Make good

Make good                                                                                       

All my words hang on a promise I cannot make

and cannot keep – a vanity of imagination,

breath and blood, if the promise has no maker;

if the promise has no keeper.

Shall I continue, o Lord, to tap out

Your timeworn promise on my alphabet board?

Grace, love, salvation – fine sentiments! 

but, paper-thin words, and – through my throat –

without substance or luminosity;

indistinct stirrings in the half-light,

the nether-world, the darkness

of ignorance mixed with the darkness of faith;

yet, I praise the promise and the Promise-keeper!

Lord, don’t leave me

twisting wordlessly in the wind

at world’s end but, gather me sweetly

in Your arms and make good, make good,

make good Your ancient-given promise.

O child of God, what the Beloved requires of you

is faith, forbearance, obedience and attempted artistry.

Spoken for

Spoken for

Love, You say, asks no questions.
My heart's not yet speechless

but, my mind's onto the truth
that all questions lose their validity

this side of the veil.  To ask is to break
the silent bond.  It's not about believing

or, not believing, but about love . . .
or, not loving and the longing

that's always there
and the despair that inhabits

every laugh and stride and smile,
every social nuance, as we bide our time,

do what we must, granting solace,
here and there, to ourselves and the world

far from the Avatar and the key.
Though, we are lost, we are in His hands,

and that is all the difference . . .
and that is all the difference.

O child of God, why keep speaking?
You are already spoken for.

A hint of why

A hint of why                                                                                    

The Ocean has come again 

to tell us we are not adrift;

more like a river, running towards

and away, of urgency and purpose;

the Ocean has come again,

to tell us we are not islands –

embracing, sighs and gazes,

the wiping away of tears.

The Ocean, labyrinths

of Love and endeavor,

vast, breathless depths,

come again

  

to tell us we have no shore,

strongest evidence to the contrary;

no beginning nor end; enemies

and companions – our very own Self.

The Ocean has come again

to tell us our loneliness

is but a bitter-tinged drop

in the immeasurable loneliness of God.

O child of God, such an import offers a hint

of why Meher lived in silence.

The brash parrot

The brash parrot                                                                              

Inside a cage of bones, the brash parrot

waddles on its perch, a voluble green flame

shrieking and squalling, much to the delight of some

and to others, dismay, for so addled

and vulgar a creature to be declaiming,

in shrill mimicry, the Master’s wisdom.

But, those who consider the parrot’s words

mere exploitation, fail to grasp the true stature

of its wee, clamoring heart 

which, from the first encounter, registered

the import and majesty of the Master’s words

and forthwith caught fire, dedicating

its rather ludicrous, inadequate

apparatus of being to the continuous praise

and celebration of the Master’s perfect Truth

to anyone who will listen.  The particulars

the parrot may not fathom but the great gist

of the tale, its heart knows and owns and tirelessly repeats.

O child of God, speak with the impeccable authority

of your own unshakable faith in Meher Baba.