The ring of truth

The ring of truth                                                                                        

Thank You for all You have given me,

and all You have taken away;

for remembering me

and for allowing me to remember You.

Thank You for wisdom’s ripening;

for the dust of the grave;

the shards of my poverty; for the rasp

of the world which has sharpened my longing.

Thank You for Your name

and the knowledge of Its significance;

for the soul’s dogged progression;

the inevitability of the goal;

for the human joy and affliction,

the revelation and mystification

which leads ultimately to dissolution,

to the unveiling of the indwelling Self and Union.

O child of God, the gratitude you’ve expressed

for years has begun to bear the ring of truth. 

The only game in town

The only game in town                                                                                      

Side with the virtuous; battle the others.

Fight the good fight.

It’s all part of the game

and it’s the only game in town.

Shake your fist; speak truth to power.  

It’s all part of the game

and it’s the only game in town.

But when you see the game has you in its grasp,

when you see through it, when you give up on it,

when you want desperately out – turn away;

cease your resistance – and your participation. 

Turn to the only chance there is

(for you and humankind)

and in your deepest humility and helplessness,

surrender yourself to the one endeavor worth pursuing,

the one freedom, the one treasure worth the quest.

O child of God, this is the game

and it’s the only game in town. 

Pumpkin stone

Pumpkin stone            

Lord, when will I ripen, ready

to enroll in that course of liberation,

filled with wine but drained of blood?  When

will I quit this sad rummaging and oscillation,

crack the looking glass and scatter the shards;

settle fixedly (like that famous pumpkin stone)   

outside the door of my Lord’s charnel house,

(which was once, apparently, a noted tavern)

to long desperately, like Francis before me,

to be crushed into singing dust 

by the Master’s hand and hammer;

strewn along Love Street (under His feet),

to rise and dance only at His passing by;

to cling lightly then to His skirt and sandals

and be carried inside the great manor,

courtyard and darbar of the Beloved?

Lord, when will I ripen?

When will I be ready? 

O child of God, surrender (also like Francis)

your impatience to the whim of His immaculate timing.

The mercy of His court

The mercy of His court                                                                                     

If you’re sure of anything in this world,

 o child, be sure you are mistaken.

When you feel yourself hardening

into one position, take the necessary steps

to remove yourself from that easy overlook.

Talk yourself down from the heights

to the dust-view of God –

God being not up in heaven

but in the field doing His spade-and-hoe work,

seeing everything in His omnipresence

at every moment from everywhere.   

To draw nearer to that Truth, o child, and to Him,

concede in every judgment,

your ignorance and incapacity;

throw yourself and everyone in your ken

upon the celebrated mercy of His court.

O child of God, the least, proud thought,

Meher says, veils you from Reality.

Under the tent flap

Under the tent flap                                                                                    

In darkness, I keep returning

to the elephant’s fan and spear,

serpent and rope, column and throne,  

each being not only partial and false but, also –

in our singularly karmic, piecemeal journeys –

heartbreakingly valid and vital.

Each to his own under the tent flap

and in that similar captivity,

I am required to assign myself

no greater accuracy or piety

than any other of those rowdy souls groping,

out of necessity, the enigmatic shape before us

and include myself first

among the mere mortals

in their inherent inability to ever coax

the entire creature fully into the light.

O child of God, withhold judgment

of a particular for the sake of the One.

One grave truth

One grave truth                                                                                         

We get easily spooked by that

unadorned hole in the clay. 

We rush away down worldly-rutted paths

that lead back only to a stone with our name on it.

Most acquire a religion as an element of denial

rather than a whole-hearted embrace

of that one grave truth.

Only a few receive the real Word

(having ears for it) and respond

by leaping into the open grave,

to begin their digging there

for the faintly rumored water of life,

a thousand leagues deep in the dust

of innumerable lifetimes yet to come.

O child of God, the eternal wellspring, says Meher,

lies in the graveyard dust at the Master’s feet.

Otherwise engaged

Otherwise engaged         

When I wasn’t paying attention, You were –

on the job, while I was otherwise engaged.

When I was confused, You took my part;

rebellious – You were patient.

When I was full of myself, You looked beyond it.

When I was hurtful, You attended to the wounded.

Lost – You kept me on track.

When I was blasphemous, You spoke of other things.

You waited me out when I was stubborn

and when discouraged, You sent me signs.

