The rose thorny lane

The rose thorny lane                                                                                

Stop and smell the roses, the pundits say

but shall we keep God waiting

down the rose thorny lane another day;

with death approaching from behind;

ever overtaking us among its dusty, fragrant shadows –

this path we’ve tread countless times

and are we not yet sated

by its alluring splendor and bouquet?  

Praise the Creator not creation;

enjoy and savor its showy riches

from the safe and lofty lap

of His holy, immaculate perspective.

Fly to His arms, then wander up the lane

hand in hand, with all the time in the world.

O child of God, remind yourself of Mehera’s labor

in the gently scented gardens of Meherazad.

Thespians

Thespians

There are pockets of clarity

in the cold gray fog;

transparent patches in the river ice.

Like a movie, nothing really but light

but, also, a stage play,

fictional characters and plot,

local and short-lived but

underneath the costumes

real complexities, other existences

beyond the time-anchored

personalities and egos,

the disparate acts and dialogue.

What I mean is, sometimes,

you spy the thespians

under their sweat and makeup;

discern the true theme,

the beauty of which leaves you

speechless with wonder.

O child of God, Meher was silent, living

His every holy moment in absolute amazement.

Burros

Burros

Back in the saddle again.
Astride one of those nimble burros

wending in and out of the canyon,
toting the miner to his claim.

I huddle near the campfire, trying to plumb
the night sky with a 6' 2" pole.

In the body, You were small in stature
yet, powerful, they say.  I believe them.

I've wrestled with You for thirty years
and have not won a single match.

I delve deeper into the shaft
with a lantern, pick and shovel.

Yet, I'll never come close
to anywhere near the core.

The silver is in the stars,
You say, mutely pointing.

You must burn white-hot
in the black empty;

burn the dross away
with your own innate source of fuel.

O child of God, stand mute and helpless
before the forces of which you have no conception.

An empty jug

An empty jug

If I knew what I was looking for,
I might could find it.

When I know what it is,
my search will be over.

All I've ever known is an empty jug
that rings like a bell when struck.

Not a drop in the bottom
so, from where comes this thirst?

This concept of satiation?  All I know
of bread is the stubble of a field.

Not one encrusted crumb.
Absence does not speak

nor indicate what is missing.
All I know of wealth is what

strangers stuff into my cup.
What will it take to fill the jug?

Until the search is over,
I don't know what I am looking for.

O child of God, those on the path
should clasp tightly the Godman's hand.

Impartiality

Impartiality                                                                                                

He preferred His juice lukewarm;

a glass of water, even an occasional

soda pop – room temperature.

And windows tightly shut

in the most sweltering weather.  O lovers!

This should make us weep hot tears -

these small preferences,

for the delicately broken

human being who held them

and Who in the large,

went about the business of service,

sacrifice and surrender, without a thought

to self or pleasure, comfort or ease,

placing Himself under His own weighty thumb,

meeting His own austere requirements –

the Epitome of servitude and mastery.

One with karma, without waver,

equivocation, preference or doubt.

O child of God, true humility is found

in the impartiality of the great Godman.

Even to ask

Even to ask                                                                                             

Prayer is the start of detente,

a tête-à-tête, a turning away

from the cheap, the shoddy;

away from the opportunist, the scoundrel within,

drawing nearer to the purity of the Source.

But, comes the day, o petitioner,  

when any request or suggestion

is a grave faux pas,

an attempted undermining,

a sundering of faith. 

Even to ask for virtue or liberation;

even to ask for the sake of others. 

Even to ask... is a violation

of the most delicate, flyweight,  

prayerful and paper-thin arrangements

between illusion and Truth,

lover and God;

separating the rare truly faithful 

from the scheming, frightened,

manipulative crowd.

O child of God, your intended destination?

You can’t get there from here.

Appomattox

Appomattox                                                                                              

I die daily, said Paul. 

Dynamic is the process,

suggested Eruch, surrender chosen freely,

repeatedly at every critical juncture.

Yes, but surely eventually strung

like an endless rosary beyond

the clutches of time and self.

A seamless union, a tightly clasped fetter;

acquiescence trussed up

and delivered entire.

I want to surrender like Lee at Appomattox, 

stripped of rank and authority,

at the mercy of forces I have long opposed,

my world in dissolution and ruin, broken sword,

blood and smoke, silence, cessation,

the last battle, last death over,

a reuniting, the cleansing wind above

unfurling our common flag.

O child of God, you want this war to be done;

to rest in the arms of peace.

No longer encumbered

No longer encumbered

There is a love that shouts
and a love that whispers

and a love that makes no sound.
There is a distance between them,

there is a nearness
and there is oneness.

An embrace, a congress
and there is completion.

My Lord was silent among us
in preparation for the oneness,

the fusion now,
no longer encumbered

by flesh, hair, mouth, hands,
elbows, ears, knees and eyes,

by sandaled feet and cloaked form,
time and space, distance and duality.

O child of God, oneness is marked
by silence, faith and invisibility.

Atlantic Ocean - Meher Center Beach

Meher Baba on Meher Center Beach 1958

Debbie and Brian on the Meher Center Beach New Year's day 2015
(photo by Ty Provosty)

A two-cent remark

A two-cent remark                                                                                   

Have faith in nothing of this world, said the old man,

except the efficacy of having faith in nothing.

When were you ever invited by God

to make a choice, conjecture,

display a preference, submit a two-cent remark

regarding His most holy and only apparent gift?

Out of ignorance comes our assumptions,

self-assurances, our unauthorized permissions

(in spite of ceaseless clues to the contrary),

to change any of the whole inviolate order

of things laid bare by our Creator

from the beginning of time,

for our own limited, fleeting comfort,

convenience, elucidation and desire. 

O child of God, from whence comes

the notion the world is yours to change?

Utility pole

Utility pole                                                                                                 

A Cop-R-toxed or creosote pine pole,

lopped forty feet tall, slightly tapered,

branches shorn from the functional bole,

cross beams notched and bolted, spikes

for the climb set eighteen inches on center.

Die before you die, the mystics say.

When I imagine throwing my life away

on such a rumored glory,

there’s always something to it to hold onto,

an essential sovereignty over which

I dare not presume authority, clutching

the utile pole, gloved hands,

thick boots glued to the spikes.

Thinking to climb to the top

where the real work begins.

More than a fear of death

or an instinct for survival –

a primordial knowledge, an inchoate awareness

keeps me clinging unquestioningly

to this separate, individual awareness and existence.

O child of God, surrender is not a life tossed away

but returned to its original owner.