Youtube link -- Listening to the rain

                                               Video by Debbie Finch

A poor man's truth

A poor man's truth

I would seal my lips.  My pen put away,
my keyboard -- abandon words;

better still, opinions, queries, notions,
conjectures and suggestions

until I make the point
of every utterance praise.  Praise!

Readily, would I praise --
unstintingly -- but, I am unable

to tell the Truth.  And so I must resort
to a poor man's truth -- honesty,

broker the words faithfully
as I know how.  These poems

begin in the realm of praise,
begin in the realm of praise (!)

rasp and slice away, grind and whittle away
a measure of darkness, a measure of darkness,

a measure of darkness,
tiny, slight but, steady on the mark,

flood the page and reward the heart with beauty,
with private confirmation and communion.

O child of God, abandon words
when they no longer connect.

                   

Only love

Only love

Virtue, intellect and effort fail,
(so says my Lord).  Only love unites --
only love, My child, doth lift the veil.

Scholars outfoxed, the pious quailed,
only love brings forth the Light.
Virtue, intellect and effort fail.

Faith embodies what love entails --
braving the path devoid of sight.
Only love, My child, doth lift the veil.

Merit on tottering spikes impaled,
artifice tumbles from a giddy height.
Virtue, intellect and effort fail.

Fix the beam; drive home the nail.
Unbent to force, grace rarely alights --
only love, My child, doth lift the veil.

From God to mortals, uncompelled,
how might grace be seized outright?
Virtue, intellect and effort fail.
Only love, My child, doth lift the veil.

                   (Unpublished)

The glue of faith

The glue of faith                                                                             

Surrender, my Lord said.  Become all Mine

when there is nothing left of you. 

Absolute trust is required, I surmise,

to surrender absolutely. 

I gathered the scattered shards

and splinters of my childhood trust

and with the glue of faith,

fashioned anew that bright, sturdy vessel. 

When it had assumed a fragile shadow

of its former shape, I brought

it to my Lord for inspection.

In His infinite compassion, He stated –

You can’t bring that through My door.

Your trust, He explained,

must also be surrendered. 

And I wandered into the desert,

my trust tucked loosely under my arm.

I can’t let it go – it’s my connection to Him.

I can’t keep it – it’s made of my own convictions.

Hold on to it, my Lord said.  Honor it.  Drink from it.

Use it in your prayers until the day

you can successfully crush it under your heels.

O child of God, illusion begets illusion.

Selfhood taints everything it touches.

The ties that bind

The ties that bind                                                                                     

In the fetal position, roughly bound hands and feet,

drifting in and out of clarity and when out of it

chasing the multi-faceted sham of freedom

everywhere in this physical, sensual

reign and flow, ephemeral, ethereal dream-like life.

Every Master worth His salt has pointed out –

has pointed out – even the slightest tug

and accommodation binds you all the more.

And so it comes down to the unfettered tongue,

the unobstructed throat. 

O lovers!  Call His name – the One

whose nimble fingers lovingly unsnarl, unwind.

Call Him to your side – the One

whose mighty sword the knotted tangles

roots out and slices through. 

Call His name!  Lure Him with praise and song;

remembrance and repetition; with your humility

and your most holy lying-down helplessness.

O child of God, the repetition of His name 

(He promises) severs the ties that bind. 

Song link -- listening to the rain

song link -- listening to the rain

In the drink

In the drink

Everyone is in the drink --
laboring to keep their heads above water;

no piece of solid real estate
in this vast sea of illusion

upon which to make a stand,
gain a foothold -- a perspective, stability, bearings.

Some are swift and fancy swimmers,
others fat and lightly floating,

some sink like stones but,
everyone, everyone is in the drink,

paddling about, waiting for the One
Who walks upon water;

Who surveys the horizon and sets the course;
Who offers navigation, buoyancy, consolation;

truth, hope, explanation.
Be kind, o child, and dubious,

studious and soft-spoken;
be clear-headed, one-pointed, alert.

O child of God, everyone is in the drink
until they drown in the Ocean of Love.