When I was blind, You went without recognition

and ungrateful, You did without thanks.

When I was bitter, You manifested the miraculous;

when callous, You pierced my armor.

You applied Your wisdom, when I was ignorant

and when I was wrong, You revealed it to me.

Every time I have failed You, Lord,

You have shown the utmost compassion.

Unloving as I am, You have nudged me along.

Unworthy – You have tossed out the scales.

O child of God, perhaps, by grace, you’ve glimpsed

a shadow of His garment’s hem.

A shaking up

A shaking up          

I have come not to teach,

said my Lord, but to awaken.

O lovers!  The journey consists

not of lessons to learn

but of consequences to bear.

Not a mystery for the mind to solve

but a shaking up

for our souls to endure;

a rumbling, rough waking up

to just Who We really are.

Our minds incessantly crafting the dream,

heart seeds apparently must be sown

to stir and grow over time

beyond the mind, beyond illusion,

awakening us to the One Reality towards which

our Lord incessantly beckons His lovers.

O child of God, speculate on such things

only with the borrowed authority of faith.

The whetstone

The whetstone                                                                                          

I sought from my Lord daily relief

from the persistent disquiet and shame; 

sought absolution and allowance

for my chronic failures,

my miserable inadequacy,

until one day my Lord said to me:

It was I who hobbled you –

to keep you from straying too far.

I cuffed your wrists to keep your hands

out of mischief and folded in prayer.

I placed the blinders on – to train your vision

in the one direction you need to go.

I plugged your ears to reveal the inner voice.

I built you strange-tongued, odd and solitary

to separate you from the seductive crowd

because you belong to no one else but Me.   

O child of God, to properly sharpen the blade,

rough and fine-grained must be the whetstone. 

Diaphaneity

Diaphaneity                                                                                    

There’s no choice, He said.

I’m all you’ve got. 

Forgo the negotiations –

you’ve no collateral.

Forgo the calculations. 

You’re in over your head.

There are no inducements

to any sort of compromise.

It’s the falsity of yourself or the truth of no self;

this apparent, ephemeral insubstantiality

or the resolute putting of it to a stop.

Grab hold of Me, He said, or go around

(around and around) trying to stuff

into your empty pockets fistfuls of diaphaneity. 

O child of God, the dream can’t be grasped.

All you have to hold on to is Meher Baba.  

The ancient discrepancy

The ancient discrepancy                                                                        

The sun rises, it seems, from the heart

spilling onto a sky bright sails of hope,

invariably to founder upon the day’s living reefs;

tired old bindings to be sure, but ever-new tendrils

and the spellbound inertia, the snug-enough shroud.

Evident in the distance between

lightning’s flare and the thunder’s roar,

the ancient discrepancy,

as I hurtle toward yet another failure –

everyday and the lifetime, the ages-old –

the slowly-becoming awareness of how

thoroughly deep go the erected barriers,

an integral part, alas, of the structure itself.

The sun rising every morning from the heart

to shine upon my impotence and light

beyond me the fair, faraway face of my Savior.

O child of God, hopelessness in the New Life

has nothing to do with failure or despair.

Swiss army knife

Swiss army knife                                                                                              

Everyone has been issued a Swiss army knife

but lately I’ve discovered there’s one blade

few people ever use,

deeming it useless or superfluous.

It’s the only blade I ever use –

the blade for which I, perhaps incorrectly,

assume the knife was made – the one that probes,

pares down, whittles away; the one that digs,

challenges and yet is also the one that spoon feeds.

Persistent use has kept my blade shiny, honed

while most of the others never trouble

to pry theirs open.  This is not a boast . . .

or if it is, it’s an oddly forlorn, collateral one.

I simply move about most everywhere,

not knowing any other way to live,

out of loneliness, fear, curiosity, discontent,

blade in hand and observe how it interacts

with the world and what it uncovers.

O child of God, the Beloved supplies

each lover uniquely with the tools required. 

Leading with my chin

Leading with my chin                                                                              

As an old man now, I aspire

to be somebody who can take a punch –

not a speed bag’s wobbly pummeling,

mind you, but a stolid heavy bag full of grit,

eye-bolted solidly through a ceiling beam

and not in some gymnasium for anyone

to try but maybe a garage or cellar,

collecting dust in the corner but still intact.

