On shoe shining

On shoe shining                                                                                       

On the path of Love, every moment is devoted to God

while moving through the world, in everything you do. 

Shining shoes?  Shine them – God in your heart

and thoughts, taking the extra care and attention

demanded, perhaps, murmuring under your breath

with each buff, your intimate name for Him.

The Zen method while shining shoes

is to concentrate on shoe shining –

as a way to honor the given task,

the extra care and attention required

in surrendering wholeheartedly

to the holy moment – its great mystery 

ceaselessly arising and intertwining

where the form and formless, the One

and the many, the eternal and fleeting,

where God and humanity, meet and touch.

O child of God, the Masters’ every sundry methods

are designed to remove your pernicious ignorance.

The author of chaos

The author of chaos                                                                             

At the center of attention, I’m the author of chaos –

things ever-shifting outside myself and within –

rise and fall, come and go; strong winds afoot;

east and west never to meet; time marching on. 

But when I make it to the periphery,

a hush falls over existence; a timelessness

comes to the ever-changing scene.

Things settle into a pristine order; 

beauty rises on the wind; subtleties

become obvious and celebrated.

Moving from the center to the periphery

the center disappears – God has my back.

I’m no longer surrounded;

the past forever behind me,

returned to that sustaining,

mighty arena of the Unborn.

When I lose my grip on the periphery I am told,

I’ll go hurtling off into Oneness.

O child of God, the great illusion, Meher said,

is that you have ever been separate from the One.

Hitch a ride

Hitch a ride                                                                 

Viewing the moon’s rise and flight

cater-corner across the backyard,

rearranging the shadows and reflections

as it goes. Only so many more left to catch

this time around, like a giant pearl

rising from the green wood.

Take me with you, I want to shout.

If I could hitch a ride, sit atop its soft light

making its rounds, illuminating, befriending,

without preference or intention;

always up there to fade into, to lift up

with one strong arm and plant me on its back

so we might leisurely patrol together

the heavens with a quiet non-attachment

toward the busy, frightful workings

of this illusory, binding world below.  

O child of God, ride the moon that never rises,

never sets, neither waxes nor wanes.

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(photo by Petra Fischer - pixabay)

Speaking of God

Speaking of God                                                                                               

Make Me your constant companion,

gestured Lord Meher, speaking of God.

Like an imaginary friend,

I told myself . . . but, no, not imaginary –

beyond imagination and conception. 

From Aloneness God created loneliness,

the illusion of separateness, of other,  

to be eventually quenched,

so love could run its course

and God could find Himself

though He was never really lost.

God alone is Real, my Lord gestured also.

O my friends!  It is you and I,

His playmates, who are imaginary.

O child of God, apparently, everything is love.  Love

the verb, love the noun, love the ongoing mystery of God.

Stray dog

Stray dog                                                                                                   

For lifetimes I’ve turned up my nose

at the gift God offers – 

a stray dog sniffing the hand

of a stranger it dares not trust.

Serving two masters breaks the world in two. 

To seek is to ignore what is already here.

This is the moment, every moment,

to receive God’s gift – no other.

Whatever I desire is a rejection

of what I am given,

the one true gift exchanged for an impure,

fleeting reward of my own imagination.

O child of God, Meher said, 

I am your one true friend.

Made of ocean

Made of ocean                                                                                         

Maybe I’m made of ocean,

having always considered myself an island,

the probable cause of so much suffering,

assuming this loose but utile

congregation of aggregates

constitutes a trustworthy place to stand –

solid, apart, enduring; ever looking outward

in the wrong direction.

Maybe I’m made of Infinite Ocean,

no room for this tiny dab of me anywhere;

with lonely suffering the sole root and result

of my imaginary, separate existence.

O child of God, Meher spoke of the Ocean of Love.

Take the plunge and drown.

Untapped reservoir

Untapped reservoir                                                                                     

When I had nothing better to do,

nothing else going on, I would reach out

to the Lord of the universe.  Little ol’ me.

And, of course, when troubles arose

I was always right there tugging at His coat. 

Just in case it was true.

One day, down a lonely path,

through a flurry of leaves,

I saw Him ahead of me, plainly beckoning,

inviting me to His house for tea.

If you’re not too busy, He said.

If you’ve nothing better to do.

Tears, held back a lifetime,

wet my cheeks, the sleeves of my coat –

cleansing rivers coming from the broken,

untapped reservoir within my chest.

O child of God, wherever fate takes you

never forget the mercy of the Lord of Mercy.

Portable refuge

Portable refuge                                                                             

Roll out your prayer mat, the old man advised,

in the bazaar among the hubbub and crowd.

If you are enticed by the scents, sights and sounds,

you’ll become hopelessly lost, unless you

carry with you that portable, durable refuge,

to recapture at any moment your composure

among the alluring merchandise,

the hawking vendors, the milling crowd.

And one day, it is foretold, you’ll become lost

within its folds – that old prayer mat rolled up,

tucked under the arm of the Master

Who will then carry you home.

O child of God, Meher said it’s time to stop

playing with the scintillating toys of illusion.