The attempt to do both

The attempt to do both                                                                              
 
A serious breach of protocol – to stand
on the threshold of Baba’s Tomb.
 
While still in the body, He would gesture
to anyone in a doorway:  Come into the room
 
or remain outside.  But every time, every time,
He has offered me such a gesture, I retreat      
 
into the turbulent realm of my birth.
Circling now the exterior of my heart,
 
(for surely He has established Himself there)
I content myself with window peeping
 
or standing only as deep as the doorsill,
while (in His mercy) from the far end of the room
 
He gestures urgently:  Enter My darbar
or remain a creature of the outside world.
 
O child of God, it is the attempt to do both
that is tearing you apart.

That old charlatan

That old charlatan                                                                                                
 
I may not be obeying You more, Lord, 
but I am obeying myself less.
 
And if I am being fooled by that old charlatan,
I no longer choose him as a matter of course.
 
He is forced to fool me now to hold sway.
But maybe it’s always been like that,
 
this ancient relationship adjusted to a deeper level
with subtleties I’ve yet to catch up to. 
 
Yet even that would be a triumph of sorts, a ripening,
another veil become diaphanous, near to ineffectual. 
 
I console myself with such thoughts, now and then,
when the absolute mystery of everything
 
overwhelms my way of life,
my approach and devotion to You.
 
O child of God, take solace where you find it
but always hearken back to the original Source.

Love everything

Love everything                                                                             
 
Fear nothing and no one, said my Lord –
if you want to join the new life.
 
Fear is the absence of Love, He said.
Age after age, the Avataric message,
 
to one and all – love God.
To love God is to love everything. 
 
Love everything
and there’s no room for fear;
 
the barrier to embracing and becoming
crumbles and frees the soul
 
to become everything, to become God. 
And so the circle completes itself.
 
Love God and become God.
Love God and become everything.
 
Love Me, said Meher,
because I am God in human form.
 
O child of God, love everything;
fear nothing and no one.

Eruch's kindness

Eruch’s kindness                                                                                       
 
I didn’t know enough at the time
to ask questions concerning the path of love,
 
the pilgrim’s role, the great Godman.
Eruch wouldn’t have answered them anyway.
 
Those questions were for me to find the answers to
over the remainder of my life.  Questions not to
 
construct a paradigm but to dismantle one. 
Answers leading to only more questions
 
or to the understanding that there are no answers
to be given in any language I can decipher.
 
So it was my fate, and it was a blessed one, to listen
with sealed lips and open heart to Eruch’s kindness,
 
telling me back then all I needed to know
to begin my journey on the path of Love.
 
O child of God, how fortunate you were
to sit near a living precept of Meher Baba’s Word. 

The nameless ones

The nameless ones                                                                                               

The anchorites, monk or nun, were given
their funeral rites, sealed into cells until death.
 
Lives of stark asceticism, incessant prayer –
intercession for the rampant sins of the world.
 
A few influential from personal accounts –
Hilton, Rolle, Julian of Norwich with her Revelations
 
but it is also of the nameless ones that I
wonder at their influence, their stories
 
sealed by their deaths to the world. 
What works were wrought by each of these
 
eccentric seclusions, dim obscurities,
shaped by faith, pain and deprivation,
 
that might have swayed the balance
of evolving souls, blunted the edge of maya,
 
facilitated the laying down of palm leaves
for the next arrival of Christ?
 
O child, legions are the nameless ones
whose sacrifices are known only to God.

A drop of God's oil

A drop of God’s oil                                                                        

Cover the earth with leather,
say the Buddhists, or shoe your feet. 
 
But that bit of wisdom doesn’t touch the pain
of our existential isolation.
 
A mile in my brother’s shoes will show me
only the contours of the outer terrain –
 
nothing of the interior.
Loneliness is made of clay – our clay.
 
I can’t be you; you can’t be me
so we try to get to know one another.
 
How far apart! -- two people holding hands,
whispering into each other’s ear.
 
Each human essence, the teachings say,
is a drop of God’s oil.
 
Once the barrier is broken, the post
surrendered -- the oil blends, remaining
 
what it always was, always is –
unadulterated Oneness.
 