Somebody who can take a punch if need be

and absorb the blow from any angle,

any adversary and not be moved

more than an inch or two off dead center,

returning quickly to a perfect plumbness.

I’d be going through life then leading with my chin,

not from haughtiness or spunk

but with poise and a quiet faith,

bearing the blows of whatever

rough-housing opponents may cross my path. 

To be somebody who can take a punch,

take a punch, take a punch and not hit back.

O child of God, aspire to the love that allows

an innocent man to turn his cheek for just one more blow.

A divine opportunity

A divine opportunity                                                                                

When the razing began, I thought

the garden walls would go first,

(romantic that I am) – a flood of love

upending my neglected grounds,

enabling a long-hoped-for hidden eden.  

But You began with the house, my shelter,

dismantling it down to the bare slab,

me too numb to foresee or care anymore

what subsequent half-structure will take its place,

simply trusting it will be apt.

This ruination holds neither hope nor shame.

Like any other death, of spirit or flesh,

it’s merely a naked opportunity for something

to be built beyond the outmoded purpose of the original structure.

O child of God, approach your undoing

with the God-given composure of faith.

Monk's garden

Monk’s garden                                                                                          

Somehow it’s good to know I haven’t a prayer. 

Like old Job – no say-so in the winding up,

the unwinding of my own affairs.

God is in the details and I’m merely one,

hoping to serve by a studious abstention.

I weed my monk’s garden, encouraged

by the yield of abeyance and abrogation.

The old urgency has deserted my legs and lungs

in mid-stride and the pace, this late

in the game, has slowed considerably;

enough to where it’s more comfortable

to take His hand and follow His lead;

relinquish a bit more the irresistible

compulsion and illusion of plotting my own course.

O child of God, settle in as best you might

under the vast foot of the elephant.

Reason for love

Reason for love  

There’s no reason for love.  

Get used to it.  Go ahead –

work up a few doddering explanations

for your unruly behavior.

Something to make you linger longer

outside the charnel house.

The trick is that love is never sure

and is thus impossible for the wary.

But what if this time, you ally

with someOne besides your timid self?

SomeOne Who might, perhaps, strip you

of motive and prudence, and at the same time,

stir you to sacrifice

all you know and think you are

for the simple reason

that there’s no reason not to,

nothing worth holding back or onto

and nothing else at all worth doing.     

O child of God, cast yourself without cause

into that ultimate, impenetrable mystery.

The dhuni

The dhuni        

In the queue snaking to the fire pit's roar,

permanently blackened by sacred ash and soot;

the rhythm of handclaps and the mounting litany

of Baba Hu, the sun descending and a murmured prayer,

everyone clutching their latest, most prominent distractions . . . .

Pilgrim!  Don’t leave the dhuni in Meherabad! 

Carry it with you everywhere you go,

smoldering, heart-hungry for the sandalwood

of your hewn desires as you turn the mind away

continually from its habitual ego-nurturing

and toss the gathered parings

onto the flames of holy remembrance.  O pilgrim!

 

Every thought not about Him or the task at hand

is an encumbering desire – fuel for the fire.

O child of God, do not abandon the dhuni to its extinction,

eight thousand miles away from your heart.

Persistent honesty

Persistent honesty                                                                                  

The monk’s cell is bare except for solitude. 

Plenty of that which I have shouldered

outside these walls my whole life –

marked by it, encapsulated, enisled.

Is it everyone, I wonder, or just me? 

Much like I wonder if there is not

at the heart of everyone, where the self stands

naked before its own illegitimacy,

an inherent antipathy yoked with a desperate longing

for that which is True; that which is Whole -

the solitude of the monk’s cell

and our impenetrable selves

merely the lonely, persistent honesty

of every beating human heart.   

O child of God, the self is built

of fallacy, reclusion and alarm.

Needlefish

Needlefish 

One truth I’m onto this late in life,

gleaned from research and abstractions:

Truth cannot be found

sifting through the ashes of maya;

mulling over the minutia of illusion;

polishing a tile to make a mirror.

It’s not the sought-after needle in a haystack

but more like a needlefish –

a creature totally at odds and impossible

to the area of search.

To grasp the True from the false, hands must be empty –

our hands too small to grapple with both.

This is my sole discipline and duty,

the whole rest of my life to devote

toward the allowing of illusion, by grace,

to slip through my tremorous fingers.

O child of God, you spill words onto the page

knowing they can never tell the truth. 

