Birds made of sky

Birds made of sky                                                                                    

slice effortlessly through the ether – no cleaving

upon their approach, no melding in their wake,

surrounded by silence thoroughly,

no residue nor resistance, birds made of sky.

To surrender must be to move through existence

like that – plowing through time’s flow and yet,

somehow, adrift upon it; no mechanics of survival;

coming from nowhere; being taken no place.

I spruce up surrender in my timidity –

display it in the most flattering light.

Human beings need that – ever measuring,

thinking in terms of loss and gain,

getting from here to there, but surrender,

apparently, must be undertaken

for its own sake; for truth’s sake,

whatever the cost or outcome

because it is truth, the only truth

when nothing else but the truth will do. 

O child of God, enter the flow of time

to escape the flow of time.

Elegy

Elegy

Not a word of scripture to be quoted
over these bones but, at graveside,

he would have tolerated a short, silent prayer.
He took it as it came; for what it was worth.

Good for the sake of righteousness.
Honest in the cause of truth.

Brave for honor's sake.
Kind by decree of the human heart.

He'd put aside any fanciful notions
of heavenly reward or his possible rebirth -

(he was convinced of his own annihilation)
and thus, resolutely, he went to his death.

Quietly cherishing joy, enduring the pain,
he came closer to surrender

than any religious man I know.  If he lacked anything
it was the imagination and longing to be anything

other than the man he was.
As they lower his body now into the grave

I am struck by how closely
a coffin resembles a crib.

O child of God, to surrender is to yield,
earnestly and humbly, to your destiny.

                     

Waiting in the wings

Waiting in the wings

The moon is a disc, not a sphere.
Flat as the earth; the sea

pasted onto the bottom of the sky;
stars poking through a threadbare canvas.

I've turned away from the latest backdrop,
heading toward the interior.

It's all to be pulled down anyway
at the performance's end.

We flow through time apparently
but, also, time flows through us,

life delivered daily to our doorstep.
How could I ever cease to exist?

If I cease, existence ceases, the void
once more reigns and even then

I'll be waiting in the wings.
The scenery incessantly changes but, still

I stride the stage, emoting, aggrandizing,
gesticulating, playing it to the hilt.

O child of God, follow the script.
The pageant is endless; without resolution.

             

Tumble and gyre

Tumble and gyre

To embrace and release; to be not absent;
to move well beyond all hope and desire;
to live in the moment is true detachment;

to bear light's brief impermanence;
to warm our hands by the funeral pyre;
to embrace and release; to be not absent;

to remain undaunted by adversity's dint;
to look not down while traversing the wire;
to live in the moment is true detachment;

to cross unconcerned yet, not indifferent,
clinging to nothing in the tumble and gyre;
to embrace and release; to be not absent;

to suffer life's fragility without lament -
the trembling rose, the notes of the lyre;
to live in the moment is true detachment.

To trust to an unfathomable benevolence;
to possess the faith each moment requires;
to embrace and release; to be not absent;
to live in the moment is true detachment.

                        (Unpublished)

Loose talk

Loose talk                                                                                                  

I drift through the loose talk of liberation, realization,

seven planes, the imminent golden age

of the new humanity.  Eternally benevolent,

(the prayer goes) God is.  Eternity’s a long time.   

Surely His benevolence gets stretched mighty thin. 

Cresting the hill, I view the next lonely stretch of highway. 

Whoever makes it to those distant mountains won’t be me.

I don’t know who he will be but I wish him well.

It takes a blind, penetrating sorrow to hope for more –

in the long view – from our Creator than His ultimate,

unconcerned benevolence; the Creator of this intricate,

unfathomable, ever-unfolding, tear-and-blood-soaked game.

O child of God, a glint in the current’s flow;

a spark from the blacksmith’s hammer.

O teardrop world

O teardrop world

O teardrop world (from the Maker's eye),
drowned in exquisite destiny -
the essence of suffering is to plot and vie -

hurtling through an endless sky,
tendered not a single apology;
o teardrop world (from the Maker's eye),

o insubstantial, ethereal sigh,
our sparks fly briefly, effetely -
the essence of suffering is to plot and vie,

vanity and death, the trades we ply.
Only one method, one remedy -
o teardrop world (from the Maker's eye) -

renounce self-deluding alibis,
concede and comply most willingly -
the essence of suffering is to plot and vie -

embrace your fate! - God's cast the die -
through effacement, true humility,
o teardrop world (from the Maker's eye).
The essence of suffering is to plot and vie.

                        (Unpublished)

The only answer

The only answer

I've been making inquiries lately.
It's not apostasy but affirmation -

a broadening and deepening of faith.
The evidence of doubt is not questions

but the answers.  I've come to hear
(I may be mistaken) all strategies

as mere wishful mimicry; all answers
inverted questions clothed in faith.

We rattle off our answers
rather than placing ourselves

silently, vulnerably at His feet.
If there is an answer, it's Him. 

Surely, there can never be  
any answer other than the Word.

O child of God, how daunting!
To believe the only answer is God.

                       (Unpublished)

The garbs of sainthood

The garbs of sainthood

The aura wanes; the halo waxes -
no tangible angels, nor saints among us

now that the mandali are gone.
Each soul suffers the same ignominy -

our lower-than-angels status;
shame at our nakedness

sans the garbs of sainthood.
In the shadows, we chase

drunkenly after angels,
cherubs in the thickets,

tearfully aware of the heights
from which we have fallen; our souls

not at home in this world, nor in the bodies
of which we are so enamored.

Fear to the soul like pain to the flesh -
something awry ... in need of repair.

The aura wanes; the halo waxes -
a natural evolution over the aeons.

What makes so painful our shortfalls
are the selfsame antonymous qualities

we have yet to conquer -
impatience, conceit, distrust and willfulness.

O child of God, perhaps sainthood begins
with the acceptance of our own naked humanity