The illusion of autonomy

The illusion of autonomy                                                                             
 
Along with saying, forgive me, Lord,
why not add, thank You, thank You?
 
Not only for the pointed-out errors
but for the standing apart from them,
 
the by-His-grace opening of the eyes,
mind and heart, at least in retrospect,
 
to the sins that doom; that once went
undetected and unchallenged;
 
that once were deemed necessary,
even taken to be virtues.
 
Thank You, Lord, for the ripening –
the slow gentle pull of the pure soul
 
up from the muck of illusion;
the ageless apparent journey
 
from stone hardness to fruition to dissolution.
And thank You, Lord, thank You,
 
for being the one witness to my battle,
my only gauge, my helpmate,
 
my guide, my only companion;
my one source of encouragement.
 
O child of God, let go of everything
by letting go the illusion of autonomy. 

Content with God

Content with God                                                                      
 
God bless the lover who takes
his Beloved for granted;
 
who no longer seeks because he has found
and once found never again reaches
 
for that which is always at his fingertips.
Who finds God beside him everywhere –
 
no more probing, testing out of fear
the false comforts of understanding –
 
knowledge instead of faith;
some cheap assurance rather than submission.
 
God bless the lover who shares his path
all along, every moment,
 
content with God as Companion
not as the Goal of the New Life road,
 
who is as disinterested in immediate liberation
as he is in his inevitable destiny.
 
O child of God, the journey is Baba’s business;
your business is to be with Him every moment of that journey.

The ring of truth

The ring of truth                                        
 
Thank You for all You have given me
and all You have taken away;
 
for remembering me
and for allowing me to remember You.
 
Thank You for wisdom’s ripening;
for the dust of the grave;
 
the shards of my poverty; for the rasp
of the world which has sharpened my longing.
 
Thank You for Your name
and the knowledge of Its significance;
 
for the soul’s dogged progression;
the inevitability of the goal;
 
for the human joy and affliction,
the revelation and mystification
 
which leads ultimately to dissolution,
to the unveiling of the indwelling Self and Union.
 
O child of God, the gratitude you’ve expressed
for years has begun to bear the ring of truth.

The only game in town

The only game in town                                                                      
 
Side with the virtuous; battle the others.
Fight the good fight.
 
It’s all part of the game
and it’s the only game in town.
 
Shake your fist; speak truth to power. 
It’s all part of the game
 
and it’s the only game in town.
But when you see the game has you in its grasp,
 
when you see through it, when you give up on it,
when you want desperately out – turn away;
 
cease your resistance – and your participation. 
Turn to the only chance there is
 
(for you and humankind)
and in your deepest humility and helplessness,
 
surrender yourself to the one endeavor worth pursuing,
the one freedom, the one treasure worth the quest.
 
O child of God, this is the game
and it’s the only game in town. 

The whetstone

The whetstone                                                                                 
 
I sought from my Lord daily relief
from the persistent disquiet and shame; 
 
sought absolution and allowance
for my chronic failures,
 
my miserable inadequacy,
until one day my Lord said to me:
 
It was I who hobbled you –
to keep you from straying too far.
 
I cuffed your wrists to keep your hands
out of mischief and folded in prayer.
 
I placed the blinders on – to train your vision
in the one direction you need to go.
 
I plugged your ears to reveal the inner voice.
I built you strange-tongued, odd and solitary
 
to separate you from the seductive crowd
because you belong to no one else but Me.   
 
O child of God, to properly sharpen the blade,
rough and fine-grained must be the whetstone. 

The mercy of His court

The mercy of His court                                                                    
 
If you’re sure of anything in this world,
o child, be sure you are mistaken.
 
When you feel yourself hardening
into one position, take the necessary steps
 
to remove yourself from that easy overlook.
Talk yourself down from the heights
 
to the dust-view of God –
God being not up in heaven
 
but in the field doing His spade-and-hoe work,
seeing everything in His omnipresence
 
at every moment from everywhere.  
To draw nearer to that Truth, o child, and to Him,
 
concede in every judgment,
your ignorance and incapacity;
 
throw yourself and everyone in your ken
upon the celebrated mercy of His court.
 
O child of God, the least, proud thought,
Meher says, veils you from Reality.

(painting by Mark Hodges)

The ancient discrepancy

The ancient discrepancy                                                                    
 
The sun rises, it seems, from the heart,
spilling onto a sky bright sails of hope,
 
invariably to founder upon the day’s living reefs;
tired old bindings to be sure, but ever-new tendrils
 
and the spellbound inertia, the snug-enough shroud.
Evident in the distance between
 
lightning’s flare and the thunder’s roar,
the ancient discrepancy,
 
as I hurtle toward yet another failure –
everyday and the lifetime, the ages-old –
 
the slowly-becoming awareness of how
thoroughly deep go the erected barriers,
 
an integral part, alas, of the structure itself.
The sun rising every morning from the heart
 
to shine upon my impotence and light
beyond me the fair, faraway face of my Savior.
 
