Crushed

Crushed

O Beloved, You are infinitely and eternally free

and yet, You are bound to us ... and bound by our limitations.

You laid aside the garb of Infinite Power

to walk among us in the flesh.

The harvest of an entire vineyard, crushed and poured

          into one bottle,

and then, that rare wine is handed around among the multitudes.

O Ancient One, You put on yet another lovely coat

          to roam this dusty world!

Patched and threadbare after a time, You discarded it.

Countless ages ago, a naked God put on the garment of Illusion.

One day, Illusion will be cast off, like a threadbare coat.

Then, Your lovers will find their way home,

surrendering in one last, unencumbered embrace.

O child of God, drink from that ageless bottle

and cling to the garment that veils the Essence.

                           (from The Garden of Surrender)

Window of time

Window of time                                                                                 

O Beloved, You were silent.

Remind us of that

as the intellectuals chase Your words

through the mazes

of God Speaks and Lord Meher,

capturing them like butterflies –

pinned behind glass,

only their bright shells left;

silent as if the man Himself was behind glass

gesturing Truth through that small window of time.

In our dark dreaming, let us not expect words

to awaken us but the Word of His Love,

the Real Word

we have been forever longing to hear.

O child of God, listen with the heart’s ear –

where words and silence both strike to the core.

                       (from A Jewel in the Dust)

Grace intruded

Grace intruded                                                                                

Grace intruded upon my habitual sorrow

and marked me for its own

like a pattern of ink under the skin, 

like an imperfectly minted coin,       

a misprinted postage stamp

or a raw diamond selected for its flaws.

Plucked like a flower

for a vase on a bedside table;

like a wild colt culled from the herd –

lassoed, corralled and broken;

like a shell found on the beach

or an injured bird unable to resume

its migratory route,

I left the broad path

for the narrow and the crooked 

and now – no path at all . . .

making my way as everyone must

who tramps toward the gates –

without precedent,

yet, with a Companion who by turns comforts,

inspires, fortifies and illumines the way ahead.

O child of God, Grace is beyond your ken.

To whom much is given much is required.

(from A Jewel in the Dust)

Beautiful birds

Beautiful birds

O Beloved, You bathed the feet of lepers,

rinsing away centuries of accumulated dirt.

Then, You touched Your holy forehead

to their distended stumps.

Beautiful birds in ugly cages, You called them.

Only You could see their true beauty.

In the years I have been with you, O Beloved,

parts of me have atrophied and fallen away.

Through the eyes of the world, I now seem disfigured;

crippled and useless.

I am a beggar at Your door, desperate to remain

in Your good graces.

I am slowly dying, one appurtenance at a time.

O Beloved, let the beautiful flame of a bird within me

sing fervently among these ruins!

Let me serenade You as the cage that entraps me

cracks and rusts away.

O child of God, rejoice within your ugly cage.

Your Beloved is that beautiful bird that flares and sings

          brightly within you.

                  (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)

The darshan moment

The darshan moment                                                                      

Living for tomorrow 

is a pilgrim in the queue,

absently fingering a garland,

inching his way toward darshan.

Living in the past, a pilgrim

walking back to the retreat

empty-handed under the stars,

the warmth fading in his chest.

The task is to live in the darshan moment.

Behind the doors you’ve burst through, 

in the kneeling and bowing moment,

on the floor of cold stone tears.

He awaits you – expects you – every moment,

a cleft of shoulder and neck

in which to hide your crumbling face

and empty your heart; a pillar to lean on,

a gaze from eyes shining

with an unearthly love.

O child of God, live in the darshan moment.

Before and after are the nuances of a listless dream.
                         

The sole heir

The sole heir                                                                                     

Though illegitimate, the courts declared him the sole heir.

His inheritance – a decaying mansion with a vast collection of art.

Times being hard, he immediately tried to sell off

a random painting.  It proved a forgery.

Another proved the same.

And yet another.

The last of his money went into

having the whole collection examined.

  

Worthless, the assessor declared.

The son cursed his fate. 

 

He cursed his father – the old man’s

deception and profligacy, his cruelty and neglect.

An elderly servant brought forth a small painting

kept apart from the others.  It was a depiction of the Christ.

The assessor began to weep.  There is no way,

he said, to assign value to this piece –

it is an icon from the days of the early church.

You have only to name a price and your fortune is made.

The young man’s eyes fell upon the eyes of his Lord.

He blessed his father in the name of Jesus and remained poor,

returning the painting to its place in the old mansion’s chapel.

Upon his death, the icon was bequeathed to the local church.

O child of God, reject the meticulously replicated forgeries.

Cling to the one authentic treasure which has been laid at your feet.

                              (from A Jewel in the Dust)

The crux of embrace

The crux of embrace                                                                      

As its fragrance is hidden in the rose,

my Beloved said,

so My presence is hidden in the human heart.

Under our noses, Lord – unobserved

within ourselves and others.

Only faith and desire keep us daring

the crux of embrace.

Yes, the heart gets tipsy at the first nip 

of Your wine – dances in its cage;      

deeper in the cup, it grows weepy and ponderous.

And when Your fire sweeps through –

first, a searing pain, then burned rubble

from which to look out sheepishly upon the world.

But, You promised us, You promised Your presence  

every moment woven into the heart’s delicate

warp and weft, so pervasively, the rose,

having never set tender foot beyond its vast domain,

                                                           

goes about wailing and weeping

at the absence of its own scent.

O child of God, turn from the world’s enticements

to discover within, the fragrance of God.

                          

Your brush strokes

Your brush strokes

Tonight, as these prayers are being said,

looking out upon the bowed heads of Your lovers,

in my heart, also, heads are bowed. Voices blending in arti;

there are voices and harmonies within me as well.

And, as I kneel for Your darshan, in the tomb-shrine

of my heart there is, also, a kneeling.

On this nondescript hill, a small group

has gathered tonight from around the world.

We have come to bow down to the holiest part

          within us and all human beings.

What a long journey to reach Your humble abode!

O Beloved, in Your Tomb-Shrine I have found my refuge.

In the shrine of my heart, let me offer You refuge.

Paint the walls within it in Your lovely brush strokes,

scenes from a life of Purity and holy Love.

O child of God, garland the stone of your heart-shrine.

Prepare it lovingly for the arrival of the Guest.

                                  (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)