A regarding of the cup

A regarding of the cup                                                                                

Unlike the subject in the parable, making his one-pointed way

under the king’s order and not spilling a drop from his cup –

there is no blade threatening my back.  It’s a different try

when the sword is abstract and everyday – the milk hither

and yon spilt constantly from the neglected cup

yet yielding no attributable dire effect;

the world whispering in my ear the whole long trek

like Satan in the garden. When the king’s order

is just so many words among the cacophony,

my own figure estranged and timorous,

then the (God-given) sword of faith

must meet the purpose, held not to my back

but to my own throat for the suitable vigilance

of my try at constancy and devotion.  

O child of God, a circumspect regarding of the cup,

the Masters say, leads from communion to Union.

Poem of apology

 Poem of apology                                                                                           

To everyone in this lifetime

whose path I’ve crossed –

I ask forgiveness: 

I have lacked humility.

Not my only sin, of course,

but perhaps the most pernicious,

the root of all others,

for it has kept me

from loving you

the way you should be loved,

the way I dream about,

the way my Lord advocates,

the way that would draw us all

nearer to our divine inheritance.

Take this poem as a timorous,

though heartfelt opportunity

for me to seek your forgiveness,

unable ever to ask you face to face.

O child of God, the one reduced to true humility

is no longer there to be forgiven.  

drawing by Rich Panico

A journeyman's hands

A journeyman’s hands                                                                                       

Francis said as stone into dust –

long to be crushed! 

The duty of the lover is to sing

his Beloved’s gift of song; 

articulate the pain in the distance

between mouth and Ear;

between heart and Heart

solely for the Beloved’s

amusement and entertainment.

Sing, o lover!  a reminder of the day,

when you’ll bear no song,

no mouth and no need of one –

being, at last, the unutterable Truth.

That’s the promise Francis clutched

in a journeyman’s hands;

sang with wine-bright eyes

through an old man’s broken throat –

a gift for his Beloved and for His lovers

gathered near and soon to follow

that bowed, dusty codger into oblivion.

O child of God, begin your apprenticeship as a lover

under that old Aussie ploughman stone mason poet.

The heart's ears

The heart’s ears                                                                                      

For a taste of Heaven, a sip of the raw proof,

settle under a spire where they sing

of pearly gates, the breath of flowers,

the holy fountain, amaranthine bowers,

your heart’s ears to hear and follow.

Miss not the chance in your Sunday suit

to scramble up the mountainside,

lift to your lips the waters of Union

as clearly and truly as might be

brought to this realm by human voices.

And if you cannot yet believe, o seeker,

tear at the obstructions stopping up 

your heart’s ears, the sort of

small-minded, literal logic and reasons

that doom the soul again and again

to the ancient rounds of birth and death.

O child of God, listen to both music and silence

with the same transcendent ears of the heart.

(painting by Joe DiSabatino)

God's game

God’s game                                                                                                          

According to the teachings, I am already That

which I’ve been trying to become.

What is there to do?  Where is there to go?

My prayers, studies; musings, meditations

exposed as indulgences, deeply rooted in fear;

enablers in my lack of trust; my refusal

to let go of the illusory reins;

the false assurance that there’s more for me

to do than succumb to God’s authority.  

But, this is where I am on the playing board;

these are my appointed rounds;

time is an illusion and God’s game

is the only one in town.

Each piece moves per His Whim

and He is on every side.  How can I lose? 

Though it affords me no comfort, I take it on faith –

I am secure, already where I set out to be;

where I always was and always will be.

O child of God, you will have won the game

when you stop tying yourself in knots.

The one gauge

The one gauge                                                                                        

Just love Me, my Lord said.

Perhaps His only request.

Love for love’s sake – without hope

of gain, advantage or favor. 

There is a dearth in my heart of such love.

And fear growing rank. 

The best I might give, Lord, is gratitude

which I have come by honestly –

in response to Your kindness. 

Gratitude for the life I’ve led

and for the life You led. 

Gratitude for a family and my imperfect love

for all their human beauty.

And gratitude especially for You, Lord,

being indeed my only source of truth,

however ill at times I receive it,

the one gauge in this troubled dreamscape

I trust and cling to, without which

I would have long ago become untethered,

alone, overwhelmed and lost.

O child of God, not knowing what love is,

how can you judge your lack of it?

