My silent partner

My silent partner                                                                                       

Mercy, my spiritual master; compassion,

my steady companion; immediate truth,

my bottom line; love, my silent partner

instructing me, amidst the roaring senses,

the worldly provocation and gyrations,

to be aware of that small, still Presence

that counters every bluster,

every colorful, odious suggestion

indicating I am one hopelessly alone,

utterly lost traveler, without home or safe harbor. 

Love, my silent partner, to turn to in faith

and truth and find the way, comforted,

subtly led from this land of shadows

into the bright, perfect Light.

O child of God, listen with all your heart

to the wisdom of your silent partner.

Our toddling faith

Our toddling faith                                                                                               

There are long stretches when Baba carries you

until determining you are ready to be set down.

The setting down is the proof you are strong enough

to walk the walk, though most times,

suspecting abandonment, all we seek

is to climb back into His arms.

Still He abides, constant Companion,

laboring to establish a scenario whereby

we might clutch Him to our hearts,

regardless of evidence or circumstance,

His being, blessings, love and mercy

breaking through our paralysis

to thus exercise and strengthen our toddling faith

in Him, our fate and in ourselves.

O child of God, Meher Baba doesn’t talk.

He just walks the walk.

When the human heart stops

When the human heart stops                                                                         

Maybe it all comes down

to the difference between noun

and past participle,

when the human heart stops

wanting to be loved

and starts wanting to be love –

the flame itself, the origin and receptacle.

So much mischief in that one consonant

like the hair’s breadth of Buddhism

or the difference in capitalization – self v. Self

or Saint Francis

barefoot in the snow,

the flame feeding upon everything

until there is only flame, only love.

O child of God, prod and stoke the crumbling fire

of your bitter, hard, tenacious self.

                    

The perilous shallows

The perilous shallows                                                                           

My verse might be summed up in one word – neti.

Neti, neti.  Not this.  Not that – the blinking light

on a harbor buoy marking the perilous shallows.

Anything you say about God is untrue, said Eckhart.

Anything you say about self is untrue, too.

Anything your self says is untrue.

Anything said is untrue.  Anything not said is untrue.

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean

your false self isn’t lying to you every moment,

a facile seducer involved only in

the momentary escape,

its own rudimentary survival.

O child of God, the only thing true

is that over which you have no control.

Climb down

Climb down                                                                                           

Don’t worry, be happy

or, to put it another way –

climb down from the crow’s nest,

its queasy, exaggerated susceptibility

to every roll and sway.

Secure yourself below

the water line, go for broke,

all or nothing, ready to drown.

The head is a precarious perch,

a tiny bucket of fear

with a false perspective.

Climb down

into the heart, fearless heart;

rest in the ship’s deep, hollow, oak-ribbed hold.

O child of God, worry is a lack –

of heart-sense and faith in God.

Disembarkation

Disembarkation                                                                                      

Perhaps you are dreaming you are on foot, cross-country;

direction, pace and schedule at your discretion.

Not sure of your destination, you become impatient,

at times, calculating, despairing and distraught.

But suppose you awaken on a train

whose direction, speed and agenda

are precisely and immutably determined beforehand,

no need to take upon your head, heart and shoulders

any perceived missed opportunities,

appointments and connections,

the wistful fleeting possibilities.

Relax in your seat, watch the unfamiliar

terrain unroll through the glass;

get to know the conductor, your neighbors.

A biscuit and cup from the chaiwalla

will fortify you, satisfy

your hunger and thirst

until the point of your ultimate disembarkation.

O child of God, neither the local nor the express

can be driven from the passenger car.

Love comes first

Love comes first                                                                                      

Love overflowing;

love enough for everyone.

Jesus feeding the multitudes

loaves and fishes –  

love enough for everyone,

plenty left over, and still yet more.

You showed me such a love once.

You filled my basket.  Overflowing.

I should have spent the rest of my life

hovering near that love – undistracted,

plumbing its depths, bringing it to the surface,

ladling it out, breaking and sharing such a love

as You are, as You bring,

as You have given.

Love should come first –

to become a feeder, a slaker of thirst,

to become an aperture

through which Your light might shine.

O child of God, Meher keeps you

as near to the flame as you can stand.

The Ocean mighty

The Ocean mighty                                                                                  

Jesus never mentioned the Ocean

to His desert-landlocked lovers  

and they clamored later to be dunked

in the shallow nearby rivers,

absolution rather than dissolution,

clinging, humble and determined,

to the familiar, dual shores. 

What holds us back is having not the faintest notion

we could ever be or ever could have been

the Ocean mighty, pure love, pure God ourselves,

deserving of our triumphant return – assimilated,

dispersed and lost amid His infinite holy Essence.

O child of God, true humility is plumbing

the ageless mystery of Who you really are.

Drawing by Rich Panico