The human chapters

The human chapters                                                                             

Rings true on paper – by the book

but characters tend to leap off the page

as we thumb the human chapters – leaves

of crushed bones, tautly stretched skin, blood-red ink.  

Virtue, fidelity get twisted, strained out of proportion,

never again to assume their original shape. 

Leave all, said my Beloved, and follow Me.

The Beloved is our one true Friend

but that does not absolve us of our infidelities. 

Maybe each is destined to wear the robe of Abraham.

The best I could muster now would be to hand God

the knife, curl up beside my son on the offering stone.

Unfit, unripe by my infidelity but, surely,

not abandoned by my one true Friend.

Thin scriptures, gold-trimmed, rattle the pages;

columned, annotated truths ring hollow

when blood spills, bones get broken;

when loved ones, weeping, appear

among those left behind.  Then, words of truth prove

not worth the paper upon which they are written.

O child of God, beware of truth small enough

to fit into discourse and sutras, parable and song.

                     

Whimsy

Whimsy

A bit of whimsy, says my Lord -
God's idle curiosity - striking up Creation,

freshly awakened, wondering , Who am I?
No whimsy, apparently since, however,

in this inevitable, sequential unfolding of existence
according to the inviolate laws of fate.

This is not a game of chance
(or whimsy) in which we are engaged,

not a contest or competition, this living creation
which is also an ongoing discovery;

this relentless interrogation
and its unraveling answer,

this is no game of chance.
Through alternate phases of sorrow, joy,

pleasure, pain, life and death we hurtle
at the ultimate mercy of the only One

in existence sovereign and almighty enough
to indulge in a bit of whimsy.

O child of God, surrender to the Inevitable.
No pause, no pardon, no rest, no turning back now.

                            

The death of self

The death of self

I need to get a grip.
Blood has slickened the shaft

of the arrow sticking from my chest.
It's love that bloodies the water,

seeping through from another realm;
sets things spinning; tainted,

myopic, half a bubble out of plumb.
If I could see clearly where myself ends

and others begin, I could count my charges,
leave others to their own tallies.

Love turns virtue into an impediment,
piety into predicament; divinity is in the blood,

the humble cloaks of our beings
shot through with silver and gold.

It's love that hobbles and wounds;
the taste of blood creates such a hunger -

such a longing to be devoured (forever) -
heart, soul, blood and bones.

O child of God, love is the rasp and the balm
which hastens the death of self.

                     

The tomb of the now

The tomb of the now                                                                               

Shake the shadowing past, o lover;

leap at the last possible moment  

(every possible moment), from the departing train.

Ditch that tiresome chaperone, cynical governor and guide. 

You’ll end up, likely, on the wrong side of the tracks.

Learn your way around.  Reject the pitches

of the barkers and carnies – preachers on the corner,

the winking future, the lurid rarees; slip out

of the rickety constructs of the row houses

and seaside pavilions.  Enter the tomb of the now. 

Leave your strategies, tendril desires and neurosis

with your sandals – outside that holy sepulcher. 

Rest there – while you still have a body;

find space enough to accede and receive;

find death with all its accompanying peace  

in the tomb of the now;

as the teachings describe it – in the happy,

carefree tomb of the now.

O child of God, pare down nearer and nearer

to the only one holy, eternal, unfolding moment.

Our friendship

Our friendship                                                                                           

February 10, 1954 – You declared Yourself

Avatar of the Age!  That’s nice. 

A more important event for me – (I’m not sure

of the date) – You declared Yourself my friend.

Sorry, to be so self-fixated, so non-global. 

You got through to me. While I was keeping to myself.

Each time I turned around, I bumped into You.

You reached out and took a clenched and diffident hand.

Since then, my every transmutation has been shaped,

guided and colored by Your presence. 

I was keeping my distance (it was all I knew to do).

You got through to me – lobbying intently, kindly insistent. 

Lord, let my gratitude and our friendship become one day

a path to Your love . . . and to my surrender.

