My heart's beating

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.

Fish out of water

Fish out of water                                                                              
 
That which is beyond imagination and conception –
call It the Ocean of Love to get a handle on It.
 
I am drawn to the Ocean –
where there’s no friction;
 
no property, no boundaries or partitions.
I’m weary of the animal coming out,
 
in myself and others, barking,
snarling through bared teeth.
 
I’m ready for the flood
to leave us paddling about
 
until we exhaust ourselves
and sink to the bottom.
 
You, of course, were a Fish out of water, a Pisces,
showing us how to be Piscean –
 
moving through this here-and-now
Ocean of Love gracefully strong,
 
lithe, colorful,
eyes unblinking to the Truth,
 
going about Your business –
the silent expression of Who You are.
 
O child of God, the Beloved, closer than your breath,
invites you to drown in His Ocean of Love.

A host of angels

A host of angels                                                                                     
Billions of souls afloat in the cosmos
and I’m on my way home.
 
Like the brother in the field,
I dropped my scythe where I stood.
 
There’s another harvest I must attend –
where I’ll be cut off at the knees.
 
My horse has gotten a whiff of the barn.
Nothing can keep me now from my Beloved’s gate.
 
My name in His throat, the name He gave me,
ages ago, when I was first sent out --
 
a host of angels over my shoulder
and the highway rising up to greet me.
 
Billions of laboring souls lost in the maze,
          tossing in feverish sleep
and my Beloved has come to awaken me;
 
billions of souls drunken from rage, lust and hate
and my Beloved offering His sobering elixer.
 
O child of God, look beyond this ephemeral existence
into the ageless face of your Beloved.

Heart of mine

Heart of mine                                                                              
 
Heart of mine, be a dark rose
pleasing in scent and shade;
 
an anchor around which
my puttering boat circles;
 
a house left to seed, wisteria
growing through every crack;
 
the fruit of a cactus,
a beast of burden, caked with sweat and dust;
 
a banked fire under soil and snow,
a valley floor below the mountain ridges;
 
heart of mine, become a flame 
to devour this crumbling dream of self.
 
O child of God, you belong to the Beloved,
Who will shape your heart as He pleases.

Another empty cloak

Another empty cloak                                                                    
 
Gool Rukh, where did you go?
Gool Rukh, rose-cheeked princess
 
buried in the sands of Rawalpindi,
reappearing as One-with-God;
 
a nightingale serenading the Beloved,
until your feathers turned into rose petals.
 
Grown in your Poona garden – the Heavenly Rose,
brow-kissed, christened by Tajuddin,
 
seated on Narayan’s throne; the Sacred Rose,
tossed at Sai’s feet, bruised by the stone of Upasni.
 
Gool Rukh, where did you go?
Yielding to God, to snow-haired Babajan,
 
showing Merwan the secret place
to yield his life to the great Rasool.
 
Merwan joined you there, Gool Rukh,
another broken cup, another empty cloak.
 
O child of God, when you find that place,
who you once were will be no more.

A chain of islands

A chain of islands                                                                          
 
For years, I’ve searched, inside and out,
for the mighty bird of Love.
 
All I’ve found is a feather, here and there,
from its brilliant plumage.
 
My concern for the world has been reduced
to a chain of islands
 
with my name and the names
of my loved ones on them.
 
O Beloved, let this fist of my heart
loosen its grip, open and stretch. 
 
The gesture for love takes two hands –
Your heart and mine in perfect unison.
 
There are other gestures we could make.
You could dig my grave here in the soft sand
 
or I could sail from this island out into the Ocean –
spread Your name to the New World.
 
O child of God, even half-hearted gestures are preferable
to the bitter clench of fear and faithlessness.

House of mirrors

House of mirrors                                                                                    
There’s a door at the back of my heart
opening upon a heaven-lit garden --
 
the moon:  the shining bow of a ship
plowing a star-glittered sea.
 
I stumble upon that door occasionally --
(an exit from this house of mirrors)
 
linger at the threshold.   
Your flute-music is on a breeze
 
scented with jasmine and neem.
When the music pauses, I hear a Voice
          calling my name.
 
But, always, always, I turn back
into the depths of my heart
 
where mirror upon mirror reflects
the image of the one I most love.
 
O child of God, how long will this enchantment last?
Find that door again and escape this house of mirrors. 

Floating

Floating                                                                                            
 
You taught Peter to walk on the water –
until fear turned his feet to lead.
 
