The bruising rose
You told the story of an
innocent woman
accused of adultery –
tied to a post in the
marketplace,
everyone who passed
required by law
to cast a stone or some
filth upon her ...
which she endured with a
noble dignity;
her daughter was brought
forth, throwing
not a stone nor filth
but, a simple rose ...
and the mother shrieking
in agony
as it brushed her cheek.
Let he who is without sin
cast the first stone,
You told the crowd in
another marketplace.
You, of course, could
have cast that stone,
but You have come down,
bound Yourself
among the stones and
filth
of our marketplaces to
endure unjustly
the fateful punishments
of being human
and to weigh in Your
innocent hands
the culpability of each
stone-and-rose-wielding
patron, each laboring,
fearful heart.
O child of God, the
Beloved is ever merciful.
Protect Him from the
bruising rose of your infidelity.
The prayer of Immensity
I used to crawl through
the Universal Prayer
on my hands and knees,
entering through a hatch
in the O before
Parvardigar.
By lying flat, twisting
myself here and there,
I could inch my way to
the last word of worship.
But, one morning, midway
through, I tripped
a hidden switch or
brushed a secret lever,
or, perhaps, it was the
power of one word
spoken with heartfelt
sincerity –
the whole prayer expanded
to the dimensions
of the descriptions
within it.
Not just the firmament
and the depths,
but on all planes and
beyond . . .
the three worlds and
beyond . . .
the source of Truth, the
Ocean of Love,
beyond and beyond and
still yet beyond . . .
time and space,
imagination and conception.
I found myself in an endless
void as the words
of the prayer rose to my
lips and faded in my ears.
O child of God, this is
the prayer of Immensity –
the Immeasurable, the
Unnamable and Incomprehensible.
O child of God, recite
faithfully the Universal Prayer.
It’s about you and who
you really are.
Grace intruded
Grace intruded upon my
habitual sorrow
and marked me for its own
like a pattern of ink
under the skin,
like an imperfectly
minted coin,
a misprinted postage
stamp
or a raw diamond selected
for its flaws.
Plucked like a flower
for a vase on a bedside
table;
like a wild colt culled
from the herd –
lassoed, corralled and
broken;
like a shell found on the
beach
or an injured bird unable
to pursue
its migratory route,
I left the broad path
for the narrow and the
crooked
and now – no path at all
. . .
making my way as everyone
must
who tramps toward the
gates –
without precedent,
yet, with a Companion who
by turns comforts,
inspires, fortifies and
illumines the way ahead.
O child of God, Grace is
beyond your ken.
To whom much is given much is required.
The crux of embrace
As its fragrance is
hidden in the rose,
my Beloved said,
so My presence is hidden
in the human heart.
Under our noses, Lord –
undetected
within ourselves and
others.
Only faith and desire
keep us daring
the crux of embrace.
Yes, the heart gets tipsy
at the first nip
of Your wine – dances in
it’s cage;
deeper in the cup, it
grows weepy and ponderous.
And when Your fire sweeps
through –
first, a searing pain,
then . . . burned rubble
from which to look out
sheepishly upon the world.
But, You promised us, You
promised Your presence
every moment woven into
the heart’s delicate
warp and weft, so pervasively,
the rose,
having never set tender
foot beyond its vast domain,
goes about wailing and
weeping
at the absence of its own
scent.
O child of God, turn from
the world’s enticements
to discover within, the
fragrance of God.
The darshan moment
Living for tomorrow
is a pilgrim in the
queue,
absently fingering a
garland,
inching his way toward
darshan.
Living in the past – a
pilgrim
walking back to the
retreat
empty-handed under the
stars,
the warmth fading in his
chest.
O pilgrim! Edge your way into the darshan moment!
Within the doors you’ve
burst through,
in the kneeling and
bowing moment,
on the floor of cold
stone tears.
He awaits you – expects
you – every moment,
a cleft of shoulder and
neck
in which to hide your crumbling
face
and empty your heart; a
pillar to lean on,
a gaze from eyes shining
with an unearthly love.
O child of God, live in
the darshan moment.
Before and after are the
nuances of a listless dream.
Confine yourself
O Meher, You confined
Yourself – in the Jopdhi,
in the table-cabin, in
the bamboo cage,
in sundry mountain caves,
in the blue bus,
in a hut atop Tembi Hill;
in the crypt before . . .
and after
it became Your Tomb.
You confined Yourself –
in Your great Silence; in
Your human body.
You confined Yourself,
perhaps
to show how we might be
free.
O pilgrim, retire now to
the narrow,
holy cell of remembrance;
of contemplation
and meditation; fetter
your mind and tongue
to the unyielding
repetition of His name.
Confine yourself to God.
If God is not enough,
what is?
O child of God, it’s
Illusion that’s restrictive,
repetitive and
tedious. The Truth of Meher is boundless.
Where my heart used to be
You left a ruby where my
heart used to be.
There’s a fire inside
that stone.
Now the world is a busy
dream
on the periphery of its
hard lucidity.
Now its heat and glow
is the gauge of my every
endeavor.
The myriad paths of my
calculations
peter out into sunlit
fields and green woods;
wires cross and sputter;
mechanisms derail.