O child of God, hopelessness in the New Life
has nothing to do with failure or despair.

Leading with my chin

Leading with my chin                                                                          
 
As an old man now, I aspire
to be somebody who can take a punch –
 
not a speed bag’s wobbly pummeling,
mind you, but a stolid heavy bag full of grit,
 
eye-bolted solidly through a ceiling beam
and not in some gymnasium for anyone
 
to try but maybe a garage or cellar,
collecting dust in the corner but still intact.
 
Somebody who can take a punch if need be
and absorb the blow from any angle,
 
any adversary and not be moved
more than an inch or two off dead center,
 
returning swiftly to a perfect plumbness.
I’d be going through life then leading with my chin,
 
not from haughtiness or spunk
but with poise and a quiet faith,
 
bearing the blows of whatever
rough-housing opponents may cross my path. 
 
To be somebody who can take a punch,
take a punch, take a punch and not hit back.
 
O child of God, aspire to the love that allows
an innocent man to turn his cheek for just one more blow.

Diaphaneity

Diaphaneity                                                                                        
 
There’s no choice, He said.
I’m all you’ve got. 
 
Forgo the negotiations –
you’ve no collateral.
 
Forgo the calculations. 
You’re in over your head.
 
There are no inducements
to any sort of compromise.
 
It’s the falsity of yourself or the truth of no self;
this apparent, ephemeral insubstantiality
 
or the resolute putting of it to a stop.
Grab hold of Me, He said, or go around
 
(around and around) trying to stuff
into your empty pockets fistfuls of diaphaneity. 
 
O child of God, the dream can’t be grasped.
All you have to hold on to is Meher Baba. 

The heart's ears

The heart’s ears       
                                                                         
For a taste of Heaven, a sip of the raw proof,
settle under a spire where they sing
 
of pearly gates, the breath of flowers,
the holy fountain, amaranthine bowers,
 
your heart’s ears to hear and follow.
Miss not the chance in your Sunday suit
 
to scramble up the mountainside,
lift to your lips the waters of Union
 
as clearly and truly as might be
brought to this realm by human voices.
 
And if you cannot yet believe, o seeker,
tear at the obstructions stopping up 
 
your heart’s ears, the sort of
small-minded, literal logic and reasons
 
that doom the soul again and again
to the ancient rounds of birth and death.
 
O child of God, listen to both music and silence
with the same transcendent ears of the heart.

Poem of apology

Poem of apology                                                                                    
 
To everyone in this lifetime
whose path I’ve crossed –
 
I ask forgiveness: 
I have lacked humility.
 
Not my only sin, of course,
but perhaps the most pernicious,
 
the root of all others,
for it has kept me
 
from loving you
the way you should be loved,
 
the way I dream about,
the way my Lord advocates,
 
the way that would draw us all
nearer to our divine inheritance.
 
Take this poem as a timorous,
though heartfelt opportunity
 
for me to seek your forgiveness,
unable ever to ask you face to face.
 
O child of God, the one reduced to true humility
is no longer there to be forgiven. 

A journeyman's hands

A journeyman’s hands                                                                           
 
Francis said as stone into dust –
long to be crushed! 
 
The duty of the lover is to sing
his Beloved’s gift of song; 
 
articulate the pain in the distance
between mouth and Ear;
 
between heart and Heart
solely for the Beloved’s
 
amusement and entertainment.
Sing, o lover!  a reminder of the day,
 
when you’ll bear no song,
no mouth and no need of one –
 
being, at last, the unutterable Truth.
That’s the promise Francis clutched
 
in a journeyman’s hands;
sang with wine-bright eyes
 
through an old man’s broken throat –
a gift for his Beloved and for His lovers
 
gathered near and soon to follow
that bowed, dusty codger into oblivion.
 
O child of God, begin your apprenticeship as a lover
under that old Aussie ploughman stone mason poet.

The one gauge

The one gauge                                                                             
 
Just love Me, my Lord said.
Perhaps His only request.
 
Love for love’s sake – without hope
of gain, advantage or favor. 
 
There is a dearth in my heart of such love.
And fear growing rank. 
 
The best I might give, Lord, is gratitude
which I have come by honestly –
 
in response to Your kindness. 
Gratitude for the life I’ve led
 
and for the life You led. 
Gratitude for a family and my imperfect love
 
for all their human beauty.
And gratitude especially for You, Lord,
 
being indeed my only source of truth,
however ill at times I receive it,
 
the one gauge in this troubled dreamscape
I trust and cling to, without which
 
I would have long ago become untethered,
alone, overwhelmed and lost.
 