Now, You’re urging me to float
this concrete body
 
upon a plane so insubstantial,
not grabbing or flailing;
 
not reaching back upon the empty
mechanics of swimming,
 
but lying gently
in the shape of a cross,
 
drifting towards infinity,
feeling at my neck’s nape,
 
and the small of my back,
Your fingertips …
 
until they, too,
dissolve into Ocean.
 
O child of God, trust the Sea.
Roll with the waves.

'Til spring

‘Til spring                                                                                         
 
I thought wine was the gift, so I complained
when the intoxication wore off.
 
Now I find seedlings of Your mercy
scattered everywhere –
 
roses along the spine, their scent,
years later, reaching my nostrils
 
and the still, quiet pool beneath my ribs,
the grassy meadows, the web of rills.
 
I’d packed for a long journey.  You motioned
for me to set down my bags
 
and share one last cup. 
Becoming inconsolable, drunk and unruly,
 
the taxi left without me.
You led me back inside.
 
There’s a garden in my chest
and You’ve invited me to stick around ‘til spring.
 
O child of God, whatever the Beloved has planned for you,
be sure it’s nothing like what you imagine.

Jesus for adults

Jesus for adults                                                                                      
“Suffer the children to come unto Me.”
I was a child when I first heard those words.
 
‘Suffer’, it was explained to me, means ‘allow’.
Jesus for adults in our church
 
was the Lamb of God, but to the children
He was the Shepherd and we were His flock.
 
Later, from Meher, I learned Jesus was not here
to save me from the cross
 
but to show me the Way to hang,
shouldering that weight for me
 
as far up the hill as He could get.
Suffering real, unavoidable, bitter as gall,
 
heavy as those rough-hewn timbers;
sharp as spikes and thorns.
 
Jesus loved the adults from high on a cross
but He took the children into His arms, heart to heart,
 
teaching that our love for Him
is as important as His love for us.
 
O child of God, surrender is the way of liberation.
To suffer means to allow.

Toddler

Toddler                                                                                            
 
Each morning I say the Prayers –
I have for years – words well worn,
 
rolling off my tongue slightly sweet – like prasad.
I begin earnestly but, soon my mind
 
drifts away like a lost kite; like a boy
gazing from his classroom window
         
or a toddler nodding off in the church pew.
Would anyone fault that schoolboy 
 
for preferring the day’s green pleasures?
Or the child wandering off to dreamland
 
under a preacher’s sonorous tones?
I go easy on myself, saying the words You left,
 
trying to keep awake, trying to stay focused
on the blackboard at the head of the class.
 
O child of God, it’s arrogant to consider yourself more
than a toddler playing at the Master’s feet.

Private stock

Private Stock                                                                                       
 
We’re not the kind of drunks who
engage in arguments and fisticuffs;
 
who climb upon tables and loudly hold forth.
We drift to the edges;
 
sink deeply into intoxication;
wonderment holds our tongue.
 
We know when we’ve had enough –
the wall we’re leaning against becomes the floor.
 
We might be coaxed into singing,
cheek to cheek with other drunks,
 
the timbre of some clear
with purity of intent,
 
others raspy from longing
and a lifetime of sorrow.
 
We’re the ones with sodden hearts;
sour breaths; befuddled brains. 
 
If we have a clear thought at all,
it’s how extraordinarily fortunate we are
 
to have found our way to the Tavern and been served
from the Winekeeper’s private stock.
 
O child of God, how rare is this gift of wine?
Few in all the world have ever known its taste.

Hemlock wine

Hemlock wine                                                                               
 
Beware of love, o pilgrim.   It’s a barbed hook;
a ball and chain; hemlock wine.  
 
It’s a cliffhanger, a pyramid scheme;
a title loan with ballooning payments.
 
Love is a lake of fire – I say that
having never entered the flames.
 
I’m still leaping about on the griddle.
They call You Lord of Love,
 
Father of Mercy, yet, at times,
I’ve found Your love to be quite merciless.
 
Forgive my incapacity to understand.
Daily my faith grows without evidence . . .
 
and love . . . love is an apparition floating by
the window of a haunted mansion.
 
O child of God, let not the word love escape your lips
until your heart knows enough to speak wisely.

Knowledge of the heart

Knowledge of the heart                                                                     
 
There are deeper truths, I gather,
than the grace of Your hands,
 
the light in Your eyes; more to grasp
than Your gown’s hem;
 
actions to be taken, vows to uphold 
beyond mere devotion and remembrance . . .
         
but, whenever the conversation at the table
gets too heavy, You give a wink
 
and we leave the others,
taking our wine cups into the garden
 
to view the stars, enjoy the night air,
perhaps, share a poem or two.
 