O child of God, try each moment to acknowledge
that drop of oil within you and everyone else.

Making change

Making change                                                                                 
 
I once saw myself making change;
changing myself – and now I see
 
change as happening to me,
the seed in the stone becoming a peach.
 
My long ago entering the path –
God’s work not my decision
 
and the incessant conflict within
not anything to do with me as participant
 
but only as a vessel and witness which shall
one day see in everything only changeless God.
 
O child of God, nothing that is real
ever changes.

The process of drowning

The process of drowning                                                                                     
 
A riptide is sweeping me inexorably out to sea.
If there’s a path, it’s leagues below my feet.
 
Any maneuverability I have is for keeping
my head above water, to view the ocean’s workings 
 
until I irrevocably become a part of it.
No strategies from this distance, not with my feebleness
 
against the pull and strength of the tide.
Eventually, I’ll be far enough from shore
 
to no longer lament or even remember
the dusty travails of the path, far enough
 
to become helpless and hopeless, apply myself
seriously to the process of drowning.
 
O child of God, you stroll the water’s edge
and dream of its roaring dominion.

The human source

The human source                                                                        
 
When I first fell for You
what improbable tales You told!
 
I emptied my quiver in Your direction –
trusting not one smooth line. 
 
I fling my arrows still, because,
these days, I so very much
 
trust Your benevolence, Your forbearance. 
A cipher adrift in the cosmos or one
 
orbiting a centric faith – I recommend the latter.
Faith is blind, yes, but follow the scent
 
of jasmine and rose; the ocean’s roar;
the taste of blood, salt, and candy prasad. 
 
Lord, perhaps You’re not with me as I write this. 
How could I ever be sure?
 
But, I trust You – the flesh and form You were,
Your Word, Your mercy, Your munificence. 
 
I trust the awakening
You have evoked in me.
 
O child of God, make Meher both the Godly
and the human source of your faith.

Dust to dust

Dust to dust                                                                                                        
 
Dust of a common grave (I shall again become),
the dust of rubble and impurity,
 
ignorance and triviality until that last lifetime
when I become dust at the darbar’s door –
 
the dust of settlement and compliance;
bloodless dust, beyond ignition and insurrection.
 
Dust to dust we range the great discrepancies –
dust of the flesh to the dust of stars,
 
dust of the path to the dust of surrender
and all the various corners and crevices
 
along the way in which we hide and cling
until we are swept away by the Immaculate One.
 
O child of God, let your throat sing
while it is still moist with fervor and urgency. 

The details of slumber

The details of slumber                                                                               
 
I dream, hearing Your footsteps down the hallway;
a plea in my ear; a tug on my blanket –
 
but I can’t open my eyes, stir myself awake.
So I learn instead the details of slumber;
 
explore the realm of my somnambulance. 
How might my dreamed-up self
 
ever connect with conscious Reality?    
Only in sleep do we envision, one bright morning,
 
our risen Awakener throwing wide the door, rushing
to our bedside to deliver His rousing, fairytale kiss.
 
O child of God, faith is all you have to offer
the Beloved of your dreams.

To love

To love          

To love God in the most practical way,
Meher Baba said, is to love our fellow beings.
 
I nod always, mumble under my breath –
yes, because everyone is You.
 
But, one day, You whispered in return –
because, lover, to love is to love God.
 
The sculptor grinds the chisel to a perfect bevel.
The sawyer sharpens the blade’s teeth.
 
The cutting torch, the welder adjusts
to the precise admixture 
 
of acetylene and oxygen.
Now the flame can cut steel.
 
It is the purity of love that shapes and sharpens
the chisel, the blade, the flame,  
 
allowing for the cutting through,
the paring down, the severing.
 
Love tempers the mind, attunes the heart,
allows for the cutting through
 
our bonds, our armor, our self-constrictions,
pushing beyond the pales of our fear.
 
O child of God, to love is to teach
the heart how.  To love is to love God.

