all in vain.

                           

Meher Spritual Center Myrtle Beach, SC June 2013

steps from Boat House to Original Kitchen

the foot bridge on Long Lake

the Boat House

the Lagoon Cabin

the Barn interior

the Barn

trail to Gator Lake

foot bridge to the beach

A shared life

A shared life                                                                                 

The island in the zygote –

floating minuscule and fragile;

island in the womb –

so vulnerable, so vulnerable.

The island in my head – so insubstantial,

so subjective; inside my skin – so mortal;

the island in my chest – so isolated, so lonely.

White spit of sand in the middle

of a dark blue sea until the Ocean Itself

leaves footprints along the shore.

Accustom yourself, its pattern reads,

to a shared life.  And for years now,

my island fortress has been shrinking

under the determined elements of truth –

wild winds, brutal storms, the heavy seas.

When every place you trust,

the footprints read, underfoot is gone; 

everything you thought solid proven flimsy,

the truth will swim into view –

truth to drown in; truth vast as the Ocean

encircling your sad

and dwindling little island.

O child of God, every man is an island

until reclaimed by the Ocean of Love.

Floating

Floating

You taught Peter to walk on the water --
until fear turned his feet to lead.

Now, You're urging me to float
this concrete body

upon a plane so insubstantial,
not grabbing or flailing;

not reaching back upon the empty
mechanics of swimming,

but lying gently
in the shape of a cross,

drifting towards infinity,
feeling at my neck's nape,

and the small of my back,
Your fingertips ...

until they, too,
dissolve into Ocean.

O child of God, trust the Sea.
Roll with the waves.

                  (A Jewel in the Dust)

Thank You, Lord -- performed by Brian Darnell

Wild Tales

Wild tales                                                                                       

Some lovers study the structure –

gnawing the bones through

to the wine-drenched marrow,

while others sink their teeth

into succulent flesh, meat and fruit

of torch songs, wild tales;

torn pages and broken spines,

wine bottles passed mouth to mouth –

eyes shining; beards, breasts, lips, chins

glistening, the holy carpet thoroughly,

irredeemably soaked and stained. 

There’s room at the cross for everyone

but, a wordsmith’s observation  –

muscle, pulp and fat soon to wither on the rack,

spoil and sour, to the elements returned,

leaving the corporeal body

to its hardy blades, clubs, cages, pins and flaps;

the fruit to its rinds and seeds, for the seekers, scholars

and preachers, priests and theologians

to suck upon, chew and pick over

in the age to come of the estrangement, the diasporas,

the darkness, the trough and the lone wanderings.

O child of God, Meher’s living presence will become

brittle bones until He comes again to give life to the Word.