Here is the crush

Here is the crush

Here is the crush,
garnered and pressed;

a hitch in the stream,
a knot in the grain,

an opacity in the clear, flat glass.
Purity is imperceptible.

Light must be fractured
(and there is a certain violence to it)

to yield its colors.  Here is the eternal,
indiscernible stillness

cropped, pared, hewn, here and there,
moment to moment, into illusory pieces.

Here is the inaudible essence
below the accompanying wail

and whine of the spinning orbs.
Here is the spangled sky, the lurch and yaw.

Here is the price God must pay
to perceive Himself.

O child of God, it's something about
looking through a glass darkly.

Of resolution and resurrection

Of resolution and resurrection

Beauty becomes a quiet comfort
in the latter years, giving of its depth

and essence without intentions or purpose,
earning our honor and attention

by virtue of its mere existence.
One day Truth will be like that.

We'll cling to it even through
the most bitter of circumstances,

the most fearsome grief because it lies
so purely, so resolutely beyond our grasp.

It will taste medicinal by then -
of resolution and resurrection.

One day Truth will come to our door
so pure, so vulnerable, so lovely

it will be beyond us
to ever deny it anything.

O child of God, pray for the day truth, love and beauty
all are expressed by the same silent word.

Water strider

Water strider                                                                                            

Whatever you say about God,
declared Meister Eckhart, is untrue.
 
(Including, presumably, his own
aforementioned pronouncement).
 
Buddha simply smiled and upheld a flower.
Meher stopped speaking altogether.  
 
It was the best He could do for His lovers –
with their scaled eyes, human ears,
 
chattering brains; fledgling hearts
beating erratically in their chests.
 
This poetry is not about God
but about the swirling images
 
and ideas surrounding God.
The water strider knows well its milieu
 
but it cannot, could never (spindly lightweight),
fathom the depths below the surface;
 
incapable of deep submersion;
incapable of ever drowning.
 
O child of God, Meher gives you words
in lieu of the real things.

(drawing by Rich Panico)

The mansion on the hill

   The mansion on the hill

Saint Peter let me through the gate,

embraced me, instructed me to go with Saint John

who would help me select a residence. As we walked,

I caught sight of a mansion on a hill.

I recognized it from my earthly dreams.

It had always been beyond a poor man's grasp,

but this was heaven. Paradise! Who lives there? I asked.

No one, said John. Would you like to see it? Yes, I replied.

We took a narrow path slanting upward

and in a short while came upon, to our right,

a whitewashed stone house, small and humble,

but immaculate, with a bare floor and a small garden

in the green yard enclosed by a white picket fence.

John fell to his knees before the gate

and said a short, silent prayer. He started back up the slope.

Whose house is this? I asked. Jesus lives here, he said.

I looked past him, to the mansion on the hill

and back to the house of Jesus.

I think I would like to live below, I said, down in the valley.

John smiled, clamped a hand on my shoulder.

There are some newly constructed residences there.

I’m sure you will find one you like.

They are very near to where I live.

We started back down the hill. But I turned,

ran back to the gate where, as I had done often in my earthly life,

I fell on my knees and gave my heart and soul to Jesus.

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