                       

Without expression

Without expression

According to the Prayer,
God is without expression.

No wonder the God in You kept silent
while the fragrance of inner attainment

Your humanity expressed
in the world of forms --

truth, love, purity and beauty.
I circumambulate Your Samadhi,

o Qutub, studying every angle
to express a new perspective

or, reiterate, in a novel way, an old one,
my voluble moth-soul erratically mobile,

transitory, malleable, chimerical,
while You are fixed, silent, stalwart, eternal --

without expression, without expression --
expression requiring distance, need and duality.

O child of God, find the Oneness
that requires no communication.

                  

O shining city!

O shining city!

Lord, my Lord, where and when shall union take place --
this homecoming for which my soul ceaselessly pines?

Spectral voices and music have entered my ears
from the crib and cradle, through hard back pews,

on the Southern ether and the radio dials,
from behind the lecterns, choir lofts, baptismal pools --

o lovers, o sinners, it lies yonder, lies yonder --
across the river, through the gates of pearl,

the walls of jasper, above
the city foundations of twelve precious stones;

in a city -- o shining city! -- streets of gold,
among the clouds in the land of Beulah, 

beyond the sun union lies, o pining hearts, 
o tear-stained, heaving chests;

o lovers and sinners, lost and found, lost and found,
wretched and redeemed, every head bowed, every eye closed,

knees bent and buckled, every heart broken.
O Beloved, I have heard Your promise my life long --

and others will hear it yet, pronounced over my grave --
and wonder, Lord, my Lord, where and when,

where and when, shall this union take place?  Where
and when shall I enter, at last, the glorious gates of pearl?

O child of God, take comfort in the heart's evidence --
you are, indeed, a stranger in a strange land.

                            

Take up the cross

Take up the cross 

The task at hand is a daunting quest,
o seeker of God, the task at hand --
take up the cross at Truth's behest,

mourn and sigh, through mortal breast
renounce this sad, illusory strand.
The task at hand is a daunting quest --

don't look back, ephemeral guest,
bind yourself to eternity's band --
take up the cross at Truth's behest.

Unflinching, each moment fully blest,
let nothing take root, temptations withstand --
the task at hand is a daunting quest --

the itinerant soul's dire restlessness --
(from countless, ancient ages spanned?)
take up the cross at Truth's behest.

O weary charade, this realm at best
of that which shall eternal stand.
The task at hand is a daunting quest --
take up the cross at Truth's behest.

                     (Unpublished)

Sweet solace

Sweet solace

Candles guttering, bottles empty,
the littered table abandoned;

bellies full; throats raspy with song --
one more, one more and still yet, one more --

companions reluctant to end the night.
Longing for God is the same fire

as solace found
in the impermanence of existence;

in the impermanence of the self;
solace, sweet solace found

in the ethereal and illusory,
in abdication and surrender,

in the structure and promise,
the poetry and majesty of the game itself;

found by faith and grace, solace
by faith and grace, grace always there,

always there -- all there ever was 
and all there ever will be.

O child of God, longing and solace are the same fire
taken from the One eternal, ever-abundant Source.

                        

Zikr

Zikr

Zikr clangs the bell; arti bangs the drum.
Grab the Lord by His ear!  Huma says,
unless you call His name, He will not come.

Pining heart of sorrow, helpless to keep mum,
lure Him with sweet song and heartfelt praise --
zikr clangs the bell; arti bangs the drum!

The long road bewail, steep and worrisome;
draw the Lord by the tumult that you raise.
Unless you call His name, He will not come!

Within your throat let such haunted music hum,
the Lord's face will appear on which to gaze.
Zikr clangs the bell; arti bangs the drum. 

Inured of the world, coarsened heart and numb,
zikr practice offers you devoted grace.
Unless you call His name, He will not come.

Cry 'til His presence roughly strikes you dumb;
then, let silence take your petition's place.
Zikr clangs the bell; arti bangs the drum.
Unless you call His name, He will not come.

                       (Unpublished)

Athens, Georgia on a slow Saturday summer early morning