God's brush

God’s brush                                                                                              

Dinosaur bones found today in Texas

proof of time from earth’s dawning;

physical evidence like the morning’s

egg-stained dishes and a half cup of cold coffee,

historical data corroborating

our perceptions and assumptions –

the past not only once existed

but time is ever flowing into it;

not a contiguous, static flickering 

in the same illogical, illusive now.

Do the bones prove our temporality

or is it just another flourish from God’s brush?

Another facet of His ever-present, insoluble,

impossibly intricate and arcane, illusory design?

O child of God, is time endless or an infinitesimal

slice of the wink of an eye? 

Soon left to the page

Soon left to the page                                                                               

A poem indecipherable, a chore to read

though chock-full of evocative images

ever on the brink of making sense,

hints of eloquence shot randomly through.

If the reader has little faith – the poet

viewed as foolish, inexpert, unduly obscure

with nothing important to convey –

the poem is soon left to the page

a thick, tiresome, insoluble mystery.  

If, however, the reader somehow gets a whiff,

is moved to trust, delves deeper,

takes the random eloquence

as further hint and promise of a hidden treasure,

sensing the passion with which the author

originally took up the pen

then the poem may also be taken up,

endured, persevered – solved and resolved,

experienced, cherished and incorporated

to the ultimate triumph of poet and reader,

one step further towards the two becoming One.

O child of God, the poet is distinguishable by how

he says what everyone already knows. 

Garden-variety meditation

Garden-variety meditation                                                                      

                                                                  

This serpentine interior monologue –

I break it or allow it to break,

each daisy-chain phrase plucked delicately apart

into pleasant, disconnected incoherence;

letting it run ahead, out of earshot, while I

slip back through that well-oiled gate

where no such whisperings

could ever tempt a soul into anything

contrary to God’s benevolent oneness.

Let them die mercilessly on the vine then,

those sticky, persistent, overripe seductions

and pray for the garden to become

a realm of pure observation; a quiet, paled,

semi-permanent, edenic place of dwelling.

O child of God, like pearls, string together

those artfully concocted manonash moments.

The tomb I haunt

The tomb I haunt

I choose, in this duplicitous realm
having no choice, this or that,

vacillating between polarities
when there is really only one -

a last grave stab at annihilation
or continue this charade indefinitely.

All else is the slapdash arranging
of chairs on the upending deck.

I queue up in the darshan line,
enter the tomb-shrine

where I would soon forfeit myself, my life
but always am I roughly hauled to my feet

unaccepted; turned away;
escorted back down that lonely, holy hill.

My Lord exists eternally.
The tomb I haunt is my own.

O child of God, no choice but one choice;
it's time of arrival is beyond your grasp.

I am not myself

I am not myself                                                                                         

I’ve taken up the tightrope these last few years,

having so little to lose, life and time precious

but the cheapness of my indulgences

showing through, while that high,

tense wire is the only path to the other side.

To grieve, to judge, to mind, to intervene

is to indulge in Illusion.  When the mind fasts,

every sentiment and desire, every concept

is a tempting morsel of entrenchment,

intransience, disobedience –

bread for the mouth, wine for the throat.

High above the abyss, inching my way

towards whatever beckons from the other side,

I forego as best I might self-perpetuation,

the one exception being to pause continually

and remind myself I am not alone; not myself but Self. 

O child of God, if you were to bear alone salvation

nothing would be possible under its crush.

Original face

Original face                                                                                            

My original face – how I existed

before my detachment somehow

from the immaculate whole. 

Original face before I came to

some artificial conclusions in the eternal flow;

before I elected, if that’s what I did,

to go it alone; embellish, avoid, request

and oppose the sovereign, reigning rules.

God created Creation and I turned

obliquely aside somehow, for whatever

whim or reason and continue to justify myself

from behind the subsequent mask. 

O child of God, the illusion of self apparently

begets the multifarious illusions of existence.

Bamboo and rope

Bamboo and rope                                                                                   

You were silent without motive

but so many fine repercussions,

one being a palpable demonstration

of love as emanation

independent of articulation;

subtle in its strength; a shared universal,

indwelling presence and recognition.

Words are for the makeshift

bamboo and rope bridging of distances

while silent love reveals the illusion of distance,

an evolving response, a steady permeation

holding together the hope of the world.

O child of God, bite your tongue

even as you write this poem down.

The garden long abandoned

The garden long abandoned                                                                           

Adam and Eve embraced in God’s eternal moment.

Then somehow their serpentine selves

whispered into the uncritical, unaccustomed 

ears of each, duplicity and desire 

and the garden they left for the wilds – 

their preference being a sad facsimile of autonomy

over their fresh-faced obedience to the unfolding,

indiscriminate revelations of their Creator. 

The garden remains for us today to discover,

the eternal moment ever accessible, apparently;

invited to roam the verdant grounds of submission

within its whitened, sharp-pointed pales.

O child of God, the garden long abandoned

draws you irresistibly down the path toward home.