Between the pales

Between the pales                                                                                      

In Adam’s fall, we sinned all

goes the puritan primer

and with Adam’s stumble

fell we in with Lucifer

in our willful snub of God,

unable every moment since

to flex our knees, bend

our spines stiff with pride.

Adam having mistook a grain of barley

for a harvest crop of bread and inebriant

and with the bite of an apple learned

first hand the haunting of insatiable need.

O child of God, to reenter the garden, become 

wraith-like and lithe enough to slip between the pales.

The sole barrier

The sole barrier                                                                                        

Everything is allegorical, metaphorical,

true and not true at the same time

but if you spend too much on the seeming –

its enchantment and beauty,

the aptness of it, its sturm und drang,

its marvelous (self-created) synchronicity,

you’ll find yourself once again mired

in the enthralling labyrinths and blind alleys

of the mind, the maze, the path, the dream. 

And it’s a wondrous dream –

far beyond our ability to fathom it,

with little profit in trying –

save to reach the end of effort.

Just imagine (but not too desperately)

the truth behind it,

the truth of the One

Who conjured up all this seeming . . .

out of nothing.  For us, for Himself. 

O child of God, you remain (say the mystics)

the sole barrier between semblance and truth.

To cull and glean

To cull and glean                                                                                      

Jesus performed miracles. 

Curious that word performed,

its theatrical connotation,

a mesmerized crowd attracted

and then love let loose to cull and glean

those with ears to hear;

to winnow out those drawn to power,

to avoidance of the necessity

of suffering and surrender.

Only one miracle, claimed my Lord –

to alter the human heart into submission,

the switch from power to love.

O child of God, put this realm behind you

by seeking the unparalleled majesty of love.

Collected poems

Collected poems                                                                                           

How pathetic must sound my poems

to those in the fire!  How sad –

my quavering approach to the precipice’s edge.

Words of love with no love there, just a discussion,

a hypothesis, no substance or fire.

Not whispering endearments but interrogations;

cold, analytic chatter.

Those in the fire long in sympathy

for my ultimate defeat –

collected poems, accumulated pages

torn and crushed, fed

into the eagerly awaiting flames.

O child of God, don’t let words withhold you

from becoming silent ash and dust.

Streets without love

Streets without love                                                     

Hold to My damaan, Meher said;

for those times when there’s left

not a shred of anything else within reach;

a damaan of straw, one last hope to grasp

where He dare not refuse;

when you need to

unburden your chest of the weighty

function and duty of self;

when you can’t possibly weave your way

alone any farther through streets without love;

a damaan with which to dry tears,

clean slates, bind wounds;

to yield a small sheer rectangle –

the fluttering white flag of surrender.

O child of God, hold to His damaan

until you are ready to unhand everything.

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?

My silent partner

My silent partner                                                                                      

Mercy, my spiritual master; compassion,

my steady companion; immediate truth,

my bottom line; love, my silent partner

instructing me, amidst the roaring senses,

the worldly provocation and gyrations

to be aware of that small, still Presence

that counters every bluster,

every colorful, odious suggestion

indicating I am one hopelessly alone,

utterly lost traveler, without home or safe harbor. 

Love, my silent partner, to turn to in faith

and truth and find the way, comforted,

subtly led from this land of shadows

into the bright, perfect Light.

O child of God, listen with all your heart

to the wisdom of your silent partner.

Climb down

Climb down                                                                                               

Don’t worry, be happy

or to put it another way –

climb down from the crow’s nest,

its queasy, exaggerated susceptibility

to every roll and sway.

Secure yourself below

the water line, go for broke,

all or nothing, ready to drown.

The head is a precarious perch,

a tiny bucket of fear

with a false perspective.

Climb down

into the heart, fearless heart;

rest in the ship’s deep, hollow, oak-ribbed hold.

O child of God, worry is a lack –

of heart-sense and faith in God.