The death of desire

The death of desire                                                                                 

Desire only to be desireless, my Lord said.

But that’s the story of my quest!

Unwittingly, I have lifelong pursued

the death of desire (and failed).

In every stage and phase, every permutation,

I have endeavored by strict indulgence to slay

once and for all that indefatigable dragon

that keeps roaring back from the ashes;

to quench its insatiable voracity;

to quell its constant fire which has solely

fueled my quest, to rest (at last) eternally

in that ice-coated, God-promised peace.

Fashion me a sword, o Lord,

to ultimately slay that dragon,

driving it deeply into the exact

hidden, sweet, deadly spot.

O child of God, love is the absence of desire;

when the pendulous heart finally settles into rest.  

You Who Are

You Who Are                                                                                           

You always are.  I’m struck by the beautiful

absurdity of that; its marvelous audacity.

My thoughts, trailing to and fro in time

get lost in a whirling miasma,

my every construct dissipating

at the far reaches of possibility.

But even in holding myself apart,

crying out in my own brief flare,

I take remarkable comfort

in the ill-defined notion that Someone –

You, at least You, (You You You)

always were, always are and always will be.

My heart leaps for You, for Your singularity,

for Your unimaginable existence:  You . . . Who Are.

O child of God, when will you stop examining truth

through the blurry loupe of your own intellect?

Estranged hearts

Estranged hearts                                                                                               

Those latter years of Meherazad seclusions –

the perfect silence You kept, inside and out –

to the point of having the mandali
shooing away the cawing crows.

A manonash silence –

one hundred percent work completed,

Your gift across time and space,

the boundaries of logic, flesh and mind.

And with Your silence,

all the real things given by You,

received by Your lovers,

manifesting years later –

offering more than admonitions,

the unkept precepts, tattered scriptures.

Your silence penetrating where words

are too cumbersome to pass through,

to invade and awaken estranged hearts

from their ancient slumber.

O child of God, be assured your own silence

is heard and shared by the silence of Meher.

Up the pike

Up the pike                                                                                                         

Looking over my shoulder,

I can’t say I remember 

a crossroads or even a fork in the path

with a free choice of which way to go.

This is how it seems to me this far up the pike –

as if the word freedom has never been applicable.

Thus considerably more agreeable

is the premise of my own necessary annihilation

when removed from my shoulders,

its particulars locked into inevitability;

convinced there never was

an autonomous self – an existence apart –

from which to freely choose or reject

my obliterating surrender to the One.

O child of God, the concept of freedom applies

neither to Illusion nor the Infinite-Eternal.

                             

Disassociation

Disassociation                                                                                          

Oneness is attained (apparently)

by disassociation from the illusion of self.

These deftly orbiting aggregates

don’t mean the hub of self exists

as more than a not-quite-arbitrarily

selected point in space, a makeshift home

where we might hang our cognizant hats

until we’re ready to walk away from it all.

There is only one attachment to break

(which propagates all others) –

Oneness is attained by disassociation!

O pilgrim, honor your name –

quit the symbiotic partnership

that binds you to one spot

and venture forth, toward

whatever there may be beyond.

O child of God, infinity has no center.

To what do you daily tether yourself?

Regarding the mystery

Regarding the mystery                                                                                      

This language which I do not speak,

lately comes to me by way

of the great mystery no one comprehends

and so I remain silent mostly – better not

to understand, nor speak, this wisdom

than the human, understandable points

held forth daily, apparently far from any truth –

the constant parroting of love and mercy,

courage and virtue without the least authenticity

or reality behind the uttered words.

So perhaps better mere silence, refraining

from complicity, regarding the mystery

and its tenacious beauty, so terrible

and unimaginable – this Word, this God

unutterable on every human tongue,

this purported Oneness,

this homecoming along the inexhaustible,

unfathomable, inexpressible Way.

O child of God, you regret your silence

and then you regret your speech.

The work that must be done

The work that must be done                                                                             

It appears the loneliness

will become almost unbearable.

Sorted out along the way

by unidentifiable voices,

stripped of being the soldier

you always prided yourself on being;

nothing at all dramatic –

just the bleak, quiet, tedious,

bare-boned loneliness

of the immeasurable, unmarked terrain,

once you get down to it –

the work that must be done.

No one to share your trials, triumphs,

failures or whether the mission bears fruit,

not the least recognition given

except from God, perhaps, if He so deigns. 

O child of God, your every thought and utterance

binds you to the delusion under which you suffer.

