Darkness gathers

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

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

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

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

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

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 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.