O child of God, not knowing what love is,
how can you judge your lack of it?

Monk's garden

Monk’s garden                                                                                      
 
Somehow it’s good to know I haven’t a prayer. 
Like old Job – no say-so in the winding up,
 
the unwinding of my own affairs.
God is in the details and I’m merely one,
 
hoping to serve by a studious abstention.
I weed my monk’s garden, encouraged
 
by the yield of abeyance and abrogation.
The old urgency has deserted my legs and lungs
 
in mid-stride and the pace, this late
in the game, has slowed considerably;
 
enough to where it’s more comfortable
to take His hand and follow His lead;
 
relinquish a bit more the irresistible
compulsion and illusion of plotting my own course.
 
O child of God, settle in as best you might
under the vast foot of the elephant.

(photo by Bif Soper)

Rumi's field

Rumi’s field                                                                                       
 
Rumi’s field – beyond ideas
of wrong-doing and right-doing –
 
is not so far away. 
I’m running my hand
 
along the top of its fence.  It was never
a great distance to traverse
 
but a coming to a halt,
turning the handle
 
and swinging wide the gate.
No one to meet me there but myself,
 
unencumbered of my knothole view,
my prejudices and opinions.
 
Ah, to lie down burden-free
in that long grass with the wildflower scent
 
in the sun-warmed field, upheld
and surrendered like a body on the ocean face
 
letting the current move me where it will.
It’s so near, just over the fence,
 
and I won’t leave here without a fight
or until I find a way through its summoning gate.
 
O child of God, not far away nor far in the future.
Seek advice from your constant Companion.

Not quite a poem

Not quite a poem                                                                              
 
To denounce someone, the first thing
given up is humility.  Elementary physics and geometry –
 
I must elevate myself to look down upon others.
Not telling anyone to refrain, mind you –
 
there are invariably good reasons –
just pointing out the price that is always there.
 
I crane my neck looking up at the mountain.  
From the top, I might see equally in all directions.
 
Knowing intuitively I have not the strength, the discipline,
the courage, the expertise to complete the climb,
 
I slip on my backpack and start up the rocky trail.
Better to die on the slopes than back at camp.
 
So many people in the world,
I’m sure they can do without me
 
adding my own brand of stridency
to the din of blind opinion.
 
Whatever you guys decide is fine with me,
knowing it will be the Whim and Will of God.
 
O child of God, you have paid the price,
lost your humility, writing and reciting this not quite a poem.

Salvage and salvation

Salvage and salvation                                                                         
 
Over a lifetime, in my own way,
I’ve been moving toward You –
 
in darkness, by fits and starts, studying warily
the scriptures, claims, promises,
 
attuning myself to some real
or imagined inner guide.
 
Here and there at various speeds and coming
now and then to a complete stop,
 
wondering which bedimmed fork to take,
or why go on with such a lonely, desperate search.
 
But only very recently, the sun has peeked
over the heaving edge of the world
 
enough for me to see that I have
ever been trekking the vast deck of a ship
 
as You return me surely, safely,
irrevocably to home port.
 
I’m leaning on the rail right now,
taking in the breaking sun, the salt wind
 
and wondering what I might do, if anything,
to aid in my own salvage and salvation.
 
O child of God, learn your ship duties;
prepare well for the immeasurable voyage ahead.

 

This empty cup

This empty cup                                                                                 

 

Enough for me, this empty cup.

With your own lips

 

You have drained it of the world’s wine

and left a promise – the distant scent

 

and stain of Your own vintage.

Each day I enfold its rough clay

 

and murmur a prayer,

lift to my lips its soured nothingness,

 

taste the exasperatingly faint

intimation of Your nothingness.

 

And setting it down, abandon again

the world’s shimmering images,

 

imaginings and intoxications,

its brief, bitter sweetness.

 

For me, enough (is enough) this empty cup,

until its clay mouth is crushed again,

 

its hollowness filled with debris,

buried in the earth’s whirling wheel  

 

for yet another stab at Your ethereal lightness,

assured Oneness, Your sobering, holy wine.

 

O child of God, the world is mad with drink.

Rejoice in your disaffected indifference.

Call His name

Call His name                                                                              
 
The darning of a sweater,
a pulling on the oars;
 
the sawing of a casket plank,
a bell’s tolling;
 
a calling bird in the green wood;
its flap of wings across the sky;
 
the knocking on a door,
the chimes of a clock,
 
singsong, singsong, say His name –
Meher Meher Meher Meher . . .
 
sewing us up; sewing ourselves
to His silence, with each stitch
 
more inseverable, each stroke, toll,
call and flap; each knock
 
upon heaven’s solid, heavy door,
calling to the One inside.
 
O child of God, call His name
until it sings in your veins.