The silence of Your wine

The silence of Your wine

My words fall upon deaf ears
so I tap them out; like an old movie,

more apparent in black and white.
Perhaps, following Your lead, I hope

for an intimacy through my fingers
unattainable through throat and tongue.

We are all tired of words, You say.
But, words from You have become my comfort.

I'm ready, o Lord, to abandon
this conversation and communion

which sustains my faith and yet
increases my thirst; but, in their stead,

fill my throat, o Lord, with the unchallenged,
unforced, unutterable silence of Your wine.

O child of God, there's no one to hear but God,
so you write poetry.

Hope, sturdy beast

Hope, sturdy beast

Become hopeless, You say, instilling hope
in a pilgrim's heart -- paradise within reach

and power.  Hope, sturdy beast of burden,
bearing souls and suffering

toward the gates, must be abandoned,
You say, reinless among the dunes --

a fly in the ointment, oil in the lamp
whose flame prevents our eyes

from growing accustomed to the dark.
Tiny circles of illumination

to which we cling (except where we are --
our shadows deeper than the vastness beyond).

When the desire to know the Truth
pales before ecstatic wonder,

surrender gains a foothold, truth darts
from the window, a winsome bird.

Only the moment exists, every moment
sliced thin and quick enough to hold no hope,

nor truth, no angle of light -- only love.  Only love,
You say.  Only love, You say.  Only love.

O child of God, exchange the emptiness
of hope for the fiery annihilation of Love.

A superior baptism

A superior baptism

I'm not the least bit nostalgic
for earlier times You broke the bread

of my body and dipped it
in Your blood red wine;

lit the plaited fuse, soaked the sponge in fire.
What a preposterous creature --

under the influence 
of a faith so absolute it couldn't fit

inside my head, my mouth, my body;
a faith -- the ocean itself --

in which I swam and breathed.
I don't want to go back down

the way I came.  The catch
is this -- faith without proof is, perhaps,

a thousand kisses stronger in the clenches,
a barrel full of heady wine; my tears

a superior baptism; my hand above the flame
the needed tempering for a greater joy.

To a green heart, You once gave grace --
jubilant wonder and faith unforced,

its tattered shell and remnants now,
dear and sacred as any proof I might bear.

O child of God, your Father gives what's necessary --

else, the least to the greatest faiths are all in vain. 

A shared life

A shared life                                                                                 

The island in the zygote –

floating minuscule and fragile;

island in the womb –

so vulnerable, so vulnerable.

The island in my head – so insubstantial,

so subjective; inside my skin – so mortal;

the island in my chest – so isolated, so lonely.

White spit of sand in the middle

of a dark blue sea until the Ocean Itself

leaves footprints along the shore.

Accustom yourself, its pattern reads,

to a shared life.  And for years now,

my island fortress has been shrinking

under the determined elements of truth –

wild winds, brutal storms, the heavy seas.

When every place you trust,

the footprints read, underfoot is gone; 

everything you thought solid proven flimsy,

the truth will swim into view –

truth to drown in; truth vast as the Ocean

encircling your sad

and dwindling little island.

O child of God, every man is an island

until reclaimed by the Ocean of Love.

To love

To love          

To love God in the most practical way,
Meher Baba said, is to love our fellow beings.
 
I nod always, mumble under my breath –
yes, because everyone is You.
 
But, one day, You whispered in return –
because, lover, to love is to love God.
 
The sculptor grinds the chisel to a perfect bevel.
The sawyer sharpens the blade’s teeth.
 
The cutting torch, the welder adjusts
to the precise admixture 
 
of acetylene and oxygen.
Now the flame can cut steel.
 
It is the purity of love that shapes and sharpens
the chisel, the blade, the flame,  
 
allowing for the cutting through,
the paring down, the severing.
 
Love tempers the mind, attunes the heart,
allows for the cutting through
 
our bonds, our armor, our self-constrictions,
pushing beyond the pales of our fear.
 
O child of God, to love is to teach
the heart how.  To love is to love God.

(photo by Debbie Finch)

Wrens and sparrows

Wrens and sparrows                                                                       

I write my poetry on a crust of bread

I found in the bottom of my pouch,

dropping crumbs along the path

for the wrens and sparrows.

I won’t be coming back

this way and no one will follow

into this particular plot of trees.

The woods are deep.  I’ll write

as long as the light holds out.

God illumines the path

only one step at a time

and my own torch has been thrown down.

It’s like a crust of bread –

the moon above the horizon.

My mortal existence is a crust of bread.

This poem is dedicated

to the wrens and sparrows.

I wish I had more to give.

O child of God, venture where there is blitheness    

in dissolution; unalloyed bliss in obliteration.