Gazing at the moonrise

Gazing at the moonrise                                                                             
 
I should be sitting cross-legged by now,
like a high old monk, not a thought in the world
 
nor a question in mind, gazing at the moonrise
above the shadowed vale; blending in mutely
 
with God’s majesty and beauty.
Truly, what better way to spend my time?
 
Preferable to my polished routine down here,
my old song and dance, playing to the crowd;
 
my sweat and scuffle, trying to leave my mark upon the world –
like the spray-painted graffiti on those mountain stones.
 
But my legs won’t fold up like that anymore
or carry me up a mountainside, so I sit
 
in my darkened house to mingle if not quite merge
with the Mystery in a shuteye, heart to heart communion
 
upon the jagged edge of the mountain,
above the endless vales within;
 
my ancient Self rising with that distant moon,
receiving and reflecting His holy light.
 
O child of God, how peaceful is the pilgrim
whose Companion has taken him by the hand.

Haunt the shore

Haunt the shore                                                                              
 
This daily exploration of You has become my life;
no longer an attempt to discover who You are
 
but what You have to give me – this daily reception
of salt-tinged wine, sea-soaked bread.
 
Most would say I’ve turned away from reality
but You are the Reality I am facing now,
 
undistracted by the faithless and illusory.
I see now the process as a morning walk
 
down to the gulled-circled sea
to find what gift has washed ashore
 
expressly for me, each exquisite detail
fitting exactly my lack and need
 
as my Father lovingly provides
the means of my returning.
 
O child of God, haunt the shore
and let the Ocean come to you.

You loved me first

You loved me first                                                                                      
 
How could I have ever cared about myself
if You hadn’t loved me first?
 
Ever lifted my head, showed my face;
caught the acceptance in Your gaze?
 
Ever turned away from the interior drama,
if You hadn’t lured me through the door?
 
How could I have ever had faith in myself
until You picked me up, dusted me off,
 
patted me on the back and bid me to follow
on a new, trustful, itinerant path?
 
O Lord, how could I have ever had the courage
to love You had You not so kindly loved me first?
 
O child of God, love Him until every distinction
of time, space and person dissolves.

(painting by Joe DiSabatino)

Pull off the road

Pull off the road                                                                               
 
I’ve wanted to pull off the road for a long while.
I don’t care much about arriving anymore.
 
Almost a whole lifetime spent, rarely
carefree and cozy in this old world.
 
Fear is mostly what I’m made of;
not much love to counteract it. 
 
This old car stalled again at a crossroads.
Rather than attempt another repair
 
I think I’ll abandon it altogether;
strike out through the rough country;
 
find out for sure (or not) if there is
and always has been, a companion at my shoulder.
 
If He’s not there, I’ve lost nothing
I had before I started and surely
 
the desert will welcome me
into its warm and empty, ragged arms.
 
O child of God, Meher said most wayfarers
turn to Him only as a last resort.

A tender child

A tender child                                                                               
 
The great fear of death was once for me
the end of self.  Now it’s the resurrection,
 
again and again, from the fields of stone
towards a conscription into battle
 
where the enemy is always myself.
Another lifetime beginning from scratch,
 
far from heaven, a tender child to face anew
the test of mettle, the suffering of desires
 
(met or unmet), to don yet another false suit
of congeniality and compliance while living
 
covertly under the compulsion of human
ignorance, isolation, cowardice and sin.
 
O child of God, the deeper your renunciation,
the nearer you are to His open arms.

The eternity within

The eternity within                                                                             
 
I might have become bitter with age
but my Lord fills me with such sweet wine! 
 
From the inside out, He serves me
(as the world offers its standard gristle and gall),
 
the generous terms of a surrender which seems
surprisingly, more and more, an intensely shared
 
bond of triumph and liberation.
When the divine Companion whispers to you
 
it makes no difference what is said,
whether you make out the words or not;
 
it matters not what He asks of you nor whether
you are prepared to obey – it is the hearing
 
of a lifetime deaf-and-unfeeling heart,
the slow turning of yourself around
 
to see God coming – not from anywhere above
or beyond, but from the eternity within.
 
O child of God, again and again His words
strike home – we are not we but One.

(drawing by Rich Panico)

This lucidity

This lucidity                                                                                       
                  
Comes a point where you see yourself
much as God sees you,
 
as others feel you, roughly
rubbing up against them;
 
how your ego has played you for a fool
all your days, how blind you have been
 
(in over your head) to your own faults
and ruinous behavior and it doesn’t end there,
 
this lucidity – it comes and goes,
as you awaken and nod off again,
 
in this lifelong, ages-old habit and dream of self. 
Praising your Lord for His revelations and solace,
 
bearing the shame of your insufficiency, 
getting on with your life solely for His sake,
 
more aware each day of the difficulty of liberation
and how utterly undeserving of it you are.
 
O child of God, everyone, said Meher,
(including you), is destined for the supreme goal.

(drawing by Rich Panico)

My heart

My heart                                                                                             
 
My heart is a dust-laden bell,
long time silent, ensconced in a tower
 
of a snowed-in chapel at the woods’ edge,
ashes cold in the hearth,
 
no footprints leading to or from.
My heart is an unused muscle
 
aching at the least exertion and stretch –
tender, quaking, ineffectual.
 
My heart is keen for the spring breeze
this winter to break its immobile silence.
 
God is nearing my house and I want that bell
to swing, shine and sing at His arrival;
 
a roar in the hearth; my limber, compliant heart
stretched out in the warmth like a doormat at His feet.
 
O child of God, it’s a painful journey
from head to heart, from fear to love.