Cause and effect? –
Hoisted on its own petard.
This balladeer is a
drunkard and a romantic, yes,
yet, when he stumbles and
injures himself,
he remains thoroughly
intoxicated,
his Dulcinea ever more
pure and wieldy.
Just so, the fire in the
stone
rules his prodigal heart
–
for what would deter it?
In joy, it burns. In suffering, it burns.
O child of God, nurture
the flame within.
This burning is the foot
path to liberation.
On parting
We wish each other the
best . . . but, really,
what might we hope for
one another?
Our itinerant Lord, from
the new life’s path,
spoke of hopelessness.
I begin to catch His
drift,
many hopes and partings
later.
To believe in Benevolence
Eternal
is to eschew hope, to
shake the dust
from our sandals every
step,
tendering the apples of
our eyes
what our Lord tenders . .
. hopeless love;
not a thought for
ourselves . . .
or others – hopeless love!
No prayers but praise for
the One
whose totality of Love
and Mercy
allows not hope’s grip
nor foothold.
O child of God, timid
hearts hope.
The brave-hearted love . . . regardless of outcome.
I love love best
Gratitude roams the ruins
of my heart –
the scales have tipped In
Your favor.
I’ve an urge to run
through the streets
shouting Your name.
Instead, I kneel and
slowly burn.
Dawn bears the same fire
on the eastern mullions.
It’s not so much that You
love me
but that You give me love
to give . . .
more and more, more and
more
and still yet more.
I know nothing of
worthiness, except
it has everything and
nothing to do with love!
O reader! What might we discuss
that you and I don’t
already know?
Like the elephant in the
dark –
everything is true at
once!
I love love best as a
fire in the chest – silently longing
for the whole house to
become ash and cinder.
O child of God, what is
there to say?
You are bewildered –
inside and out.
Don’t circle me
I’m a moth caught on
fire,
said the old
disciple. Don’t circle me.
I’m a moon whose silver
is stolen
from a hidden sun.
Don’t circle me.
I’m not the proof. I’m circumstantial evidence.
I’m a dancer who left the
ritual
to circle a greater
periphery,
to listen to a more
distant tune.
The Maypole is back
yonder.
Don’t circle me.
But, I can take the witness
stand;
point to the One who made
me like this.
I can reflect His
gold-red majesty,
the raging furnace of His
Being.
I can point to the Hub,
again and again,
standing apart from the
spinning crowd
and answer His
beneficence
with all the grace, art and
passion I can muster.
O child of God, Meher
gives you the Light
no darkness can dispel.
Whole cloth
I rub my nose on the
carpet before Your chair.
How long before the
fabric shreds
and the stone beneath
gives way? How long
before I sink into the
dust below?
That celebrated widow put
her two cents
into the temple
treasury.
Jesus extolled her faith
and generosity –
it was all she had! I’m worth two cents!
Yet, I can’t seem to part
with myself!
O child, not the quality,
nor quantity of the gift,
He’s concerned with –
but, the commitment, the
abandonment,
the whole cloth, full
measure,
draining of the cup to
the last drop.
O child of God, Your
Beloved quotes the poet –
“Hafiz, remove thyself
for thou art the veil.”
Elephant shapes
This spinning earth from
time to time,
may turn my head
but, I dare not long
neglect my duties –
too many who depend on
me,
eyes uncertain asking –
How are things on your
side?
Any news from up
river?
Father shuffling toward
another death,
mother befuddled with
fear;
loved ones sent out daily
to gather
fresh greens in abandoned
minefields.
Whistle while you work,
my Beloved advises,
but, keep digging.
The stench of death is on
the breeze;
crocodiles at the
watering hole,
only their eyes visible
above the surface.
I keep an ear to the
rail; gleaning
what I can from the
shimmering air –
for my own files, of
course,
but also, for loved ones
who keep asking for the
truth
of rescue and escape.
I’ve little time left for
pottering about,
pursuing pleasure,
arguing in the dark over
elephant shapes.
O child of God,
everything is in His hands and yet,
there’s much work to do
before winter sets in.
A torch for You
Become hopeless, You say.
I’ve invested all the
hope I have
in the One whose
shoulders
bear the weight of
multitudes;
entrusted with the
Mandali’s souls –
Mani’s guileless
adoration, for example;
Mehera’s unworldly
devotion;
Eruch’s plea: Don’t let me down!
Love makes no demands
but promises invoke
certain expectations.
Faith is blind in the
end,
but there are flares
along the way.
I look to those
burned-out, love-ravaged souls
who carried to their
graves a torch for You
and the silent assurance
and authority with which
You accepted their
immeasurable sacrifice.
O child of God, you are a
lover of Meher Baba!
What wondrous company you
keep!
Darkness gathers
I used to panic not
feeling Your touch,
but now I know – You’re
only adjusting Your grip.
You have Your hand on
me!
That’s the rare kernel of
this odd, random life;
my comfort in this
dreamscape
of impairment,
bewilderment and fear.
I’ve gladly forked over
all my cash.
The truth will come out
in the end.
Someone will be by to collect
my ticket.