That old zen saw

That old zen saw                                                                                               

Ride your horse, goes that old zen saw,

along the edge of a sword, observing calmly –

to one side, the outer forms;

to the other, the inner realm.

Ride between, grasping neither, clean

as a whistle, not a hoof print left behind.

Bodhidharma counseled outside –

no engagement, no entanglements,

no arousal or intervention.

Inside – no indulgences, no rejection,

no denial or shying away.  Settle down

where there is no settling down –

in the saddle of the horse,

along the sword’s edge; ride on,

a part of neither, caught not in the dust-mire

of the outer nor the seductive fantasy of the inner.

O child of God, you are, apparently,

the whole of both and more.

The avenue to no-self

The avenue to no-self                                                                            

Take heed, the Buddhists say,

to keep the mirror bright, dust-free.

Or stated in another tradition –

become, as best we might, dust ourselves

at the Master’s feet –

self-effacement; mastery in servitude.

Kishizawa Ian was renowned

for his willful nature – a tiger,

self-proclaimed, as a young monk.

As an old abbot – a pussycat;

a callous upon his forehead

from incessant bowing –

his obstinacy turned upon itself

to eliminate his greatest impediment. 

O child of God, a dust grain is the Ocean drop,

the avenue to no-self, Oneness, Love Divine.

The excursion

The excursion                                                                                           

A dust-shape drifting through drifts of snow

down a worn path to temporary shelter.

Escape by plunging into life –

this is the practice given to me. 

Not fanciful ideas of life –

but walking out onto the lake,

the ice thinner the farther I get from shore,

as I glide and slip into next-to-nothing

in this floating world timeless and invulnerable.

When I break through at last, they tell me,

suddenly I will become nothing and everything

at the same propitious moment but right now

the excursion is simply everything,

nothing and enough; more than enough.

O child of God, who is there to hear you

above the wind’s icy roar?

The evidentiary truth

The evidentiary truth                                                                             

In the forest is a house made of forest –

stone, wood, clay.  Nothing in it is false.

Thickly overgrown, scarcely can it be seen.

Things are just as they are –

appropriate, timeless, undiminished.

Only the furnishings change their positions.

People visit but most often

walk through to the back

and out again into the weather,

the wilds – unimpressed.

They have come to the woods

for their dreams; to put down elaborate roots. 

They want nothing to do

with the evidentiary truth of this house.

Only a returning few ever discover

the hidden beauty of such an austerity.

O child of God, rest in that sturdy shelter, 

beyond any notions of rescue.

Archery practice

Archery practice                                                                                      

Before the effortless –

pure effort is required, quiet aim.

Arrow in the fingers’ cradle,

drawn bow and string;

settled breath and mind, attentiveness,

guidance, a necessary tension,

the brief distortion of a purpose.

Escaping the pinch – letting it fly and float,

precise intentions left behind.

Send it on its way;

beyond the grasp

toward the gathered central mark.

O child of God, before the effortless –

pure effort, quiet aim.

Get lost

Get lost                                                                                                     

Unless you get lost on purpose,

Ryokan by moonlight wrote,

you won’t get this far –

rugged path through a deep forest

among towering mountains,

a steep glen shielded by mist.

But if I plunge into the thick

of my perplexity, eschew my bearings,

redirect my vigilance, trek the path

unconcerned where it leads, I might just

climb in deeply enough to come upon

an abandoned hut, a patch of woods

where once he hunted mushrooms;

the spring where he drew water;

sit and view the moon left in the window

like a congratulatory note.

O child of God, the world is telling you

to get lost.  When will you oblige?

In hushed gratitude

In hushed gratitude                                                                                   

I had no deep relationship with the mandali –

not like I had with my grandparents,

my mother and father, aunts and uncles

who have now for the most part passed on.

To be a good human being, I’ve learned,

is a great and difficult thing.

I aspire to be like those I love.

If I ever reach their level,

I might look for loftier souls to emulate.

If I had them with me again

I’d embrace each one in hushed gratitude,

then send their humble souls on their way

so much farther down the road than me,

toward that high, sweet mansion on the hill.

O child of God, the blessings you have received

in this lifetime grow more evident every day.

What is given

What is given                                                                                            

Accept only what is given –

I think I’ve learned that much;

                                                                  

rather than what is coveted

though what is coveted will be given

another day in one form or another. 

This is the great circle which binds us

to the center and indicates

only slightly a pathway of escape.

Virtue might become in time a matter

of etiquette, tact, reciprocity, gratitude. 

