Ephemera
Paper products primarily, made for short-term use,
then thrown away – tickets, paper cups,
posters, flyers, tissue, confetti.
We are that, apparently – our bodies,
personalities, our immediate human histories;
utility and sacrifice the purpose
of our very existence,
the execution and fulfillment
of some long-term ineffable
goal of the soul
with no opinions worthy of a listen
from a crushed paper cup
or complaint from a torn ticket stub –
the temporal, the discardable
in the face of the Eternal;
the creature as opposed to Creator.
O child of God, escape to a realm where time
and space, weight and gauge do not exist.
Speaking of God
Make Me your constant companion,
gestured Lord Meher, speaking of God.
Like an imaginary friend, I told myself . . .
but, no, not imaginary –
beyond imagination and conception.
From Aloneness God created loneliness,
the illusion of separateness, of other,
to be eventually quenched,
so love could run its course
and God could find Himself
though He was never really lost.
God alone is Real, my Lord gestured also.
O my friends!
It is you and I,
His
playmates, who are imaginary.
O child of God, apparently, everything is
love. Love
the verb, love the noun, love the ongoing mystery
of God.
Our only hope
Everyone is taking sides,
yet everyone is on the same side –
it’s our vision versus God’s.
I offer my tongue, o Lord,
for You to quell, flesh to subdue,
my sometimes thunderous heart to becalm
amidst this impossible rebellion.
Not in piety and passivity
but as a clear and dutiful course of action,
out of my compassion, such as it is,
out of my ignorance and impairment;
out of a tenuous devotion to mercurial truth.
A pledge and a prayer, I offer – to cleave
to the narrow way, Your way,
as best it might be determined,
holding out faithfully for the one great hope –
our only hope – the truth
from God’s perspective, God’s big picture.
O child, keep your promises to yourself.
Only silence should come from a grave.
No room for why
The monastic cell, narrow as a gate.
No room for why;
for discouragement or zeal;
joy or despair; nor comparisons,
emotions; conviction or doubt;
stripped of everything but one,
last dot of self from which to witness;
offer silent praise and prayer.
To be so tiny, this cell
must open to the sky;
have no walls; the whole
round planet for its floor
and contain in its every unfolding moment
the complete history of existence.
Narrow is the monastic cell; only long,
deep and wide enough for God.
O child of God, the scripture says
enter into a closet to pray.
In the silent holy void
Like mewing cats outside the fishmonger’s
door, lovers cry Your name
knowing not how else to get to the nourishment,
warmth, fresh milk and bloody entrails inside.
Everything comes true in the end.
No need for disputation – two blind men
arguing over the color of the sky.
There’s profound wisdom in knowing
how profoundly ignorant I am;
truth coming near, I must depart
to let it manifest, light the world
except for the dark shape which is me
in the silent holy void where words fade,
lose their power to persuade or be persuaded.
To say how lovely it all is,
is to say too much.
O child of God, seal your lips about
those things of which you know so little.
As
it always was
Been
a long trek. Only faintly
do I
recall my beginnings.
I
just keep walking,
body
weary, feet sore.
Alien
territory. I can’t remember there ever
having
been a fork in the road.
I
miss my sweethearts sometimes,
in
the evening, back there somewhere,
but
it all seems right and just
to
be alone now
with
my one last companion. It’s His home
to
which we’re headed, deep in the woods.
My
hope is to arrive depleted but content,
everything
just as it should be; as it always was.
O
child of God, rarely do you hum a tune these days,
unwilling
to break this most holy silence.
Lifeblood
One day the Friend will just up and walk away.
You’ll have no choice but to follow –
by then He’ll be your lifeblood. You’ll be taken by surprise.
He’s indulged you so long; so many lifetimes,
determining one day – enough is enough;
time to unravel the swaddling clothes.
You’ve led Him, your loyal companion,
into and through the darkest, shabbiest places;
the petty, the mean, the absurd, the perverse,
while He’s kept a steady eye on you,
offering a Word now and then amidst
your constant bluster and self-justification.
One day the Friend will just up and wander away,
you having reached a certain ripeness
and you’ll
be forced to leave the familiar,
your loved ones and companions
who will not understand nor accompany
you and the Friend into the desert
beneath God’s great, scattered handful of stars
to begin the long, solitary except for Him
trek home, His way, by His authority,
the sovereignty of His inviolable divine
plan.
O child of God, He has told you from the very
first:
I am your one true Friend.
The silence of which You spoke
It began on a Whim, You say –
Creation merely God’s game.
I try to reconcile this with what You also said –
no one suffers in vain. True freedom
(again You say) is the raison d'être
including, presumably, freedom from suffering;
freedom from the whims of God.
There is nothing to add from this one tiny mouth,
eyes looking up into the night sky.
Perhaps, this is the silence of which You spoke,
coming to the end of hope,
reasonableness, accommodation;
where love begins, but how, o Lord?
Where do I turn from here?
The earth is round; I am unable to step over its
edge
and plummet into Your timeless, infinite point of
view.
O child of God, blow out your candle
to experience the true essence of the night.
Nothing doing
When the linear becomes circular,
poles kiss, spark and blend;
you lean so heavily to the left it becomes right;
journey eastward, arrive in the west;
the world turns upside down.
Discovering the one bad apple is you
tainting everything you touch,
you begin assiduously to unhand –
nothing doing – at the same time
attempting fraternization
with the perfection that existed
before the original, disconcerting scratch;
attempt worldly non-participation
while in the thick of it, attending to
the sacred duty of subjugation, abdication
vital to and inclusive of
all the other duties earnestly
entrusted to your care.
O child of God, to serve others might simply be
searching your own pockets for the missing key.
