Just shining

Just shining

You are the Light of the world
and light makes no sound.  It just shines.

Those who couldn't see the Light asked for words.
You pointed out certain arrangements

resembling the Light and later wrung from the air
approximations that delighted Your lovers --

they printed up cards, pamphlets,
magazines and books.  How sad for You,

at times, also, for the Mandali, Your flesh ablaze,
eyes aglow, the roaring fire inside

and Your lovers in their blind faith
praise and bow and plaintively beseech You

for descriptions of the Light.  For evidence,
for instructions; for intimations,

for directions to the Light.  O my Lord,
You are the Light of the world

and You took birth to shine Your Truth,
silently; silent -- just shining.  Just shining.

O child of God, he who is blind, let him 
muck about in the business of words.

 

God was born

God was born

God was born (as any lover will attest)
at David Sassoon Hospital in Pune, India 

more than a century ago now.  That is to say,
God entered the mortal realm an embryo in a womb --

vulnerable, dependent, minuscule and yet, growing
inexorably toward fruition.  Nothing can hold back God;

His precisely scheduled manifestation.
Even Jesus (of the ascension and the miraculous birth)

began as a floating fish in a woman's belly.
O seeker of God, God is within you 

right now -- (it's how He enters the realm).
Within you -- vulnerable, dependent, minuscule, yes,

but growing every moment, inexorably toward fruition.
And, in the course of His love and law,

He shall outgrow the flesh that encapsulates Him,
transcend the mind that ensnares and escape

forever the narrow, bedimmed, illusory confines
of your self.  O seeker, nothing can hold back

the God within you nor prevent His destined,
precisely scheduled manifestation.

O child of God, happy birthday! Everyone --
says Meher Baba -- is destined for the supreme goal.

O faith of mine

O faith of mine

O faith of mine, o faith,
I run through you daily.

I run through you with feet of clay --
like running with a kite

over the hardscrabble landscape,
until the wind can catch it

and I can stop, stand my ground,
sufficient tension upon the string

to keep the kite aloft.
O faith of mine, o faith

of sticks and paper, string and wire,
I manage you warily, hands cupped in prayer.

You are my icon, my silent, bright relic.
You bind my life together at the end of this line --

my gathered, disparate, quavering self --
and keep my face turned upward

toward the floating, moon-like, bright-shining
kite above the hardscrabble turf.

O child of God, faith is the evidence of God's mercy --
the inward concern turned outward.

In lieu of silence

In lieu of silence

In lieu of silence, I offer this poem.
In lieu of surrender, I offer this prayer.

Unable with my whole heart to praise You,
I compose these poems of praise,

mitigated by inquiry and complaint;
by words themselves.  In lieu of conviction,

I assiduously examine and guard my faith,
lest a wall should crumble, a foundation crack.

In my lack of poise,
I lay at Your feet my desperation

and because my obedience is so shaky,
I repeat constantly my repentances

for the breaking of my high-minded vows.
I can't live up to Your measure

but, You are the measure.  It is You
for Whom I break my own silence,

reaching out of my shell with petitions,
questions, grievances and grief.

You are the Hub around which my thoughts,
my being revolve in this mad, whirling experience

in which I find myself and hope,
one day, to lose myself and find You.

O child of God, when a poem breaks your heart
you know you've moved a smidgen closer to the core.