The crux of embrace

The crux of embrace

As its fragrance is hidden in the rose,

my Beloved said,

so My presence is hidden in the human heart.

Under our noses, Lord – unobserved

within ourselves and others.

Only faith and desire keep us daring

the crux of embrace.

Yes, the heart gets tipsy at the first nip  

of Your wine -- dances in its cage;      

deeper in the cup, it grows weepy and ponderous.

And when Your fire sweeps through –

first, a searing pain, then ... burned rubble

from which to look out sheepishly upon the world.

But, You promised us ... You promised Your presence  

every moment woven into the heart’s delicate fabric

so pervasively, the rose, having never set
tender foot beyond its vast domain, 

                                                           

goes about wailing and weeping

at the absence of its own scent.

O child of God, turn from the world’s enticements

to discover within, the fragrance of God.

Confine yourself

Confine yourself                                                     

O Meher, You confined Yourself – in the jopdhi,

in the table-cabin, in the bamboo cage,

in sundry mountain caves; in the blue bus,

in a hut atop Tembi Hill;

in the crypt before ... and after

it became Your Tomb.

You confined Yourself –

in Your great Silence; in Your human body.

You confined Yourself, perhaps,

to show how we might be free.

                                                                                       

O pilgrim, retire now to the narrow,

holy cell of remembrance; of contemplation    

and meditation; fetter your mind and tongue

to the unyielding repetition of His name.

Confine yourself to God.

If God is not enough, what is?

O child of God, it’s the life of Illusion 

          that’s restrictive, repetitive and tedious.

The Truth of Meher is boundless.

Where my heart used to be

Where my heart used to be                                                    

You left a ruby where my heart used to be.

There’s a fire inside that stone.

Now the world is a busy dream

on the periphery of its hard lucidity. 

Now its heat and glow

is the gauge of my every endeavor.

The myriad paths of my calculations

peter out into sunlit fields and green woods;

wires cross and sputter; mechanisms derail.

Cause and effect – hoisted on their own petard.

The balladeer is a drunkard and a romantic,

yet, when he stumbles and injures himself,

he remains thoroughly intoxicated,

his Dulcinea ever more pure and wieldy.

Just so, the fire in the stone

draws my prodigal heart –

for what would deter it?

In joy, I burn.  In suffering, I burn.

O child of God, nurture the flame within.

This burning is the foot path to liberation.

(drawing by Rich Panico)

Don't circle me

Don’t circle me

I’m a moth caught on fire,  

said the old disciple.  Don’t circle me.

I’m a moon whose silver is stolen

from a hidden sun.

Don’t circle me.

I’m not the proof.  I’m circumstantial evidence.

I’m a dancer who left the ritual

to circle a greater periphery,

to listen to a more distant tune.

The Maypole is back yonder.

Don’t circle me.

But, I can take the witness stand;

point to the One who made me like this.

I can reflect His gold-red majesty,

the raging furnace of His Being.

I can show the dirty hands that helped

roust Him up the hill to Calvary.

I can point to the Hub, again and again,

standing apart from the spinning crowd

and answer His beneficence

with all the grace, art and passion I can muster.

O child of God, Meher gives you the Light

no darkness can dispel.

A fire beneath my ribs

A fire beneath my ribs                                                                              
 
I thought I heard Your handclap
halfway around the world . . .
 
but it turned out to be the sound
of Your fist pounding Your thigh
 
during those last, secluded years.
I hear it now – the strain and agony
 
of Your work pitched across time –
the severing blows, the opening of floodgates,
 
the sharp uncoupling of chains.
You’re with me now – a fire beneath my ribs,
 
Your universal work, whatever its immensity
and range, turning out to be, also,
 
intimate and interior, individual,
like the fitting of braces on a crippled child.
 
O child of God, Meher entered the timeless beyond
to offer you, this moment, intimacy with the Ancient One.

  

I love love best

I love love best    

Gratitude roams the ruins of my heart –

tipping the scales in Your favor.

I’ve an urge to run through the streets

shouting Your name. 

Instead, I kneel and slowly burn.

Dawn bears the same fire on the eastern mullions.

It’s not so much that You love me

but that You give me love to give . . .

more and more, more and more

and still yet more.

I know nothing of worthiness, except . . .

it has everything and nothing to do with love!

