God's throat and ear

God’s throat and ear                                                                             
 
Mohammed crawled into the cave of His heart
          and began to sing.
What came out was God’s music.
 
Gabriel taught Him the verses,
then, sat enraptured at His feet.
 
In the desert bloomed the oasis of Islam;
stars crowding the dome of His mosque.
 
When You returned, O Ancient One,
You chose silence.
 
Maybe the kiss and stone gave You the clue –
or Tajuddin’s perfect rose.
 
Aware of what had become of Your words,
You sang to God with Your hands.
 
O child of God, praise the song of Meher Baba,
Who has captured God’s throat and ear.

 

A mutual sobriety

A mutual sobriety                                                                     

Ages ago I was stone.  You began

shaping me into a human being.

With that same great chisel and hammer,

I’m now being reduced to dust.

O Lord, it’s hard sometimes, to keep my chin up

under the rain of Your blows.

We have to stop meeting like this!

A few hours of carousing –

I’m hung-over, despondent for weeks.

This morning, I found

bits of clarity at the bottom of my cup –

I have no right to desire,

nor should I expect to stumble through

every hour, drunk on Your bliss.

We have work to do

that demands a mutual sobriety.

You, the sculptor with Your careful dismantling;

me, the stone – holding steady.

O child of God, the Beloved serves His wine

for medicinal purposes only.

His hammer blows chisel away the false.

 

A house for starlings

A house for starlings                                                                        

Bit by bit, my love grows –

through the stone, thorns and tangle.

Spellbound by the moon

in the lake, I can’t lift my eyes

toward the true moon,

but I feel it in my blood.

By the way ... those stains

on Your sadra, are they wine ... or blood?

You brought out a rare vintage,

then shattered the bottle with the hilt of Your sword.

Grapes must be crushed before wine

can be served in long-stemmed glasses.

Thread is twisted and pushed through a needle’s eye –

now the mending can begin.

Once the gourd is hollow, it proves useful –

a musical instrument, a dipper at the well,

          a house for starlings ....

O child of God, it’s a process and a journey.

Impatient one, you are right on track.

The rasp of Your bow

The rasp of Your bow                                                           

O Beloved, like an old coat,
You hung me in the corner.
 
Now I’m collecting dust.
If I could only feel You
 
snug within me once more!
A fiddle mounted on the wall,
 
no music comes from me.
O to feel the rasp of Your bow!
 
Tuck me under Your chin;
let’s play a round or two!
 
A lump of clay once rolled in Your palms,
left unformed, hardening by the hour.
 
O to feel myself shaped by Your hands, 
as Your hands once shaped the language of Love.
 
O child of God, adjust yourself to the Beloved’s whims.
Believe it when He says He never leaves. 

Precarious

Precarious                                                                                              
 
Women from the well in perfect balance,
water jars spilling not a drop –
 
so I place my Beloved above my head,
conducting this world’s affairs.
 
How precarious it seems,
juggling my faith, here and there,
 
often weighty and absurd – a pain in the neck, really, 
but I never think of dumping it.
 
I’d rather be wrong about my Beloved,
than right about atheism.
 
Other religions have snapped under me,
their bones diseased to the marrow,
 
but the burden of my faith
in the Beloved has lifted me –
 
at times, my whole being
threatening to fly away.
 
O child of God, you have no choice in the matter.
The Ancient One has knocked upon your door.

 

Port of origin

Port of origin                                                                                         
 
Rejoice in the poetry of your Beloved,
His thrilling images and rhythms,
 
reverberating now in your chest,
but value also His silence – poetry of a different kind. 
 
In this riotous world,
the great need is for a poem
 
silently delivered, the placing
of His hand upon your panicked heart.
 
That poetry is the sound of True Being –
His wordless companionship, side by side
 
at the ship’s rail, on the ageless voyage
back to your port of origin.
 
O child of God, the crossing is long and difficult.
Take comfort in the Presence of Meher Baba.

 

Heavy equipment

Heavy equipment                                                                 

There’s a vineyard within a graveyard;
a Tomb on a Hill built of discarded stones,
 
the bones of a man Who gave Himself
to a world that hurries past now; 
 
the wine from that vineyard, grown  
           in the mandali’s dust,
cinders and bones, intoxicates me.
 
I’ve never completely recovered
           my former sobriety.
I can’t be trusted to walk a straight line
           or operate heavy equipment!
 
I stepped out of the Tomb one morning
           onto uneven terrain.
I don’t know what to do when You strand me like this.
 
If You never come back, I’ll die here –
on the corner where You left me.
 
O child of God, if the Master never returns,
it’s just another way of His keeping His promise.