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)