A Man among men

A Man among men                                                                                         
 
I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, said Jesus.
The Way (as per Thomas a Kempis) we must follow,
 
the Truth we must believe, the Life we hope to inherit.
Chiseled in stone two millenniums later as
 
I have come not to teach but to awaken –
the gospel (for all time) written
 
in the (spilled) blood, fragile bones and torn flesh
of an Emissary and Exemplar, Man among men,
 
from the realm of our Source,
bridging the chasm and pointing to Himself
 
(sans any extraneous remark)
as the One Way, Truth and Life.
 
O child of God, nothing for you to do
but wake up – to your destiny and His grace.

Solitaire

Solitaire                                                                                                           
 
God is bound by His Oneness.
Only in duality is there (the illusion of)
 
freedom – none in Reality.  In Oneness
every (illusory) piece is fitted into place,
 
no leeway, nothing left out,
nothing lesser or greater, nothing ever lost.
 
We participate in the dynamics of illusion
but in Reality there’s nothing for us to do
 
but come to know the Truth that there is nothing to be done. 
We are God in illusion (we are told) and one (illusory) day
 
we shall be God in Reality as we always were –
nothing Real ever having been lost or gained.
 
O child of God, the only game
God can play is Solitaire.

Chains of gratitude

Chains of gratitude                                                                     
 
When I refused to beg the world anymore,
You heard my silence; invited me to Your table,
 
knowing how long I’d gone without sustenance.
When I lingered outside, You dispatched servants
 
with trays of food and the first taste of Your wine.
O Redeemer, how could I not
 
devote the rest of my life to You?
Enthralled by Your companionship,
 
Your bread and wine –
You slipped these shackles onto my feet;
 
these chains of gratitude.  
Merciful Redeemer, I am Your slave.
 
O child of God, hunger and thirst led you to the Beloved.
Pray your gratitude is forged by His fire into Divine Love.

                                           (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)

We mistake ourselves

We mistake ourselves                                                                                      
 
Thirty silver pieces and Judas betrayed Jesus.
Before the cockcrow, Peter denied Him thrice.
 
And so shall you and I, now and ever
unto our last breath and for the same reason –
 
not because we are merely human
but because (as per Meher)
 
we mistake ourselves for being merely human.
Not our fault but our fate as provisional creatures
 
turning to shout and swear:  I know Him not!  
Sealing our betrayal, not upon our tongues
 
but in our depths (such as they are)
as we embrace, in our Lord’s stead,
 
our own frailties, denying His presence
within us, His love and our Oneness.
 
O child of God, you perform the part
assigned to you by Whim and Destiny.

My self awakening

My self awakening                                                                                
 
Meher’s silence seems divided in two –
the quietude of intimacy
 
(restoring and ballasting my soul)
and the rough, wordless stripping of my self –
 
the knotted shapes of my sad posturing;
the echoing void of my protestations.
 
I know now (it bears much solace)
there has never been a third silence –
 
His absence – having always been here,
prodding, guiding, denuding me
 
in the busy, mute process of my self
awakening unto Self.
 
O child of God, the Silent One speaks
eternally to those with ears to hear. 

Small stones

Small stones

Glance my way – if it pleases You.
You know how faint of heart I am –
 
sensitive to Your every mood and whim.
This intimacy is wonderful until You roar like a lion.
 
Then, the space we share becomes
          much too small.
One advantage of ignorance
 
is that it matters little what I say –
whether I get something right or wrong,
 
I’m oblivious to what it means.
These poems are small stones
 
thrown against Your house
to lure You to the window.
 
I’m standing in Your garden, pouch heavy at my side.
Glance my way, O Beloved, if it pleases You.
 
O child of God, you look for answers when
what the Beloved requires is total dependency.

                               (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)

A niche in the stream

A niche in the stream                                                                                      
 
Refresh yourself, said Meher,
in that pool of My love within you
 
and this poetry has often been
that pool for me, a palpable caress
 
of His loving presence.
For some it might be saying His name,
 
the gazing upon His form, poring over
the scriptures, discourses, sutras,
 
personal testimonies of mandali members
or the various mystics throughout the ages,
 
containing more truth and pure devotion
than any of my subjective ruminations
 
but for me this poetry remains a still, secret
niche in the stream, just deep and wide enough
 
for the soul-refreshing intimacy
of my Lord and His ever-disquieted slave.
 
O child of God, the blind man needs a staff.
You need your hand in the Godman’s.

This maverick path

This maverick path                                                                                          
 
Lovers of uncommon faith – every piece
of their world fitted snugly into place;
 
lovers of accord and conciliation; of quotations:
(Baba’s, Eruch, Mani, Mehera’s),
 
remarkable in the strength of their conviction.
Still I can’t help but view it as fragile,
 
their faith, locked within
the fortress they’ve built to protect it. 
 
I fault not, nor envy, their approach. 
It seems the way of dust,
 
the way of the fortunate slave,
while I wander my own peculiar way,
 
my faith carried on my sleeve and with every
jab and jolt and shaking, I reach for the hand
 
of the One Who I believe has (faithfully)
led me down this odd maverick path.
 
