Wordlessly

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 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

An icy stream                                                                                                  
 
This world comes and goes. 
I acknowledge it, more with a nod
 
at this late date than an embrace,
returning ever to the Mystery.  Ever to the Mystery.
  
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 my attention to roam during
this critical passage is to court disaster.  
 
O child of God, rather than write
about remembrance, practice it ardently.   

Seventy-one

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

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

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 sliver of God                                                                                                
 
Belief in oneself as a sliver of God
invokes a life freely given,
 
an earnest pilgrimage from self to Self.  
Fear and doubt dissispated; pain stoically endured –
 
merely the requirements of a rough transition
from the partial to the Whole
 
as you more and more come to believe
Who you really are and Who you really serve,

offering yourself (such as you are) 
to the Source and Recipient of all such gifts. 
 
O child!  God wishes to explore Himself consciously
and you are at the crux of that encounter.   

 

Near drowning

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

Serenade your Beloved                                                                                    
 
A lifetime of frantically 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 handclap that 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.