There’s work to be done but, Lord,
let’s save it for another lifetime.
 
While I have You here, (if it be Your pleasure),
let me hold You and hold You and hold You,
 
until this weary world and my form within it
fades into dust and nothingness.
 
O child of God, you’ve grown dangerously fond of His wine
and that delicious prasad called knowledge of the heart. 

Lukewarm water

Lukewarm water                                                                              
 
I once owned a tea set
of great delicacy and beauty.
 
Over the years, it became chipped,
stained, cracked and broken …
 
and there were episodes of destructive rage,
so that when You turned up at my door,
 
asked if You might trouble me
for a spot of tea,
 
all I had to offer,
in my extreme poverty,
 
was lukewarm water served in the cup of my palms.
You accepted my gift and I became Your slave.
 
O child of God, lament not your recklessness and ignorance.
Had you been prepared, His lips might never
          have touched your fingertips.

Window of time

Window of time                                                                                
 
O Beloved, You were silent.
Remind us of that
 
as the intellectuals chase Your words
through the mazes
 
of God Speaks and Lord Meher,
capturing them like butterflies 
 
pinned behind glass,
only their bright shells left;
 
silent as if the man Himself was behind glass
gesturing Truth through that small window of time.
 
In our dark dreaming, let us not expect words
to awaken us but the Word of His Love,
 
the Real Word
we have been forever longing to hear.
 
O child of God, listen with the heart’s ear –
where words and silence both strike to the core.

Nettle tea

Nettle tea                                                                                           
 
The road to hell is paved with good intentions?
I’m hoping it’s the road to Paradise.
 
Ofttimes, I miss the mark but, more and more,
my intentions are to serve You.
 
My love-arrows fall short
and stab someone in the foot.
 
I spread my cape on the ground –
an elegant lady sinks up to her bloomers in mud.
 
My cup of kindness . . . often filled with nettle tea.
I’m like a man on a crowded bus –
 
reaching to help this one, I knock that one’s hat off
and poke my umbrella into someone’s ribs.
 
Turning to apologize, I wallop the entire third row,
distract the driver and cause a rear-end collision.
 
O child of God, fondly recall your Beloved’s promise
that God hears only the language of the heart.

A mutual sobriety

A mutual sobriety                                                                          
 
Ages ago I was stone.
You began shaping me into a human being.
 
With that same great chisel and hammer,
I’m now being reduced to dust.
 
Sometimes, it’s hard to keep my chin up
under the rain of Your blows.
 
We have to stop meeting like this –
a few hours of carousing and I’m despondent for weeks.
 
Last night, I found a bit of clarity
at the bottom of my cup –
 
I can’t expect to stumble through every hour
drunk on Your bliss.
 
We have work to do
that demands a mutual sobriety.
 
You, the sculptor with Your careful dismantling;
me, the stone – holding steady.
 
O child of God, the Beloved serves His wine
          for medicinal purposes only.
His hammer blows chisel away the false.

A house for starlings

A house for starlings                                                                          
 
Bit by bit, my love grows –
through the stone, briars and tangles,
 
a pale reflection of Your Love.
Spellbound by the moon in the lake,
 
I can’t lift my eyes toward the true moon,
but I feel it in my blood.
 
Grapes must be crushed before wine
can be served in long-stemmed glasses.
 
Once the gourd is hollow, it proves useful –
a musical instrument, a dipper at the well
          or a house for starlings.
 
What happens here happens in the unseen realms.
How can we fathom our path or progress?
 
Nothing lost and nothing gained
but, somehow, You promise, God emerges.
 
O child of God, it’s a process and a journey.
Impatient one, you are right on track.

The rasp of Your bow

The rasp of Your bow                                                                       

Like an old coat,
You hung me in the corner.
 
Now I’m collecting dust.
If I could only feel You
 
snug within me once more!
A fiddle mounted on the wall,
 
no music comes from me.
O to feel the rasp of Your bow!
 
Tuck me under Your chin;
let’s play a round or two!
 
A lump of clay once rolled in Your palms,
set aside, left unformed, hardening by the hour.
 
O to feel myself shaped by Your hands, 
as Your hands once shaped the language of Love.
 
O child of God, adjust yourself to the Beloved’s whims.
Believe it when He says He never leaves.