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.