O reader!  What might we discuss 

that you and I don’t already know?

Like the elephant in the dark –

everything is true at once!

I love love best as a fire in the chest – silently longing

for the whole house to become ash and cinder.

O child of God, what is there to say?

You are bewildered – inside and out.

Ellora

Ellora                                                                                                         

At Ellora, they started with a stone hillside;

carved out everything that wasn’t a temple.

A poem should be like that –

from a vast vocabulary, an elimination

of words unconnected to one another

until the secret combination is found,

unlocking glimpses of Oneness, the inter-connection.

Words that tremble and hum

when placed together

belong to the realm of the Infinite.

The truth of a poem is in its transparency –

columns of words, sturdy as stone ... clear as glass. 

O Lord, take my life.  Make a poem from it –

chip away the awkward, the unrelated, the oblique,

the dissonant and obscure.  Leave me ...

sturdy, connected, crucial and transparent.

O child of God, the Masters say Truth is not

an acquisition but a paring away of the false.

Whole cloth

Whole cloth                                                                       
 
I rub my nose on the carpet before Your chair.
How long before the fabric shreds
 
and the stone gives way?  How long
before I sink into the dust below?
 
That celebrated widow put her two cents
into the temple treasury. 
 
Jesus extolled her faith and generosity –
it was all she had!  I’m worth two cents! 
 
Yet, I can’t seem to part with myself!
O child, not the quality, nor quantity of the gift,
 
He’s concerned with –
but, the commitment, the abandonment,
 
the whole cloth, full measure,
draining of the cup to the last drop.
 
O child of God, Your Beloved quotes the poet –
“Hafiz, remove thyself for thou art the veil.”

Elephant shapes

Elephant shapes                                                                    

This spinning earth from time to time,

may turn my head

but, I dare not long neglect my duties –

too many who depend on me, eyes uncertain asking –

How are things on your side?  Any news from up river? 

Father shuffling toward another death,

mother befuddled with fear;

loved ones sent out daily to gather

fresh greens in abandoned minefields.

Whistle while you work, my Beloved advises,

but, keep digging.

The stench of death is on the breeze;

crocodiles at the watering hole,

only their eyes visible above the surface.

I keep an ear to the rail; gleaning

what I can from the shimmering air –

for my own files, of course,

but also, for loved ones

who keep asking for the truth

of rescue and escape.

I’ve little time left for puttering about,

pursuing pleasure, 

arguing in the dark over elephant shapes.

O child of God, everything is in His hands and yet,

there’s much work to be done before winter sets in.

True disciple

True disciple                                                                                          
 
They didn’t know You from Adam –
those who hanged You from a cross,
 
but Thomas fingered Your wounds,
made sure You were Who You said You were.
 
I would touch Your wounds, Lord, if I might,
to know the depths of Your sacrifice,
 
thrust my hand into Your side to explore the nature
of Your compassion and surrender,
 
but I haven’t the heart of a true disciple.   
I garland Your stone, praise You to high heaven,
 
endure the small prices You ask me to pay.
You, knowing and forgiving the fragility
                                                             
and cowardice of a heart so shallowly pledged.  
That’s why we call You Father of Mercy.
 
O child of God, whosoever will, let him come
and take freely the water of Life.

  

Darkness gathers

Darkness gathers                                                                      

I used to panic not feeling Your touch,

but now I know – You’re only adjusting Your grip.

You have Your hand on me! 

That’s the rare kernel of this odd, random life;

my comfort in this dreamscape

of impairment, bewilderment and fear.

I’ve gladly forked over all my cash.

The truth will come out in the end.

Someone will be by to collect my ticket.

I’ll give him the one You purchased.

Authorities will ask for my papers.

We’ll find out who I really am.

Darkness gathers as the train hurtles

toward the outer provinces;

the cold sharpens; tongues become stranger

and more raucous.

I panic when I get the notion I’m a lone traveler.

I don’t know where I’m going!  But Your valise is by the window.

Your scent lingers in the narrow compartment.

You’ve just stepped out for a bit of air.

O child of God, you want freedom from pain.

Love is an acid that dissolves everything you hold dear.

Love's mantle

Love’s mantle                                                                                       

O Meher, what have You done? 
You’ve asked to be loved!
 
Such words are spoken
and mankind breaks out
 
the racks and whips, scaffolds,
crosses, blades and chains!
 
