Knowledge Itself

Knowledge Itself                                                                                        

Imagine a realm where there’s nothing to ponder. 

Not a realm of omniscience, mind you,

but of quiescence; a dousing deeply satisfying –

the flame snuffed out; the pendulum

come (at last) to a dead plumb stop.

For years now my Lord has preached in my wilderness

for His lover to become desireless.

I have strung Him along –

answered His quenching wisdom

with all manner of inquiries, ruminations, suppositions.

Cheekily I have begged to be an exception –

to be taught – though He did not come for that.

Strange to discover after a near-lifetime of searching

that my fondest desire, of which I cannot let go,

is to know within this tiny, mortal,

bone-hard skull of mine Knowledge Itself

and that this wrong-headed obsession

is keeping me from an unstipulated surrender

that would allow all my doubts to die

peacefully unrequited within my mortal frame.

O child of God, you keep coming back to the same

fundamentals you were told from the very first.

A grass hut

A grass hut                                                                                                         

God has no boundaries.

Make Him the hub (said my Lord)

and He will someday also

become the periphery. 

Walk with Him this immediate realm,

at some point you’ll enter the other –

you’ll lose your own boundaries.

God tolerates (apparently) for the sake of illusion,

our claims of authority, the iron pins

by which we stake out our properties.

Only on rare occasions does He trespass –

a revelation, a vision, an inexplicable synchronicity.

But God has no boundaries.  That is the sobering truth,

the great fear to which we all must attend –

utter vulnerability and ultimate non-existence.

Like an elephant entering a grass hut

(if He has a mind to) – no locks, barricades; no walls,

no appeals to our sovereignty will keep or contain Him

as He invades and supplants,

obliterates the structures of our beings.

O child of God, Meher did often avow –

we are not we but One.

The scent of a peach

The scent of a peach                                                                               

A ripe peach is on a wooden table.

Rather than reach for it, I write poetry

on its virtue, beauty and succulence;

safer, more enduring than the true peach

in this unreliable realm –

(I find it’s never there when I reach for it).

I’m back again in my bare cell, empty-handed.

This poetry is not much like a peach –

not within a country mile;

a very rough approximation

yet it’s imbued with the scent of a peach

with which I must content myself.

A ripe peach on a wooden table

and I have thrown my life away

in pursuit of it and its presumed reward;

swallowed every tale; followed the wildest rumors;

written down my confessions for all to see.

I have trusted You, my Lord,

in complete ignorance for the truth

of the long-trumpeted, promised perfect peach.

O child of God, keep your faith confidential

and pray for Meher not to let you down.

The nature of stars

The nature of stars                                                                                   

A sky full of stars and the magi looking

eastward to an extraordinary flare

moving contrary to fixed patterns,

to all known predictions,

contrary to the nature of stars.

They follow it pell-mell –

blazing sun, freezing nights –

in a burdensome gallop,

destination unknown.  It doesn’t matter –

they are chasing the cosmic,

leaving behind the earth.

And the great mysteries of heaven

come down to greet them, those wise men,

to intermingle and lay on hands,

no longer ashen remnants,

distant trackers and observers

but burning, existential participants

in the ancient, great fires of creation.

O child of God, chase after truth;

let nothing stand in your way.  

An ocean away

An ocean away                                                                                       

I’ve been to India many times.

I’ve never quite felt at ease there.

It’s the oppressive, ubiquitous unfamiliarity –

ever a stranger in a foreign milieu,

an ocean away from home.  These days,

holed up in my hometown, homestead,

habitat, my own planet and (gross) plane,

I’m also ever slightly ill-at-ease,

every familiar thing now drenched

in a foreign light, heard in a disquieting way,

smelt and tasted seasoned with dust and ash.

Ill-at-ease in my own skin, my head and heart.

I’ve listened to You and told myself

so many times I’ve come to believe it

beyond any intentional, intellectual concept,

down to my very bones –

this world is not my home.

This world is not my home. 

O child of God, don't rest until you

get back to where you started.

(photo by Debbie Finch)