Once the spigot runs dry

Once the spigot runs dry                                                                                     

Nary an island of truth, apparently,

in this vast sea of illusion

to set a solid foot upon.

Deep in my cups, I drown

in my ignorance and isolation,

cling to sentimentalities, spout

my judgments and objections  . . .

but once the spigot runs dry, I sober up,

fold up my deficiencies, release

every prejudice I hold like paper lanterns

onto the flowing currents 

and settle best I might under the stars

into a quiet receptivity

(which has nothing at all

to do with knowledge or perception)

of a truth so encompassing, so indisputable,

its every tongueless expression and persuasion

leaves no room for any possibility of refutation.

O child of God, the one sweet spot of truth

in the whole universe is stowed away inside your chest.

Toward a graveyard silence

Toward a graveyard silence                                                   

Even in a choir these days you can always tell

which throat is mine – it’s the one

shot through with an arrow

(like the piercing of a heart)

thick with blood, sounding less and less true,

moving toward a graveyard silence.

I’m tired of singing, of telling, advocating,

arguing.  Only my mind still wants to argue.

My hands are done with finger-pointing;

my heart weary of rebuttals.

(To disagree is so . . . disagreeable!)

My eyes want only to read –

read the hearts of others and find them free

of any blame or error on my account.

O child of God, how peaceful it is when your heart

goes for a long, brave ride and your mind takes a backseat.

The heart's tender

The heart’s tender                                                                                  

Not for the fainthearted, said my Lord – love,

borne of strength and true understanding.

Acts of compassion absent of submission

and faith are tainted by fear,

anger and sanctimony; the false assumption

of duty and authority.  The way of love is not

to become tenderhearted 

but to become the heart’s tender –

where God is met and looked after,

keeping down the head;

not to be pulled aside, bogged down,

intimidated by the sentiments

and enticements (good and evil) of the world.

Keeping one’s self to one’s Self –

the only authentic relationship, leading to

the birth of peace and the truth of action.

O child of God, the best you can do

for the world is turn inward.

Child of God

Child of God                                                                                            

An identity and a relationship;

a way of addressing myself

in the last couplet; not so bold

as inserting my name

into the body of the poem.

It was chosen for me,

its truth revealed a thousand poems later – 

this settled upon child of God

being who I really am – all I really am

and who I must of my own accord

solely become, eschewing all other

false, ephemeral and relative identities –

poet, author, mortal man;

father, grandfather, brother, son;

husband, lover, citizen, friend . . .

pared down to this one identity,

this one naked fundamental –

my relationship with my Creator.

O child of God, pray for the dissolution
of all identities and relationships.

The rags of sham

The rags of sham                                                                                    

Fake news – a term long ago coined by my Lord.

Articles chosen from a newspaper (say, perhaps,

the Times of India) read aloud  

by a mandali member and Meher Baba

would comment on them.  Bogus news, He called it.

A routine way to dissolve anger, fear and discord

in the purity of His blessed assurance. 

Our news today comes from the world’s elite –

the experts, anchors, pundits, pollsters, professors;

the New York Times, the Washington Post,

Fox News, NPR, the Networks, the wire services.

Still it is the same rags of sham –

fake news – for the very same reasons

declared so then by Meher Baba:

Because of the utter gross ignorance, the bias

and incapacity, the fundamental misconceptions

of the worldly people who gather,

read, write, distribute and advocate it.

O child of God, the only all-knowing source of truth

is your Real Self.  All else is bogus news.