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.
