Monday, July 28, 2025

Don't circle me

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.




Friday, July 25, 2025

Whole cloth

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.”




Tuesday, July 22, 2025

Elephant shapes

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.




Friday, July 18, 2025

A torch for You

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!




Monday, July 14, 2025

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.




Friday, July 11, 2025

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. 




Monday, July 7, 2025

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.





Thursday, July 3, 2025

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.