O child of God, faith is nurtured by fidelity,
not the particulars of your assigned journey.

Croupiers

Croupiers                                                                                             
 
I used to ask for purity and absolution.
Now, I say, “Take me as I am.”
 
Rotten wood burns just as hot
in Your furnace as seasoned oak.
 
People judge this cold exterior.
They can’t see my seared heart.
 
It’s a secret I keep with my Beloved.
I only mention it now
 
because I’m no longer responsible
for what’s written in these poems.
 
I used to punish myself . . .
to save You the trouble.
 
It’s no trouble, You assured me.
The scales of karma are self-correcting;
 
bets are placed, wheels spin,
the croupiers keep perfect tally. 
 
Arrogant, foolish and futile are attempts
to add or take away from the sum total.
 
O child of God, longing purifies the lover.
The roar of its flames drowns out the world’s calling.

                               (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)

 

Afterlife

Afterlife                                                                                                           
 
The Buddhists liken it to the lighting
of one candle by another – the original flame
 
up in smoke after igniting a new flame
of the same fire yet totally unique. 
 
Consciousness freed from the body
of every human being, still aflame
 
in transition as (per Meher) the sanskaric remains
of one lifetime are further spent and balanced,
 
then resurrected in the glow of a new creation,
a subsequent other of mind and flesh,
 
similar yet singular in its arrangement and production
of unspent tendencies, emergences, compulsions and veils.
 
O child of God, ponder the afterlife
(if you’ve a mind to) once you get there.

        (drawing by Rich Panico)

At the apex

At the apex                                                                                                      
 
At the apex of a bridge – beneath me
the water sweeping ceaselessly away.
 
There’s no abiding river.  You might say
the river does not exist except as a concept.  
 
No intransience there to grasp, though you
are welcome to dip your fingers in its wetness.
 
No abiding self, said the Buddha.
Everything ever flowing.  You might say
 
neither the river nor you and I exist
except as a concept.  Nowhere to hang our hats.
 
No permanence from which
to adopt an immutable view. 
 
O child of God, which part of your being
do you claim as your abiding self? 

Knowledge of the heart

Knowledge of the heart                                                                         
 
There are deeper truths, I gather,
than the grace of Your hands,
 
the light in Your eyes; more to grasp
than Your gown’s hem;
 
actions to be taken, vows to uphold 
beyond mere devotion and remembrance . . .
         
but, whenever the conversation at the table
gets too heavy, You give a wink
 
and we leave the others,
taking our wine cups into the garden
 
to view the stars, enjoy the night air,
perhaps, share a poem or two.
 
There’s work to be done but, Lord,
let’s save it for another lifetime.
 
While I have You here, (if it be Your pleasure),
let me hold You and hold You and hold You,
 
until this weary world and my form within it
fades into dust and nothingness.
 
O child of God, you’ve grown dangerously fond of His wine
and that delicious prasad called knowledge of the heart.
 
                              (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)
 

God's doing

God’s doing                                                                                          
 
One kiss and Merwan awoke.  He remembered.
He knew then there was nothing to know –
 
whatever He did was God’s doing.
The Avatar comes now and then
 
but God takes form every moment –
enforming into flesh His transitional unknowing,
 
ignorant yet of there being nothing to know
beyond the ceaseless unfolding of Knowledge Itself. 
 
The Avatar embraces and embodies this dichotomy –
God and man, knowledge and unknowing.
 
On the cross erected within His flesh 
the two become One, foretelling
 
by palpable example each human soul’s
and God’s inevitable reunion with Himself.
 
O child of God, the Avatar comes for you.
Whatever you do is God’s doing.

One performance only

One performance only                                                                                     
 
I have not come to teach (reads the inscription
on Baba’s Tomb) but to awaken.
 

The Avatar descends to show us (perhaps) not what to do

but to hint at what to expect.  And what we must accept.

 
My self comes and goes (one performance only).
I might mention the afterlife of my Mind and sanskaras
 
but they don’t really belong to me.  I belong to them. 
They created me, existing (presumably) prior to my birth
 
and after my death – having been around
since the Whim stirred up the Quiescence
 
and they will exist as long as God is in the process
of clearing the cobwebs after His long, long sleep.
 
O child of God, consider your temporality    
an integral component of God’s awakening.

Your big toe

Your big toe
 
The entire village awoke to find
 the rabbit hunter felling trees with an axe.
 
‘What are you doing?’ everyone asked.
‘Building a new snare,’ he said.  ‘My old one is crushed.’
 
‘A snare larger than a house?’ they questioned.
‘The old snare,’ he replied, ‘was meant for rabbits,
 
but an elephant showed up!’  O Beloved,
long ago, when I thought I had a choice,
 
I pondered becoming Your lover.  You looked small
enough to throw my arms around.
 
Now I can’t cast the net of my imagination
far enough to wrap around Your big toe.
 