To bend my knees

To bend my knees                                                                                               
 
I ask to be forgiven, though You have told us
there’s nothing to forgive; that I do not exist;
 
that there’s only the now; my karma ironclad;
that I’m heavily veiled (to the truth that is me);
 
that Oneness is sovereign under the guise of the many;
that nothing happens without Your will and permission.
 
Still, You gave us the Prayer of Repentance
and I use it, even if it be merely a gift
 
of much needed solace for our guilt and shame.
I seek forgiveness as a constant reiteration
 
of my ignorance and invalidity
and the observance of Who You are;
 
to better my position, settle in where I truly am –
to bend my knees, expose my neck,
 
bow deeper and nearer to the dust
I am destined to become.
 
O child of God, obedience and acquiescence
are worth so much more than understanding.

The best of intentions

The best of intentions                                                                                 

With the best of intentions, might we face life
but from limited perspectives, making a muddle of it. 
 
So suggest the teachings.  The best Way,
say the mystics, is to live without intent. 
 
Let God every moment lead us by the hand,
ourselves disappearing in the eternal now. 
 
That being next to impossible, we’ve been given
(by the best among us) the best of intentions –
 
the goal of reunion with God to occupy
in the meantime our hearts and heads –
 
so we are surefooted in where we are bound and why,
embracing the future, discarding the past,
 
no tolerance for distractions
from our one, best and most holy of intentions.
 
O child of God, the Avatar comes to pull us up
from the muck of ignorance and illusion.

Man of God

Man of God                                                                                     

I became an adult, in many ways
remaining a child.  To fill out the clothes
 
of a grown man, I stuffed them with straw.
A sturdy cross I constructed
 
to climb upon and cling to –
to keep myself tall and erect,
 
lest I be caught out.
The rod and staff of that cross,
 
binding me to itself, rooting me to one spot,
became my sole comfort and orientation
 
on this wavering, spinning planet.
But, then, Lord, I encountered You
 
and began to fill out my potentialities.  
And now I see,  
 
plainly, the daunting task before me –
O child, o man of God, climb down
 
from that cross, exchange it for another;
take to the itinerant new life.  Come what may
 
and wherever you might be led, bear
that ancient/new cross.  Follow your Elder Brother.
 
O child of God, Meher has come to awaken in you
that long-dormant, slumbering man of God.

Giving a listen

Giving a listen                                                                                            
 
Beyond explanation is the meaning of His silence
but a poet might whimsically describe it
 
as giving a listen to the whole of existence. 
To know His silence is to remove ourselves from contention,
 
to find our own silence within His,
deep enough to lose ourselves, soundless
 
and senseless, all the commotion
out there, out there, not in here
 
where there is only effortless peace.
His silence, to give it another description,
 
is pure observation where we become in time
and by grace, all of that which is observed.
 
O child of God, to speak of His silence
is a poor substitute for immersion.

Oceanic silence

Oceanic silence                                                                                           
 
More attention should be paid,
I’ve gathered lately, to the silence
 
Meher pointed to, gestured with,
the absolute quietude between thoughts
 
rather than to thought itself.
Let intense listening displace thoughts,
 
prolong the silence, reveal it as backdrop
ever there beneath the monologue.
 
O to test the waters in a long,
uninterrupted stretch, deep as the grave,
 
of that Avataric, oceanic silence –
a divorce from the inner clamor
 
stealing me from the garden, falsely telling me
(incessantly) who I am and Who I am not.
 
O child of God, to hear the Word of God,
cease listening to your own propaganda. 

The powers that be

The powers that be                                                                      
 
My house is lonely tonight.
I step into the backyard –
 
fenced in, sub-divided;
stars fixed above the trees,
 
the moon turning its cold shoulder.
I feel small, over-looked, left behind
 
in the vastness.  After a time, I notice
the moon shadows crossing the lawn –
 
I am getting somewhere –
in spite of myself. 
 
The earth turning me, hurtling me
around the sun, also, on a journey
 
toward its ultimate destiny.
I might seem inert, broken down,
 
stuck in an ineffectual rut but,  
eternal forces are ever rushing me,
 
in their own sweet time, toward a rendezvous.
My choice – to have faith in the benevolence
 
of the powers that be
or, lack faith and despair
 
as I languish behind the high, sturdy fence
I have erected for myself.
 