O child of God, Meher got through to you

by coming from the inside out!

The evergreen shore

The evergreen shore                                                                              

When the ice got thin, I stretched out flat –

distributing my weight, panicked and motionless,

so I was prostrate when You appeared,

a bright flame on the opposite bank.

I began to hope – though You’d lobbied against it.

I began to learn – though You ‘d not come for that.

I began to trust – though You discouraged complacency.

I began to awaken – though You remained silent as a Tomb. 

After much spent patience, subtle doting and cajoling,

I began sliding along on my belly and lately,

the arduous climb to my feet,

the risking of everything

to get nearer to You, that beckoning flame

on the evergreen shore.

O child of God, Peter walked on water

with Jesus there to strengthen his faith.

The bell is struck

The bell is struck

The butterfly delicately (at times, awkwardly)
extricates itself from the cocoon,

repeating constantly the Prayer of Repentance,
bidding its old form, old self goodbye.

The Prayer says - the bell is struck,
(the fight is over) the hammer unhanded.

Its reverberations will empty themselves
and recede irrevocably into the silence.

The Prayer is of clinging, half-forgotten
dreams of the old life, the old form

as the soul awakens from its aeons-deep slumber.
Repentance is always backward-looking.

The Prayer should be spoken face-forward,
midstride, tossed earnestly over the shoulder,

discarded and forgotten as we tramp
the new stretch of highway beneath our feet.

O child of God, the Prayer is a reminder
of who you were before the Awakener struck!

                       

Furrow the field

Furrow the field

Only what is heavy has value, Kundera wrote,
(speaking of compassion).

We're merely floating, without it -
disengaged ciphers, shirkers, lightweights.

The world is a dream, so says my Lord,
without substance or weight, one big zero

yet, we are instructed to labor mightily,
shoulder to the plow,

turn the other cheek, offering our coats as well as shirts.
Who will supply the wings to float us

above the grief and suffering?
I will give you rest, Jesus said.  My burden is light.

The Christ comes (according to the scriptures)
not to lift our burdens but to show us how

to disperse the fear and pain,
to shrug our shoulders, drop the reins,

letting the team and the plow bear the weight
and furrow the field, pulling their own intrinsic way.

O child of God, let the yoke of the Christ reveal
the insubstantiality of this sad, illusory world.

                         

The water of Jesus

The water of Jesus

Hope springs eternal, Pope observed.
A blessing, a heavenly confirmation.

But, one day, the teachings suggest,
we shall grow weary of it.

Faintly odious it'll become,
oily, brackish on the tongue,

and lose its allure, just another meaningless
babble for our ears to endure.

We'll see it as a substitute,
a tainted approximation of the Living Water.

One day its grip shall loosen; we'll let it slip
downstream through our prayer-cupped hands.

We'll lose our way, one day, to that well,
so that we might find another, taking freely

the water of Jesus, springing up also
in the human breast - of life everlasting.

We'll partake of that water, o seekers,
and never thirst again.

O child of God, whosoever will, let him come
and take freely the Water of Life.

                       

An effortless endeavor

An effortless endeavor

Seekers of God were drawn to You early on,
prepared to overcome every obstacle to liberation.

They begged You to instruct them in the Way;
to speak into their ears the Word of words.

You entered the Jhopdi one evening;
emerged wordless for the rest of your life.

Your fingers spoke - at everyone's insistence -
of love, obedience and surrender.

Love - not the least bit amenable to force or will.
Obedience - mere disciplined ambition

unless prompted by a guileless heart.
Surrender - a letting go, a giving up

of all hope and desires, low and high.
Love, obedience, surrender -

each an effortless endeavor,
dependent upon the Master's grace.

Eruch proposed determination -
not quite effort - but, something to do while waiting

for the buds to unlimber, the fruit to soften,
the wine to ferment in its ancient wooden casks.

O child of God, embrace the process.
It is that to which we must surrender.