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.