The vast encompasssing

The vast encompassing

Long to see Me as I really am.
Which might mean in time between

not seeing Him as He seems to be;
perhaps, not at all; losing sight

and track, upended, at sea;
toppled fortresses, uprooted trees;

eschewing the accustomed
comforts and shelters, clefts in the rock;

the Companion constant but chameleonic,
undetectable, indiscernible,

yet doggedly held onto
in rehearsal for the bleeding,

the blessing, the blending at last
of God (in our eyes)

with the illusion of the temporal,
prior to the ultimate stretching,

the vast encompassing
of the eternal infinite.

O child of God, why worry about the inevitable?
Unless, perhaps, impatience is a fated prod.

Love Itself

Love Itself                                                                                                

Everyone is a Baba lover.

Most don’t know the phrase

or use the name.  Those who do,

even the ones who consider Him

mad or a fraud, self-indulgent, evil,

love Him and serve Him

in their own limited and inimitable way –

can’t we imagine this? 

Can’t we grant Him this much?

Everyone loves God, don’t they? 

Even those who’ve given up

or never knew or profess not to believe.

What else can love be (and from whence)?

What other object can love be for

in hearts that long, the force

that propels all life, all humanity

towards beauty, mercy, perfection, bliss?

Towards an ultimate quenching of loneliness?

What else can that love be for . . . but for God? 

The ineliminable and ubiquitous God and for Love Itself.

O child of God, everyone is a Baba lover,

each in his own limited and inimitable way.

Plunge!

Plunge!

Follow your nose, proposed the old man,
straight forward, straight forward, plunge!

As opposed to the mind (I suppose),
heart, belly, genitalia.  Can't miss it,

the aroma of roses and vernix caseosa,
guide and remedy for the blind curves,

the perpendiculars, paring down
the big picture to the opportune particulars

by an ambrosial scent;
straight forward, straight forward,

moment to moment, blindly led, blindly led,
hie, lovers, condensed, tapered and myopic,

towards the maze-concealed, aromatic,
romantic, long-sought, sniffed out truth.

O child of God, you will never arrive by a hesitant,
reasonable, cautious and half-stepping approach.

Bright pebbles

Bright pebbles                                                                                         

Real happiness, said my Lord, lies in making others happy;

dismissing then the class, spilling out onto the playground.

Only I remaining behind the windows, poring over

tomorrow’s lessons while today’s becomes, outside,

thread the needle and a-tisket, a-tasket. Happiness,

chalked in huge letters across the dusty board. 

If true, if true, if it lies there, we cannot make

others happy, nor ourselves.  Not really.  Not really. 

In my childish pockets a rabbit’s foot, gathered

small change, cats-eyes, bright pebbles. 

Rather than lead us into such a transitory endeavor

as happiness for ourselves and others,

safely He turns us toward service until

our duty and primary function we discern

and perform agreeably, without purpose or regard

for ourselves and for all the others.

O child of God, the true task before you

is to become who you always were and already are.

Painting by Mark Hodges

Family photos 2014

Lily Finch

Gus and Meg

Austin

Caleb

Debbie and Brian

A smidgen of God

A smidgen of God                                                                                    

To know a smidgen of God, step backward;

out of life; overlooking and through illusion,

adopting theoretically His holy hidden agenda. 

To disappear into God, move forward

and toward, dropping your sword,

blending imperceptively into illusion

with staunch conviction of flimsy death,

shallow grave and your own sort of eternity. 

Move like a winged bird,

not track nor trace to scratch

the empty sky, by turning your back

upon yourself (so suggest the scriptures) –

not to alter, grow or evolve but to die

taking the whole universe down with you;

dying with Jesus, Baba, Buddha,

dying so you may join them

beyond the impairments of time, space,

tangibility and individuality.

O child of God, surrender involves courage,

desperation and a feckless disregard of self.

Zero

Zero                                                                                                       

Life is a dream, said my Lord.

I was glad to ponder on such.

Twenty odd years later, I heard Him

phrase it in an different way –

O lover, you are dreaming Me! 

I am, said my Lord, whatever the dreamer

takes Me to be, dependent upon their karma –

God to some, fraud to others,

a photograph, a name in passing,

an anonymous cipher in the human throng.

Then, also a dream, I replied, is what You are saying.

Everything is zero, said my Lord.  Zero into zero –

it all equals zero.  I’m at sea, I said. 

Not yet, He replied, but you’re getting there.

In order to drown, you have to let go

of everything that holds you up.

O child of God, the child is a dream;

God is a dream; this idea, this poem also a dream. 

Drawing by Rich Panico

On love's behalf

On love’s behalf                                                                                      

The Godman lives on love’s behalf

and thereby couples the disparities

of flesh and spirit, truth and self.

A lifetime of service and repair,

the epitome of mercy, the Godman

appears on love’s behalf

and as is His habit, never looks back,

never looks up from His task.

Arrives, survives and departs on love’s behalf,

relying upon the resounding chords

of love’s lilting, everlasting, ultimate

presence and essence to carry the day,

to preserve and persevere, to convey

His holy mission and message

to every hungry cell and soul, every being 

in God’s vast and illusory repertoire.

O child of God, liberation involves the lover,

also, living at last only on love’s behalf.

Various apples

Various apples                                                                                         

We desire in our human love

only the best for the various

apples of our eyes,

our clutched-to-the-breast beloveds.

Our love’s great failing –

the truth that we know not exactly

what is best and what constitutes

further entanglement on a field

so sad and vast as time and creation;

what is pure and what is tainted

from hearts sorely cleaved and teeming;

sorely cleaved and teeming.

Love Divine, on the contrary, said my Lord,

is not originated but bestowed (divinely);

wants nothing, has no center, no motive,

no standpoint, no hub, beginning in the light

of non-existence and never venturing

into the shadowy realms of the illusory self.

O child of God, wish your loved ones the best.

You are so very far removed from Love Divine.

An embroidery by Caleb Darnell