An unimaginable aptness

An unimaginable aptness                                                                           
 
You promise us bliss.  God’s bliss. 
That of which He is made.
 
Not joyful exuberance
nor ecstasy with its excruciation. 
 
Not merriment with its amiability –
to be proffered and shared.
 
Bliss implies serenity, a certain passivity,
coming to a quiet, shining rest,
 
yet more than mere contentment,
something beyond our humanity –
 
a culmination, the purpose fulfilled, destination reached;
the returning to a holy and unimaginable aptness. 
 
O child of God, bliss might be described
as the permanent end to feeling incomplete.

Every green soul

Every green soul                                                                                 
 
Deeply buried, this seed in the soil,
so hard, so small, so self-contained.
 
If it’s ever known moisture, ever known
light and greenness, they are far from it now,
 
merely rumors in the dark. 
Yet it hears above, every now and then,
 
what seems like the whisper of distant rain;
imagines, perhaps, a descending warmth; 
 
senses the season’s change.
But it’s difficult to keep its faith and heart
 
while essentially ignorant of its own potential,
the elements inherent within 
 
and the outward forces, prearranged and aligned,
inexorably pulling it up to the groundbreaking –
 
there to flower in the quiet warmth, the light;
to know at last the storybook ending – 
 
the fragrance, savor and sight
of the fruit it was ever destined to bear.
 
O child of God, in your Father’s garden surely
there is a place prepared for every green soul.

(drawing by Rich Panico)

Clay Pigeon

Clay pigeon                                                                                       
 
Forty years wandering the desert.
I thought I was getting somewhere.
 
I was just pacing the length of my cell.
Dropping to my knees, I made it a prayer cell.
 
Later, I began to listen instead of ask.
I know now why the clay pigeon sings –
 
in anticipation (once the blood is drained)
of becoming the broken and singing dust (o Francis!)
 
though the natural wont of dust
is to settle quietly at the Beloved’s feet.
 
I sing this verse at His request and only
to the One Who gave it to me (I sing my best)
 
while He sees to its being further given away
to whomever’s heart He wishes its melody to touch.
 
O child of God, become quiet as dust
to hear Meher’s heart-rending song of silence.

The Incomparable

The Incomparable                                                                                     
 
It doesn’t quite hit the mark (say the Mystics)
to consider God’s creation as perfect.
 
It’s more like God’s creation is nonpareil –
a flowing, holy phenomenon appearing momentarily
 
through the aperture of individual consciousness. 
The butterfly is not yesterday’s caterpillar.
 
Ashes are not last night’s fire.  In the poet’s duality,
the Incomparable might be likened to a bird
 
on a limb admiring the play of light
upon its brightly-colored plumage.
 
O child of God, when will this self-enchantment end
and that mighty, imaginary bird take flight?

His business

His business                                                                                       
 
You might feel your pouch is empty –
nothing to give anyone of any value
 
but what others receive from you
is a happenstance beyond your decision or control.
 
Perhaps, your emptiness is the gift; your absence;
your rebuff; perhaps, your need, your cry for help.
 
Who gets what from whom is Baba’s business;
as is what your gift consists of
 
and the precise moment you will forevermore wise up.
Your disappointments, discouragement and gloom –
 
His business, too – as is every detail on your long,
rough journey from ignorance to Knowledge.
 
O child of God, everything
is a gift from the Giver.

 

God vs God

God versus God                                                                               
 
There’s no battle being waged,
though I feel deeply wounded;
 
the overturned landscape blackened,
littered with dead hopes, lost campaigns.
 
In this hollow I find myself
so small, lost and powerless,
 
knowing not what the reasons are
for fighting anymore
 
nor who is the opposition.
As I wander in search of someone
 
to accept my sword and surrender,
I feel more like a battlefield than a soldier
 
though there is no war being waged,
no opposing armies, only God versus God.
 
O child, even your disillusionment
is a precious gift from the Father.

(drawing by Rich Panico)

 

 

  

The sea of dreams

The sea of dreams                                                                                     
 
Take heart, o dreamer! (still deep in your slumber).
The Awakened One is beside your bed, whispering
 
in a language you have long forgotten, entering
your dreams to sow the seeds of clarity.
 
He’ll abandon, at times, His gentleness –
rudely slap your face or rump just to wake you up;
 
shake you roughly; strip you of your coverings; 
draw aside the curtain, open a window
 
upon the cold, uproarious world –
all the while patiently calling your name,    
 
the one He gave you ages ago, before
He set you adrift on the vast sea of dreams.
 
O child of God, your Father would never leave you
to an existence of aimless diaphaneity.

(painting by Joe DiSabatino)

An eternal halt

An eternal halt                                                                                 
 
I’m watching the world go by
not from a solid hillock above it
 
but from a cart in the middle of a field
pulled in random circles by a blind mule.
 
I picture everything as standing still,
like that oak tree providing a moving shade
 
as the day progresses but everything is adrift
as if I were on the ocean’s surface,
 
the detritus of my karmic life
floating into my reach and out again
 
as I shift with the current like shade with the sun,
the route of the planet, the cart and the roving mule.
 
O child of God, the aching desire
of humanity is to come to an eternal halt.

Famous last words

Famous last words

                                                                                   
In this realm of dust and flesh, we journey
through various stages of grief and death,
 
hope and birth, dread and lust.
In that other realm, Baba says
 
we’ve never left home, gathered around the hearth
as our Father tells the great adventure
 
made up on the spot, His rapt listeners taken
vicariously through the gamut of human experience.
 
There’s no urgency in the fire’s glow;
no deed to accomplish.  No timeline
 
to follow nor lessons to learn;  
not one true thing to relinquish. 
 
We have only to absorb the tale,
cling to our faith in the Storyteller
 
and in our Self, until those famous last words
we hear: ‘ . . . happily ever after’.
 
O child of God, to believe in the Father
is to believe in the fictitiousness of the tale.

(drawing by Rich Panico)