O child of God, amid the Beloved’s immensity and chaos,
quickly abandon all strategies and concepts.

                                   (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)

The queue of souls

The queue of souls                                                                                          
 
Estimated within the context of time and space,
each of our rough rankings in the queue of souls –
 
behind the truly advanced surely but ahead
(under Meher’s guidance) of countless others. 
 
We envision a tangible path – employing
various techniques and teachings 
 
(especially from the One Who said
He did not come for that), to skirt warily
 
the frequent mires, wrong turns, blind alleys;
racing down the straightaways.  Jesus said:
 
the last shall be first and the first shall be last
and is this not a way of saying every soul
 
shall unite with God (and every other soul)
at precisely the same moment of ultimate splendor
 
in a realm unimaginably beyond
rank, category, time and space?
 
O child of God, comparisons exist only
within the sphere of illusion and duality.

 

Of path and pyre

Of path and pyre                                                                                              
 
There’s no life next to come for me. 
Not mind, heart or body; not personality
 
or personal history will rise above the pyre. 
And my soul – I have no soul (apparently)
 
apart from the Oversoul which has never
once tainted Itself piecemeal to don a coat
 
of human ignorance and mortality.  Only Mind,
individual yet impersonal, Meher said,
 
moves forward with its inexorable
karmic tendencies and compulsions.
 
There is (in truth) no egocentric reason
for me to look forward to Union
 
when I’ll have long since by then been left
in the dust and ash of path and pyre. 
 
Nothing for me to do until my departure
that’s not already ordained in the journey
 
undertaken by and for all the false and fleeting,
mortal creatures and for God Himself.
 
O child of God, abandon your personal hopes 
so that love for the Eternal One might emerge.

A question of Love

 A question of Love   

 

You called Yourself Highest of the High.
I haven’t the equipment to measure that.
 
My scales can’t balance Infinity.
It’s outrageous and preposterous, this claim! 
 
But my heart, nudging my brain,
says, “Let’s buy it!”
 
In Your precinct, the heart holds authority over the head.
You want me to believe You’re the Christ?
 
That’s enough for me.  I want what You want.
Faith has become a question of Love.
 
O child of God, Meher declares himself the Avatar;
offer Him the gift of unquestioning obedience.

                                       (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)

This odd pitch of clay

This odd pitch of clay (birthday poem)                                                            
 
I’m carrying a torch for You.
I have used it to explore and experience
 
Your creatures and creation
and to search (ironically) for the Light
 
I once mistook for my own –
the Light that is You.
 
This odd pitch of clay will nevermore return. 
It is God Who will take another body.
 
There’s only God.  And as I labor now
to keep aloft, alight, this torch in my last days,
 
I find that I’m carrying it for You, carrying
a shimmering, splintered portion of You
 
back toward the foundry of creation –
toward that inevitable reunion
 
of You with Yourself –
the origin of fire and light.
 
O child of God, you are but a brief spark
from the forge and hammer of the Creator.

 

Nettle tea

Nettle tea
 
The road to hell is paved with good intentions?
I’m hoping it’s the road to Paradise.
 
Ofttimes, I miss the mark but, more and more,
my intentions are to serve You.
 
My love-arrows fall short
and stab someone in the foot.
 
I spread my cape on the ground –
an elegant lady sinks up to her bloomers in mud.
 
My cup of kindness . . . often filled with nettle tea.
I’m like a man on a crowded bus –
 
reaching to help this one, I knock that one’s hat off
and poke my umbrella into someone’s ribs.
 
Turning to apologize, I wallop the entire third row,
distract the driver and cause a rear-end collision.
 
O child of God, fondly recall your Beloved’s promise
that God hears only the language of the heart.

                                    (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)

 

Keeping watch

Keeping watch                                                                                                 
 
In the square a stone soldier
keeps watch upon a muted greenscape.
 
His sturdy vigilance has been there for ages
but now his shoulders seem to sag ever so slightly,
 
his once staunch knees yielding a millimeter or two;
the elements having softened
 
his facial resolve into perplexity
as he dimly views his evolving duty.
 
It’s forbearance now, a detached benevolence
while returning in nanoscopic degrees
 
to pure, featureless stone,
weathering whatever God has in store,
 
yet keeping watch, keeping watch
until he is pulled down entirely
 
off plinth and pedestal
to mingle freely with the dust below.
 
O child of God, the only service God requires of you
is vigilance and a singularity of purpose.

 

New Meherazad

New Meherazad
 
Not external scaffolding, but changes within.
You be the Architect, I’ll be the mason
 
of a new Meherazad,
stone by stone within the chest –
 
humble structures of functional design,
sun-drenched, flower-laden; worn from use,
 
but solidly built, reverentially maintained;
colors more beautiful as they fade.
 
We’ll gather those old saints again,
teacups on the veranda,
 
for love and laughter,
remembrance and devotion.
 
O child of God, capture the essence of Meherazad;
carry it with you wherever you go.

                                          (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)