O the effrontery!  The blasphemy
              of such a request
coming from Your silent, human mouth!
 
God is Love – You say;
nothing matters but love for God.
 
Nothing matters but love for Love.   
You’ve come not to teach the inexplicable,
 
but, to bestow – and receive – Love  
unfathomably.
 
O child of God, words can’t pierce Love’s mantle,
but one bold act might aright a wayward world.

Soon to blur

Soon to blur                                                                      

There are all sorts of theories about You.
I don’t know what to believe.
 
So, long ago, I stopped believing –
beyond belief . . . beyond disbelief.
 
Rain falls and I don gear to keep me dry.
Where is opinion and belief in that?
 
Mortar holds the bricks together.
Oil lubricates the mechanisms.
 
The eightfold path – a photo taken from space;
no conjectures there.
 
I take my Beloved for granted.
Didn’t He promise – He is always with me? 
 
O pilgrims, I am a raindrop one day to blur into the Ocean.
My opinion is, my opinion is of little consequence –
 
using what works and discarding what fails,
I find my Beloved closer than the vein in my neck.
 
O child of God, drop that six foot pole,
sink to the bottom to find out where you are.

Spinning tales

Spinning tales                                                                                 

I hadn’t a clue – so You scattered a few about –

sandal prints under my windows;

sacred threads snagged in the hedgerow;

Your blood staining the cross within my chest.

People wonder why I go on about this!

It’s ancient history, they say.

I’m like the angler whose trophy fish is mounted

          above the mantle –

I can’t stop spinning tales about it!

Especially when Your wine gets me drunk

and I feel again the excitement of finding You

          on the end of my line.

Gone forever -- the despair of empty nets

pulled again and again from the sea of illusion.

My nets are bursting now, my vessel in danger of sinking

under the weight of Your bounty.

Jesus must have smiled when I turned down Your street –

He’d sent me that way years ago looking for You.

O child of God, the Avatar is the fisher of men.

It’s His hook causing that pain in your chest.

My heart's beatings

My heart’s beatings                                                                  

I swallowed Your wine,

causing me to dance in the streets;

letting my heart slip out a bit

from under the heel of my brain –

the caravanserai licensed again

to traffic in the goods of companionship.

Your wine sings in my blood, years later,

not with the rough immediacy of tavern songs

but with the hymns and psalmodies of praise,

an influence to my every movement,

a blood-part of me, the strength of me,

the heaven’s sake of my heart’s beatings.

When this cup is crushed, when my blood is dust,

(judging the Infinite from the particular), I pray

Your wine will sing through me still,

filling my veins and throat, core and skull

with Your wine and light and song

on my wondrous way to becoming You.

O child of God, wine loosens your tongue and sends you

rambling beyond the bounds of propriety.

Fish out of water

Fish out of water                                                                         

That which is beyond imagination and conception –
call It the Ocean of Love to get a handle on It.
 
I am drawn to the Ocean –
where there’s no friction;
 
no property, no boundaries or partitions.
I’m weary of the animal coming out,
 
in myself and others, barking,
snarling through bared teeth.
 
I’m ready for the flood
to leave us paddling about
 
until we exhaust ourselves
and sink to the bottom.
 
You, of course, were a Fish out of water, a Pisces,
showing us how to be Piscean –
 
moving through this here-and-now
Ocean of Love gracefully strong,
 
lithe, colorful,
eyes unblinking to the Truth,
 
going about Your business –
the silent expression of Who You are.
 
O child of God, the Beloved, closer than your breath,
invites you to drown in His Ocean of Love.

Garment of leaves

Garment of leaves                                                                    

Heart like an apple core –

that’s where the seeds are. 

People take you for a lunatic

but it’s just the inner thunder

giving you that far away look,

(as Adam must have looked,

gazing back across the garden pale),

impeding nimble strides and coherent speech.

What’s a man’s gait anyway,  

but a limping away from his destiny?

Or smooth talk if his seeds are stone?

The crooked path he follows

can only lead back to where he began –

the garden in the chest.    

It’s all there in the core – root, leaf, bark, fruit;

soil, water, sky.  Time makes us think

the apple in our hand is ripe and ready

to sink our teeth into.

O child of God, shed that garment of leaves.

Venture naked into the new world.