No room for why

No room for why                                                                                       

My monastic cell, narrow as a gate.

No room for why;

discouragement or zeal;

joy or despair; comparisons,

emotions; conviction or doubt;

stripped of everything but one,

last dot of self from which to witness;

offer silent praise and prayer. 

To be so tiny, my cell

must open to the sky;

have no walls; the whole

round planet for its floor

and contain in its every unfolding moment

the complete history of existence.

Narrow is my monastic cell; only long,

deep and wide enough for God.

O child of God, the scripture says

enter into a closet to pray.

In the silent holy void

In the silent holy void                                                                              

Like mewing cats outside the fishmonger’s

door, lovers say Your name

knowing not how else to get to the nourishment,

warmth, fresh milk and bloody entrails.

Everything comes true in the end.

No need for disputation – two blind men

arguing over the color of the sky.

There’s profound wisdom in knowing

how profoundly ignorant I am;

truth coming near, I must depart

to let it manifest, light the world

except for the dark shape which is me

in the silent holy void where words fade,

lose their power to persuade or be persuaded.

To say how lovely it all is,

is to say too much.

O child of God, seal your lips about

those things of which you know so little.

Lifeblood

Lifeblood                                                                                                   

One day the Friend will just up and walk away.

You’ll have no choice but to follow –

by then He’ll be your lifeblood.  You’ll be taken by surprise.

He’s indulged you so long; so many lifetimes,

determining one day – enough is enough;

time to unravel the swaddling clothes. 

You’ve led Him, your loyal companion,

into and through the darkest, shabbiest places;

the petty, the mean, the absurd, the perverse,

while He’s kept a steady eye on you,

offering a Word now and then amidst

your constant bluster and self-justification.

One day the Friend will just up and wander away,

you having reached a certain ripeness

and you’ll  be forced to leave the familiar,

your loved ones and companions

who will not understand nor accompany

you and the Friend into the desert

beneath God’s great, scattered handful of stars

to begin the long, solitary except for Him

trek home, His way, by His authority,

the sovereignty of His inviolable divine plan.

O child of God, He has told you from the very first:

I am your one true Friend.

Not a leaf's tremble

Not a leaf's tremble

Gaze at an object, one eye open,
the other closed, then switch eyes.

A similar, less than an eye wink,
shift in perspective involving

not a sound nor fragrance,
not a leaf's tremble nor a change of mind

will alter potentially above,
the heavens; the earth below,

yielding a proximate realm
where one's self might be lost;

something palpable to cling to;
odorless to trail, stationary to follow,

wordless to read, thoughtless
to learn and become wise.

A way to choose, abandoning choice,
discernment, autonomy and desire.

O child of God, a way also of just sitting
or engaging in a duel to the death.

The key

The key                                                                                                     

Once you train your will upon freedom,

only the key to the lock has value,

all other objects equally worthless,

crushed and scattered underfoot.

Ignore the ill-fitting, misshapen and static,

props of the inherent slight-of-hand

which do not internally align, similarities

meaningless and obfuscating; the entire range

from noble endeavors to fetid desires –

mere blind alleys, wastes of time.

Freedom whittled down to one tiny,

exactly notched, sharp-pointed instrument.

Once you train your will upon freedom,

only the key to the lock has value.

O child of God, the play of illusion

beguiles you everywhere you turn.

The breaking of the tape

The breaking of the tape                                                                         

When I cross the line,

I’ll rest from my exertions,

find shelter from the harsh weather –

so they tell me.  I would fly like the wind

but I’m pulling like the others,

a crudely built, two-wheeled cart –

accumulations that tell the story of my journey.

Pausing repeatedly to sort out the merchandise;

to remind myself of who I am. 

Abandon this cart and I would soon

cross the line into a territory

uninhabitable, unimaginable.

Rather than that, I cling for now to my only

home-on-wheels though it veers and bogs,

falsely identifies me,

egregiously hampers my way

toward the breaking of the tape, the rest,

the refuge, the unknown realm and reward.

O child of God, there’s nowhere to go; nowhere

to get to; nowhere to run; nowhere to hide.

The silence of which You spoke

The silence of which You spoke                                                            

It began on a Whim, You say –

Creation merely God’s game.

I try to reconcile this with what You also said –

no one suffers in vain.  True freedom

(again You say) is the raison d'être

including, presumably, freedom from suffering;

freedom from the whims of God. 

There is nothing to add from this

one tiny mouth looking up into the night sky. 

Perhaps, this is the silence of which You spoke,

coming to the end of hope,

reasonableness, accommodation;

where love begins, but how, o Lord?

Where do I turn from here?

The earth is round; I am unable to step over its edge

and plummet into Your timeless, infinite point of view.

O child of God, blow out your candle

to experience the true essence of the night.