Until purity regains its footing

Until purity regains its footing                                                                 

I keep my body immobile

like the leg of an old pier.

I want the stream to run clear

and if that’s not possible,

the opacities to be mere

insubstantial tricks of light,

or barring that, discolorations

of the stream itself, ever-flowing and untainted.

And when the dirt is ruffled from the bottom,

I want my body to remain stationary

until purity regains its footing.

That’s what this is – this sitting here

quietly folded – letting the stream of existence

pour unimpeded over whoever it is I am.

O child of God, to no longer know who you are

is a gift in kind from the great Unknowable.

God's vision

God’s vision                                                                                              

Consider for a moment the fidelity of God’s vision –

indiscriminate laws in unyielding self-adherence

intended to convince us every holy moment

we are who we seem to be – a life independent

with a real past and future other than the moment,

other than Him, other than That.

Down to the infinitesimal minutia,

fashioned and nailed

with a luminous, transcendent artistry

so His game of love’s hide and seek

might be heartily, earnestly, desperately

engaged in good faith; meeting us

everywhere we turn, as we must

ultimately meet Him everywhere in return,

the adventure, the miraculous excursion worthy

of our ultimate ecstatic triumph and defeat.

O child of God, consider for a moment God’s vision,

His wondrously intricate faithfulness and care.

A fortress

A fortress                  

Stripped to the waist, hair tied back,

lean and sweaty, the mandali at Your elbow

 

as You labored to build a fortress

where thousands of Your lovers gather

to lay hearts and flowers, but for years

the work progressed unacknowledged

and even the mandali had no idea

the foundations You were laying,

the mortar, blood, sweat and stone

encircling that holiest of holy ground ....

Planted in the hillside, Your body

growing a garden built of solid walls,

well-rooted neem and banyans,

crisscrossed paths Your feet wore down;

 

established by Love and ardor to endure

for as long as forever needs to be.

O child of God, He spent a lifetime laying stones

for the years to come without His human form.

Lost paradise

Lost paradise                                                                                 

A neglected garden knotted in thorns ... 

You lured me from the gate

with a promise of wine; the fragrance

of jasmine, roses and tuberose;

distant blue mountains,

buried veins of ruby and gold,

brightly plumed birds,

greeneries of herbs and spices.

O, I’m in open country now –

let the sun parch, rains soak, winds punish;

my vision is upon that jagged horizon.

No one to blame, not even myself;

no punishment to mete out or receive,

just settling down to the business at hand –

the long trek back

towards that towering

range of love, that high realm

of utter absolution.

O child of God, step beyond your guilt and return

to the lost paradise of your eternal Beloved.

Your constancy

Your constancy              

May Your constancy point to Who You are,

sum total of the life You led –

You were never once not the Avatar.

In strict seclusions or travel afar,

when details of Your days are read,

may Your constancy point to Who You are.

In ashrams, villas, those ill-fated cars

in which Your body broke and bled,

You were never once not the Avatar.

Love's lessons pulled from Your repertoire

each moment our fledgling spirits fed.

May Your constancy point to Who You are.

For all beings, You labored to raise the bar;

no other miracle You claimed instead.

You were never once not the Avatar.

This remarkable excursion under the stars,

this fifty year mission on earth You tread,

may Your constancy point to Who You are.

You were never once not the Avatar.

One brushstroke

One brushstroke                                                                                                

He Who gifted the most gifted –

every saint, genius and artist who ever lived –

is painting every momenta meticulous portrait
of existence while nearby I stand,

standard issue brush and palette in hand.

What new theme or rectification,

what shade and stroke dare I contribute

to His underlying expertise –

even to my own small portrait and portion

of the vast canvas – when anything at all

is a presumption beyond my ability and limited view?

Surely, my judgment and opinion will only add

to the chaos and conflict of all the other countless
contributions, perspectives, advocacies and interdictions.

Surely, the less the infinitely better –

a humble acknowledgement and yielding

to the autonomy, authority, the vision,

the omniscient artistry of the Master.

O child of God, forgo the temptation to add

even one brushstroke to God’s creation.

                              

This illusory fleck

This illusory fleck

                                                                                              

You might be given a choice one day – art or truth. 

Surely, you’ll drop the attachment then

to language, inspiration, conceptual thinking;

take a bite out of that red bright, indisputable apple,

a mouth too full to speak.  Or in shrieks of laughter,

ankle-deep wade the mountain stream.

Like a holy roller on the pinewood floor,

bewilderment and incoherence your worship,

your life’s duty – not from any ecstasy

but from piety, sobriety and humility.

Wave from the flowing bridge; engage

in the marvelous activity of doing nothing

to understand and change this illusory fleck

you, as a person of words, have tenaciously explored

and so patently, obsessively, for yourself

and others, attempted to navigate and explain.

O child of God, if you are ever given the chance –

drop the words; kneel in awestruck silence. 

Another brief kiss

Another brief kiss       

It was suggested I write another

poem, though I’ve nothing to say;

perhaps about my inarticulacy

which no one cares to hear

yet, how is that my concern?

This is who I am, apparently,

and how I occupy my time,

though it’s just another intoxication,

luring me from the real.

I should never think in terms of gain –

that I am moving forward or upward

toward the truth and beyond;

never consider that I have anything important

to learn and convey to my own soul or others.

There’s no place for any of us to get to,

just a lonely divestiture and this –

another leaned over, brief kiss,

trying to brush away the cobwebs,

like in any other fairytale,

from my ancient, enchanted eyes.

O child of God, a dream within a dream –

this divinely-crafted illusion of self.