An angel-less God

An angel-less God                                                                         

Into the snowdrift I fall backwards

to make an angel, but

gazing into an endless sky –

the stars’ glitter,

the moon’s silent shifting,

cold earth against at my back,

I feel suddenly under the thumb

of an angel-less God,

overwhelmed by the travails

and duration of my soul’s exile

and how many more

arduous journey’s stretch before me

‘til the promised quenching,

rest and reunion.  Then,  

You hoist me to my feet. 

God’s shape, You say, is this shape –

pointing to the impression

my body has left in the snow. 

O pilgrim!  Our portion of infinity 
spans but fingertip to fingertip; 

the duration of our vigil measured 
by the heart's brief, pattering flurry.

Union may be far away but, God is close at hand --
nearer than our own clouded breaths. 

O child of God, surely angels hover everywhere

in the realm of Benevolence Eternal.

 

Finding grace

Finding grace                                                                                   

Mehera asked, years ago, why You chose

so barren a place for Your ashram

(and Your Tomb) ... landscape of dust 
and thorns; scorpions, cobras and kraits.

Then, My lovers, You said,

will come only for Me ... nothing else.

These days, You’ve turned

much of my world into dust and thorns --

a bleak, prickly terrain

devoid of sustenance and satiation,

rife with scrapes, stings and venom,  

so that each day, I show up ... only for You

and when side-tracked, return ... only to You,

as the friendly ground shrivels

and the periphery grows wilder,

more and more, finding grace

in the isolation and disparity,

in eccentricity, disillusionment and despair.

O child of God, rejoice when your life becomes a Tomb

in the desolate region of a strange land.

The bruising rose

The bruising rose                                                                          

You told the story of an innocent woman

accused of adultery –

tied to a post in the marketplace,

everyone who passed required by law

to cast a stone or some filth upon her ...

which she endured with a noble dignity;

her daughter was brought forth, throwing

not a stone nor filth but, a simple rose ...

and the mother shrieking in agony

as it brushed her cheek.

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,

You told the crowd in another marketplace.

You, of course, could have cast that stone,

but You have come down, bound Yourself

among the stones and filth

of our marketplaces to endure unjustly

the fateful punishments of being human

and to weigh in Your innocent hands

the culpability of each stone-and-rose-wielding

patron, each laboring, fearful heart.

O child of God, the Beloved is ever merciful.

Protect Him from the bruising rose of your infidelity.

Grace intruded

Grace intruded                                                                                

Grace intruded upon my habitual sorrow

and marked me for its own

like a pattern of ink under the skin, 

like an imperfectly minted coin,       

a misprinted postage stamp

or a raw diamond selected for its flaws.

Plucked like a flower

for a vase on a bedside table;

like a wild colt culled from the herd –

lassoed, corralled and broken;

like a shell found on the beach

or an injured bird unable to resume

its migratory route,

I left the broad path

for the narrow and the crooked 

and now – no path at all ...

making my way as everyone must

who tramps toward the gates –

without precedent,

yet, with a Companion who by turns comforts,

inspires, fortifies and illumines the way ahead.

O child of God, Grace is beyond your ken.

To whom much is given much is required.

The darshan moment

The darshan moment                                                                      

Living for tomorrow . . .

is a pilgrim in the queue,

absently fingering a garland,

inching his way toward darshan.

Living in the past . . . a pilgrim

walking back to the retreat

empty-handed under the stars,

the warmth fading in his chest.

O pilgrim!  Live in the darshan moment!

Within the doors you’ve burst through, 

in the kneeling and bowing moment,

on the floor of cold stone tears.

He awaits you – expects you – every moment,

a cleft of shoulder and neck

in which to hide your crumbling face

and empty your heart; a pillar to lean on,

a gaze from eyes shining

with an unearthly love.

O child of God, live in the darshan moment.

Before and after are the nuances of a listless dream.