A spot of fiction

A spot of fiction                                                                                         

I glimpsed the truth of the apparent world –

a reflection on the surface of a lake,

a shimmering ostensibility,

floating thinly above the dark drowning

and the deep stillness that supports all the seeming.

The self itself a trick of light, moving as the sun moves,

no more when the sun goes under;

a spot of fiction from which to center

the illusory play of light, color and movement

as the sun journeys the inexplicable sky.

Every chance I get, I pay strict heed now

to this dream excursion

and to Your timely reminders to turn away,

turn away at every opportunity

from the apparent, the artificial, the fictitious surface

to leave myself possible and open for That which is beneath.

O child of God, hold out for the Reality

solely because it is Real.

Salvage and salvation

Salvage and salvation                                                                                       

Over a lifetime, in my own way,

I’ve been moving toward You –

in darkness, by fits and starts, studying warily

the scriptures, claims, promises,

attuning myself to some real

or imagined inner guide.

Here and there at various speeds and coming

now and then to a complete stop,

wondering which bedimmed fork to take,

or why go on with such a lonely, desperate search.

But only very recently, the sun has peeked

over the heaving edge of the world

enough for me to see that I have

ever been trekking the vast deck of a ship

as You return me surely, safely,

irrevocably to home port.

I’m leaning on the rail right now,

taking in the breaking sun, the salt wind

and wondering what I might do, if anything,

to aid in my own salvage and salvation.

O child of God, learn your ship duties;

prepare well for the immeasurable voyage ahead.

Rumi's field

Rumi’s field                                                                                               

Rumi’s field – beyond ideas

of wrong-doing and right-doing –

is not so far away. 

I’m running my hand

along the top of its fence.  It was never

a great distance to traverse

but a coming to a halt, turning the handle

and swinging wide the gate.

No one to meet me there but myself,

unencumbered of my knothole view.

Ah, to lie down burden-free

in that long grass with the wildflower scent

in the sun-warmed field, upheld

and surrendered like a body on the ocean face

letting the current move me where it will.

It’s so near, just over the fence,

and I won’t leave without a fight

or find a way through its summoning gate.

O child of God, not far away nor far in the future.

Seek advice from your constant Companion.

Not quite a poem

Not quite a poem                                                                                              

To denounce someone, the first thing

given up is humility.  Elementary physics and geometry –

I must elevate myself to look down upon others.

Not telling anyone to refrain, mind you –

make your own decisions –

just pointing out the price that is always there.

I crane my neck looking up at the mountain. 

From the top, I might see equally in all directions.

Knowing intuitively I have not the strength, the discipline,

the courage, the expertise to complete the climb,

I slip on my backpack and start up the rocky trail.

Better to die on the slopes than back at camp.

So many people in the world,

I’m sure they can do without me

adding my own brand of stridency

to the din of blind opinion.

Whatever you guys decide is fine with me,

knowing it will be the Whim and Will of God.

O child of God, you have paid the price,

lost your humility, writing and reciting this not quite a poem.

This empty cup

This empty cup                                                                                        

Enough for me, this empty cup. 

With Your own lips

You have drained it of the world’s wine

and left a promise –

the distant scent and stain of Your own wine.

Each day I enfold my hands

around its rough clay and murmur a prayer,

lift to my lips its soured nothingness

to taste the exasperatingly faint

intimation of Your nothingness.

And setting it down, abandon again

the world’s shimmering images,

imaginings and intoxications,

its brief, bitter sweetness.

For me, enough (is enough) this empty cup,

until its clay mouth is crushed again,

its hollowness filled with debris,

buried in the earth’s whirling wheel 

for yet another stab at Your ethereal lightness,

assured Oneness, Your sobering, holy wine.

O child of God, the world is mad with drink.

Rejoice in your disaffected indifference. 

(drawing by Rick Panico)

Call His name

Call His name                                                                                           

The darning of a coat,

a pulling on the oars;

the sawing of a casket plank,

a bell’s tolling;

a calling bird in the green wood;

its flap of wings across the sky;

the knocking on a door,

the chimes of a clock,

singsong, singsong, say His name –

Meher Meher Meher Meher . . .

sewing us up; sewing ourselves

to His silence, with each stitch

more inseverable, each stroke, toll,

call and flap; chime, each knock

upon heaven’s solid, heavy door;

calling to the One inside.

O child of God, call His name

until it sings in your veins.