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. 

Elder beauty

Elder beauty  

Older now, I see it - the elder beauty,

the younger comeliness

ghostly about faces and bones,

the eyes, particularly.  Courage there also –

ah! the beauty of courage –

and patience that has volunteered

in our well-kept gardens.  Perseverance, too, 

and the consent of loss with so much gain,

continuing into our personal future

and that future’s ultimate demise.

Older now, I see the flesh give way

to the ancient, shining soul.

It shone through, Mani said

of Baba’s divinity.  It shone through. 

I see it; I see its subtle emanations  

in unexpected glimmers –

the elder, ethereal beauty I could glimpse

only rarely in my youth.

O child of God, what a bounty you have received.

And the Beloved is not through with you yet!

Our guaranteed return

Our guaranteed return                                                                                      

The world’s a nothingness and God’s a myth,

Francis said.  You have shown me this.

You have shown me . . .

setting Francis to roam the nothingness,

singing ‘neath that boundless starry dome,

singing words awaiting, awaiting the flood

of the Word of words; Francis lost,

a mote in a dust whorl, left behind

by the Reality to Which the myth alludes.

A billion years to get his heart in tune,

ready to sing the Real song.  O Francis,

I am with you.  I am with you on the dusty plain,

‘neath the spangled bell jar dome, singing,

singing and waiting for the Lord to take us home.

O child of God, let the longing pierce your songs

with the sweetness of our guaranteed return.

And the Word was God

And the Word was God                                                                 

Small word – god.  Like a grunt,

a groan  breaking from our throats.

Dolled up by the pious – god; capitalized,

modified – Beloved God, Almighty God, God the Father

Used profanely by sinners . . . for emphasis and gravity.

God, forgive us.  God, this small begrudged word

wedged into our vocabulary as an afterthought.

Words of worldliness, are savored by our mouths –

pleasure, flesh, riches, luxury,

lush and lavish; sexuality,

sumptuousness, triumph, lasciviousness.

O pilgrim, take god – that hard nugget of a word

and nurture it in your core until it cracks,

breaks you open and free, breaks your world apart,

until a tree from its seed grows, stretches, brushes

leaves and branches against the farthermost ends

of your thoughts, depths, faith,

experience and imagination.

O child of God, in the beginning was the Word

and the Word was God.

Love interest

Love interest 

Existence You compare to a motion picture
with God playing every role.

You, of course, are the love interest.
When Your face hits the screen

every pulse quickens.
Let the storylines get too sad, predictable

and You are thrown into the mix,
to stir up the plot by espousing

the most difficult task in existence.
Love God, You say.  Love God.

Again and again, You enter the picture
to round out and soften

God's rough edges, awaken
the human heart to love.  To love.

You make it easy -- so that we might begin
our arduous approach to God;

to love God, to become God,
to become God the Beloved.

O child of God, impossible to love the self;
next to impossible to love the Self.