Elegy

Elegy

Not a word of scripture to be quoted
over these bones but, at graveside,

he would have tolerated a short, silent prayer.
He took it as it came; for what it was worth.

Good for the sake of righteousness.
Honest in the cause of truth.

Brave for honor's sake.
Kind by decree of the human heart.

He'd put aside any fanciful notions
of heavenly reward or his possible rebirth -

(he was convinced of his own annihilation)
and thus, resolutely, he went to his death.

Quietly cherishing joy, enduring the pain,
he came closer to surrender

than any religious man I know.  If he lacked anything
it was the imagination and longing to be anything

other than the man he was.
As they lower his body now into the grave

I am struck by how closely
a coffin resembles a crib.

O child of God, to surrender is to yield,
earnestly and humbly, to your destiny.

Birds made of sky

Birds made of sky                                                                                    

slice effortlessly through the ether – no cleaving

upon their approach, no melding in their wake,

surrounded by silence thoroughly,

no residue nor resistance, birds made of sky.

To surrender must be to move through existence

like that – plowing through time’s flow and yet,

somehow, adrift upon it; no mechanics of survival;

coming from nowhere; being taken no place.

I spruce up surrender in my timidity –

display it in the most flattering light.

Human beings need that – ever measuring,

thinking in terms of loss and gain,

getting from here to there, but surrender,

apparently, must be undertaken

for its own sake; for truth’s sake,

whatever the cost or outcome

because it is truth, the only truth

when nothing else but the truth will do. 

O child of God, enter the flow of time

to escape the flow of time.

Waiting in the wings

Waiting in the wings

The moon is a disc, not a sphere.
Flat as the earth; the sea

pasted onto the bottom of the sky;
stars poking through a threadbare canvas.

I've turned away from the latest backdrop,
heading toward the interior.

It's all to be pulled down anyway
at the performance's end.

We flow through time apparently
but, also, time flows through us,

life delivered daily to our doorstep.
How could I ever cease to exist?

If I cease, existence ceases, the void
once more reigns and even then

I'll be waiting in the wings.
The scenery incessantly changes but, still

I stride the stage, emoting, aggrandizing,
gesticulating, playing it to the hilt.

O child of God, follow the script.
The pageant is endless; without resolution.

Chanji

Chanji

He found you in Chowpatty
washed up on the beach

by life's betrayals, cruel vicissitudes.
You were ready to drown by then,

not caring if you lived or died.
He persuaded you

to go a-travelin' with Him.
Apparently, the Way is so narrow

there's only room for one
to walk it at a time

which doesn't mean
we go it alone

but, that we must become one
with our traveling companion.

Chanji, by the end of his days, 
was one with You, ready for drowning,

not caring if he lived or died
as long as it pleased his Master.

O child of God, nothing ever changes . . . it just gets larger --
more height, breadth and depth than we could ever imagine.

A nod and a wink

A nod and a wink

How ya' doin'? I ask friends,
acquaintances, total strangers --

a form of greeting, no reply necessary.
No one knows the answer anyway.

Just the asking -- throat to ear,
saying, we're all on the same ship,

surrounded and overwhelmed in our frailty,
our mortality, ignorance and ephemerality

by the Infinite, the Unpredictable and the Eternal.
We pass each other on the bridge

and ask , how ya' doin'?
The answer's always the same --

I'm alive.  Surviving; on the edge of terror
and catastrophe; skating

this depthless, unfathomable sea,
breathing moment to moment as freely as possible

in this inexplicable, fearsome
and wondrous existence of which

we have no real knowledge or conception.
We have only our faith and each other.

O child of God, how ya' doin?
Answer with a nod and a wink.