O child of God, don’t worry, be happy. 
Despair, in any case, will gain you nothing.

When the grace comes

When the grace comes                                                                                 

A wintry Atlantic far as the eye can see

backed up against the Meher Center.

Rough tide rolling in; soon to be withdrawn

by some ancient schedule, natural as breath. 

High tide deposits, ebb tide removes,

each drop illusory, transitory, necessary.

Disturbed neither by its bounty nor dearth

as it takes and gives not what I desire

but what I require.  Such is my faith.

Ever functioning in its to-and-fro mystery, 

there’s no lost book, its secrets to reveal. 

Read instead its ragged roar and song.

Allow it to envelop, permeate, drench,

ready you for when the grace comes

to repair, restore, return your soul

to its depths unfathomable.

O child of God, your Father is the Ocean.   

Every shore on which you stand is foreign.

Somnambulist

Somnambulist                                                                                             

I have come not to teach but to awaken.

We’re not here to learn but to come to.

To acquire – to get, grasp, gather, is to learn

while awakening is a loss through love,

a thinning of the dream’s substantiality.

This lifetime, I’ve been much more

a learner/gatherer than a lover/loser.

I’ve been a somnambulist on the path,

incessantly losing my way

to learn how very lost I am.

Loss upon loss until at last comes rest – 

the waking up from this tumultuous dream.

O child of God, your weariness has become your solace.

Halt now upon the path and become the sought.

The great pretender

The great pretender                                                                        

For many years His confidant,

His personal attendant, interpreter;

His servant and His companion.  Now, Eruch,

some declare you were God-realized all along.

Veiled to your own perfection, some say.

Others claim you were the great pretender

having fooled all the world

but for your Master and a few others.

These conjectures, earnestly asserted,

are meant to invoke awe and reverence for you.

I have no way to judge your status. 

But, the man I briefly met –

on Meherazad days

scattered over several pilgrimages,

I admired and revered

not for his mastery, but for his servitude;

for his humanity, not his perfection; 

his sincerity, not his cleverness;

for his ordinariness, his utter lack of pretension –

not his ability to pull off an elaborate pretense.

O child of God, as Eruch would advise -- look beyond

Eruch to the Godman he so artfully served.

Such a love

Such a love

You listed a number of ways for us to love God,

none of them ever directly hitting the mark,

all involving our relationship with others,

so incapable apparently are we to love

a mystery and majesty like You,

having no idea what such a love entails

or, more precisely, having only an idea,

a loosely-gathered, ill-defined concept

of a love without self, whose imagined majesty

negates the word as we define it.

A love forever beyond our grasp, 

effort and, perhaps, experience,

far from intellect, individuality,

our mortality and probing senses.

O child of God, having no heart for such a love,

you try to conjure it up within your brain.

Blood with blood

Blood with blood

After any willful moment now,

by thought, word or deed, promptly

I wag a finger at myself

asking for the Lord's forgiveness.

A soul-essential endeavor, perhaps,

but not the way of effacement -

not while my unruffled ego remains unchecked,

side-stepping any real diminution by a surrogate

partaking of my confession, contrition and absolution.

I'm learning the rudiments of abnegation

and I pledge my most diligent efforts

(or perhaps, it requires a cessation of effort)

but my only faith is in His grace

to remove me from this ancient, impossible snare.

O child of God, the Buddhist compare it

to the washing away of blood with blood.

The edges of your being

The edges of your being

You are everywhere and in everything.

No wonder I can't find You.

When You wore that coat of flesh,

we spotted You easily enough,

donning the habit of illusion 

to help us distinguish the One in the many.

If You granted the least of my requests,

I must necessarily exist to receive it.

We must remain ever separate -

the Giver and the recipient. 

But if I wish for nothing, perhaps,

You will grant me nothing.

In that great void I will cease to exist.

No  way to tell where I end and You begin.

Let me get lost in Your nothingness,

never to find my way back into form again.

O child of God, even the idea of separation 

        delineates the edges of your being.

Get lost in love and find your way back to Oneness.

                                    (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)