Accept only what is given in the natural flow

of a humble, illumined, obedient life.

O child of God, that which is heaven-sent

leads to lasting blessings and unfathomable peace.

When you look for God

When you look for God                                                                                     

The path seems more like a river now

than a road – I’m being pulled down it. 

I haven’t the choice even

of opening or shutting my eyes.

God, through the Law, does that.

The river wends where it will,

flowing also through my mind –

torrents of thoughts, emotions, moods  

often turgid with the impedimenta of fear.

Attachment is not only about desire,

it’s about existence – my existence.  In truth,

I am a witness not a participant of my journey.

Thus I am bound and thus I am infinitely free.

Realization of that freedom is my destiny.

My search (which is not mine to claim)

is an unfolding of that destiny –

ever fated to seek and never find God

for I do not exist apart from Him.

O child, when you look for God, Rumi said,

God is in the look of your eyes.

My worn out boots

My worn out boots                                                                                   

My worn out boots are on His porch

but my back is to His door.

I’ve knocked randomly, rang the bell.

Without an answer I’ve turned again

toward where I came from

down the shady stone walk

through the trim, thick grass

that leads back to the busy street.

Everything passing out there seems

(momentarily) important – each phase,

crisis, new adventure, each fleeting attachment.

Everything but God at every moment

seems alive and urgent.  Everything

but this quiet house set back from the road;

everything but getting a foot inside that door.

My worn out boots are on His welcome mat.

I’m not going anywhere – a blessing

and a curse – as I turn again briefly

to ring and knock, shout and study how
at last I might slip inside.

O child of God, to enter His house

turn forever your back upon the world.

Giving myself up for dead

Giving myself up for dead                                                                       

I got myself lost in the back country,

romping out of the barn on a jet black horse

just as day broke.  Rode wild and loose

for a long ways.  Lost my bearings.

I’ve nosed my old horse around ever since

studying every bleached-boned hint of a trail,

every wagon rut, dry gulch

cattle run that might lead home. 

At last I stumbled upon

an old ghost of a prospector

who advised me to drop the reins.

Let that tired, hungry horse under me

find its own way back to the stable.

I might not like the route or ride it takes,

but return, the old man said,

by giving myself up for dead;

by dropping all pride and purpose,

false hope, shallow expertise

to surrender completely,

beyond any intent or desire.

O child of God, not a trace of resistance!

Surrender tolerates no dishonesty.

The mercy of God

The mercy of God                                                                                    

They sell a child’s car seat

with a steering wheel attached

to keep junior busy in the backseat

driving the car along with Dad.

Such is my relationship with God.

I’ve sought most of my life and failed

to find one truth which would

disprove the obvious, terrifying notion

that I am utterly at the mercy of God.

God Almighty has left me no choice,

no influence, power or control. 

No saving myself through any efforts,

merit, prayers of my own. 

Yes, all the Realized Ones

say God is Love. God is my true Self. 

I am firmly lodged under my own thumb.

But that truth is so very far away.

Not much comfort to my unrealized self

with no work to do, no vows to keep,

no power of rescue or the alleviation of pain.

O child of God, becoming helpless and hopeless

is not an attainment but a revelation.

My candled paper lantern

My candled paper lantern                                                                               

                                       

My faith is a chochin lantern                         

shaped from bamboo and paper

with past impromptu fortifications

of old shoelaces, paper clips,

thumbtacks and Scotch tape. 

It’s an easy target

for the glib and resourceful.

I rarely bring it out in public

to withstand the buffeting winds

and random crushing blows.

Not that my faith has ever been

doused or shattered by mere words.

It shines for me in such an incommunicable way –

my candled paper lantern

with its bright, fragile, flammable covering. 

It shines for me dangling afore,

offering steady, silent comfort and guidance

through this great harrowing darkness of a world.

O child of God, keep your little lantern lit

until you become a six foot blaze yourself.

Tilting the scales

Tilting the scales                                                                                               

If you’re looking to me for answers,

I’ve run shy.

If you’re looking for questions

I can loan you some

you’ve never even considered.

Most people view them

as a lack of faith

but I see them as confirmation. 

Who would question while not believing

there are answers to be had?

They may be legitimate targets for admonition

but a display of apostasy, they are not. 

I feel unbalanced, though.

So many questions and so few answers

tilting the scales, skewing the data,

listing my somber progression

ominously to one side.  It tends to

make me go around in circles.

O child of God, when will you stop dealing

in words, intellect and superficial knowledge?