Wordlessly
Tongues are wagging, pundits of every stripe
flooding the market with worldly wisdom.
And what advice are we gleaning
from the wisest people on the planet –
the accomplished, the expert, the scholarly,
the lauded, the powerful and famous?
Do they proclaim foremost
the sovereignty and reality of God?
There is nothing to know, said my Lord.
Wordlessly transmitted (say the Mystics),
Truth is neither spoken nor heard.
Neither spoken nor heard. Only experienced.
O child of God, your daily fill of data
has nothing to do with Truth.
The answer
The problem with this poetry
is that it’s riddled with words –
a conundrum shot full of holes;
a leaky vessel letting in, perhaps,
a scattering of light but sinking
ultimately under the weight
of its own inconsistencies.
I want to wash my hands of it;
wash my mouth out with soap,
but I’m stuck like ink to the page.
The riddle’s inside me and there’ll be
no peace until it’s solved, the answer
shining through each contradiction
in all its inexpressible glory.
O child of God, what is there to say?
Truth is not comprised of explanations.
An icy stream
Thoughts come and go.
I acknowledge them,
more with a nod than an embrace,
remaining attentive to the task at hand,
the focus always upon my simply being.
The mind, again and again,
being led back from where it strays –
to the peace, the posture, the breath and senses.
Like men crossing an icy stream – how cautious!
avowed Lao Tzu, speaking of the old sages,
minds ever upon the task and just how and where
their feet are positioned amid the rushing water.
To allow their attention to roam during
this critical passage is to court disaster.
O child of God, rather than write
about zazen, ardently practice it.
Seventy-one
In this dream (per Meher), today is my birthday.
It doesn’t feel like I’ve dreamed myself
for seventy-one years.
It’s more like
I’ve dreamed, upon waking this morning,
that I am seventy-one; dreamed my identity
and tacitly all that’s gone before.
No abiding self, said the Buddha, and at times
the idea has struck me that I’m never older
than a mere millisecond.
And never will be.
Anyway, I threw a party with cake and candles
and in the midst of the celebration,
I pretended to be an old man.
O child of God, ignorant yourself of absolutely everything,
why not embrace a faith in the Knower of all?
A rough metaphor
Love personified You’ve been called,
God in human form and it’s heart-stirring
to view the beauty of Your young flesh
and the majesty of Your latter years.
Yet, one day we shall move beyond
that flesh and beauty, that majesty,
to see You as You really are.
Love’s personification and incarnation
is but a rough metaphor, a comely veil
to be removed, the scales dropped
before we can behold the imperceptible Mystery
which binds us to That of which God is made.
O child of God, gaze upon the perfect human
and steal a glimpse of Love divine.
At cycle’s end
You even put it into prayer –
the plea for God to help us
hold fast to Your damaan
when, as You predicted,
things got rough at cycle’s end
and how easy it would be
to lose our grip in the upheaval
of a world turned right side up.
And God has provided us, in silent aid and answer,
with no one and nothing else to cling to but You.
O child, God has backed you into a corner
so you might face Him at last.
A sliver of God
A mighty faith, once it’s bestowed,
of yourself as a sliver of God, instills then
a life freely tendered, an earnest pilgrimage
from self to Self. Fear,
doubt dissipated;
pain stoically endured, merely the requirements
of a rough transition from one to the Other
as more and more you gain the perspective
of Who you really are
and Who you really serve,
becoming and offering yourself –
a unique and priceless gift –
to the Source and Recipient of all such gifts.
O child! God wishes
to explore His consciousness
and you are at the crux of that encounter.
Near drowning
Your Tomb flooded that day.
I didn’t drown, the love level
not quite reaching my chin.
Instead,
You turned me back out,
set me adrift in this illusory world,
my toes never again to touch bottom.
I’ve moved with the tides ever since,
ebb and flow, wane and crest
churning up a ceaseless longing
for Your fathomless depths.
I’m drifting out now to face You
at whatever speed and direction You pull,
not the least impatient; not nostalgic
for that long ago near drowning,
Your companionship and solace all I need
to keep me afloat until love drags me under.
O child of God, all that you are, every thought,
word and deed, is God in disguise.
Serenade your Beloved
A lifetime of blindly wounding my wings
on the bars of the cage.
Now I’m settled
on my rightful perch – heart steadied;
mind attentive, body motionless,
throat aflutter with songs to my Beloved
of praise and complaint, bewilderment and longing,
awaiting the thunderclap which will propel me
through the open door, the unbarred window,
into the sunlight, green freedom
and blue skies beyond.
O child of God, serenade your Beloved
empty of impatience, fear and desire.