I’ll give them the one
You purchased.
Authorities will ask for
my papers.
We’ll find out who I
really am.
Darkness gathers as the
train hurtles
toward the outer provinces;
the cold sharpens;
tongues become stranger
and more raucous.
I panic when I get the
notion I’m a lone traveler.
I don’t know where I’m
going! But Your valise is by the
window.
Your scent lingers in the
narrow compartment.
You’ve just stepped out
for a bit of air.
O child of God, you want
freedom from pain.
Liberation requires the
dissolution of everything you hold dear.
Crossroads
A drop in the ocean
exists only
when removed abstractly
from its milieu;
then we may put it under
a microscope –
assign it innocence or
guilt.
At the crossroads of a
dreamscape,
which way is valid? East or west? North or south?
Of what use is an
elaborate tea ceremony,
if the drinking water is
contaminated?
Truth concerns not Itself
with choices.
Eruch said, ‘True love is
no sacrifice.’
Suppose Abraham’s
terrible freedom
was established in the
raising of his knife;
Isaac’s freedom in the
trust of his father --
one surrender tucked
securely within the other.
And perhaps there was
another, mutual surrendering --
beyond imagination and
conception,
union requiring some sort
of reciprocal dissolution --
the illusory drop
absorbed into the oceanic whole.
O child of God, free will
is cutting you to bits.
Only those who have no
choice are free.
Nonetheless
Liberation? You offer servitude.
Attainment? Lowliness.
Empowerment? Helplessness.
Purity and bliss? Ghamela yoga:
pain, grime, exhaustion –
ground to dust under Your
heel.
You drive a hard bargain,
Sir! What sort
of fools signs up for
that tour of duty?
Pilate thought to wash
his hands of Jesus.
You make sure we get ours dirty –
graves deeply dug; Your garment’s hem
muddied and twisted in our fists.
Desperate, prodigal and impaired?
Yes.
Apprehensive and imprudent? Yes .
. .
nonetheless, I love and
am slave
of the Slave of the love
of His lovers.
O child of God,
servitude? You bleat
at each pinch of the
fetters, each tug of the chain.
Reading the label
The mystery can’t be put
into words
but it can be written in
blood;
shaped by the arrangement
of certain human bones.
Truth walked the earth;
took in the view,
Your rambunctious body
upsetting the bullock cart –
pulses aflutter;
necks craned and
blushing,
ears pricked up;
heart-throats,
long empty, suddenly
filled with song.
The blood of Jesus is
precious
because it runs thick
with the mystery of Love.
Reaching for the hem of
Your garment –
(when You wore Your Jesus robe)
the infirm woman needed
not scripture ...
but the soul-stirring
presence of the Soul of souls
moving majestically
through the pressing crowd.
O child of God, please
understand – reading
the wine bottle’s label
will never make you drunk.
Sky blue coat
I followed a map of the
world. It led
down a narrow path to the
ocean.
From there I could see --
nothing matters
but the folding of myself
into You.
Let love be my measure
... and my guide.
I’ve known love enough in
this lifetime
to know it’s not blind,
but wide-eyed and
vigilant;
not intoxication but an
unearthly sobriety
penetrating the chronic delirium
of the false view.
How wondrous the heart –
at the same time
an encrusted anchor and a
fluttering bird;
bruised rose and captured
hare;
a torch, a goblet;
an upraised fist and
weathered valise.
The pages where my story
is written –
fold and tuck them away –
into the pocket
of my Beloved’s sky blue
coat.
O child of God, drop your
bags and run
headlong into the
Master’s arms.
Spinning tales
I hadn’t a clue – so You
scattered a few about –
sandal prints under my
windows;
sacred threads snagged in
the hedgerow;
Your blood staining the
cross within my chest.
People wonder why I go on
about this!
It’s ancient history,
they say.
I’m like the angler whose
trophy fish is mounted
above the mantle –
I can’t stop spinning
tales about it!
Especially when Your wine
gets me drunk
and I feel again the excitement
of finding You
on the end of my line.
Gone forever -- the
despair of empty nets
pulled again and again
from the sea of illusion.
My nets are bursting now,
my vessel in danger of sinking
under the weight of Your
bounty.
Jesus must have smiled when
I turned down Your street –
He’d sent me that way
years ago looking for You.
O child of God, the
Avatar is the fisher of men.
It’s His hook causing
that pain in your chest.
(drawing by Rich Panico)
My heart’s beatings
I swallowed Your wine,
causing me to dance in
the streets;
letting my heart slip out
a bit
from under the heel of my
brain.
Years later, Your wine
sings yet – in my blood –
not with the rough
immediacy of tavern songs
but with the hymns and
psalmodies of praise,
an influence to my every
movement,
a blood-part of me, the
strength of me,
the heaven’s sake of my
heart’s beatings.
When this cup is crushed,
when my blood is dust,
(judging the Infinite
from the particular), I pray
Your wine will sing
through me still,
filling my veins and
throat, core and skull
with Your ethereal light
and song
on my wondrous way to
becoming You.
O child of God, wine
loosens your tongue and sends you
rambling beyond the
bounds of propriety.
