Such is my destiny

Such is my destiny
 
Up on the Hill, Meher offered me
a cup of wine.  I politely declined, 

then sat down to soberly write a poem
about intoxication.  Such is my destiny. 
  
All the while, I was thinking the center
of the universe was eight thousand miles away –
 
enamored of myself, my pleasure, comforts,
my conformity, rather than any nearby Beloved.
 
Back home, trudging through my old routines,
sobered by fear, uncertainty, impermanence. 
 
Now that the darkness has begun to lift a bit,
the dream is fading.  I don’t mind so much. 
 
I’m bone-tired, looking forward to a reset
and somewhere far away, or perhaps,
 
just at my elbow, a new invitation
to partake of His holy, liberating wine. 
 
O child, your liberation is per Meher’s schedule.
Rue and regret are but an impotent indulgence.           

     

The ol' soft shoe

The ol’ soft shoe
 
I was a child, younger than most,
when I first took up dancing –
 
tap, the shuffle, the ol’ soft shoe.
A routine for every occasion.
 
Always on notice, on alert,
to dance apropos to the tune
 
of my elders, my betters, my cohorts,
my inner promptings, dance, dance, dance
 
until I lay exhausted in my bed each night.
All my former partners have left me now,
 
or I them, for different partners and the latest tunes
except for the One who has always stuck by me,
 
silently pressing me now, as the music drifts and fades,
to come to a halt.  To sit this one out, to leave off
 
every surefire flourish of my old routine
and just listen, observe and come to a rest.
 
O child of God, you’ve gone through the moves
your whole life long, yet rarely have you ever danced for joy.  

These old bones

These old bones
 
The end of a long life coming up
and I have accomplished nothing;
 
everything’s been a gift and a loan –
like this poem. 
 
I’ve been an intruder upon a dream,
nothing mine, least of all myself.   
 
Lifelong I have engaged
in the business of ideas,
 
rather than investigating the source
of all such insubstantialities.
 
Crumple up this paper and toss it in the fire. 
It might come to some use warming these old bones. 
 
I’ve discovered the wordless truth
of these shaky hands and tired old bones –
 
nothing but the scenery changes;
nothing but the scenery.
 
O child of God, the Mystics say you are a witness
beyond the reach of time, decay and death.     

    

 

The tomb of the heart

The tomb of the heart
 
There is a Tomb on a hill at Meherabad
made of discarded stones.
 
People come from around the world to bow down.
It’s a long journey.  Even for those who live nearby.
 
Such a journey that no one quite remembers
when and where they took their first faltering steps.
 
Just as no one knows when and where it will end.
It’s a pilgrimage within a dream 
 
and it leads to another tomb,
this one simply a shallow grave
 
only as deep as flesh and bone will allow,
where the Awakener truly lies.  And from where
 
He summons His lovers to the Tomb on the hill
so they may, after a more circuitous journey,
 
come to the end of their search
and find their way into the tomb of the heart.
 
O child of God, your pilgrimage begins and ends
(per Meher) in a realm without time or distance.        

               

Of birdsong caliber

Of birdsong caliber                                                                                     
 
If ever this poetry could touch the dulcet chirruping of birdsong,
each word’s import would become superfluous to its charm.
 
Nonsense syllables would be at its heart,
the gist of a riddle giving everyone a good laugh; 
 
each poem an ornament hung from the neck, 
a stud in the lobe of an ear, a beauty that speaks for itself
 
rather than this old hair shirt cut to fit, dutifully gilding
the dissonance and duplicity of both words and thought.
 
This birdsong poetry would then take flight
and I would follow, no longer grounded
 
by my inarticulacy, ignorance and desire.
Truth and beauty would appear together onstage,
 
in pure harmony singing the story of existence –
a love song without meaning beyond the telling of the tale,
 
the love that creates and sustains it
and the love of which it is constructed.
 
O child of God, if ever you are able to write poems
of birdsong caliber, you will have no need for words.  

Wallflower peace

Wallflower peace                                                                                        
 
I’ve got this song stuck in my head.
It’s got a good beat.  I give it a 95.
 
When will I cease dancing to its tune?
Get caught up instead in the silence of my Lord?
 
Trade in these irksome gyrations
for the wallflower peace
 
of obeisance and remembrance;
quit the party irrevocably
 
for my Lord’s chamber. 
Have us there a marathon
 
here-and-now heart to heart,
me folded up securely at His feet,
 
silent and rapt, enchanted
by His ancient song of love.
 
O child of God, do not absent yourself
for a moment, advised Hafiz.    

              

The all-pervasive One

The all-pervasive One
 
Everyone is dreaming (per Meher),
yet we are always alone in our slumber.
 
Alone but for the all-pervasive One.
In our dreams and the dreams of others
 
we come and go, yet we dream ever alone,
alone but for the all-pervasive One.
 
Two souls may share a life  
but they dream it apart and alone –
 
alone but for the all-pervasive One.
In intimacy we speak, share,
 
caress, know and love each other,
but we undergo it separately –
 
never to share the same dream.   
Alone but for the all-pervasive One.
 
O child of God, you are and always have been
and always shall be (per Meher) the One Without A Second.  

Book-learning

Book-learning
 
I’m caught up on my book-learning –
exterior evidence; second-hand Truth.
 
All I have of the Mystery
is a satchel full of words –
 
inspiring tales that I have read or heard,
concepts I have contemplated and surmised.
 
Truth has never jumped off the page at me
though sometimes it clangs an underwater bell
 
or strikes an eclectic chord,
touches an ecstatic nerve –
 
something that might give
a seeker a bit of forbidden hope.
 
But I will most likely, at this late date,
go to my grave, Meher Baba as my Lord,
 
hopelessly clinging to all my slipshod constructs,
seeking from words far more than words could ever tell.
 
O child of God, you will attain the Truth
at the precise moment of your appointed destiny. 

Pretend game

Pretend game                                                                         
 
Meher referred to existence as the divine game –
but not a contest; not a flag to capture.
 
A pretend game.  A masquerade.
And once you find yourself
 
a mandated participant, the only course left
is to play your role best you can.   
 
The only way, apparently,
to bow out is to make that
 
holy, hair’s-breadth shift of perspective
where every moment you act
 
not for the moment but for the eternal,
ever aware of the pretense, recognizing
 
yourself and your fellow players
under the make-up and costumes to be
 
none other than God playing solitaire,
God the great ubiquitous pretender.
 
O child of God, follow the clues as best you can
until you are able to see through the charade.       

The fate that awaits you

The fate that awaits you
 
Once you see the truth,
there’s no turning back.
 
You might hover a while
near the old haunts,
 
going through the motions,
acting out your appointed role
 
before you confront yourself
and the truth that there is no sweetness left,
 
not because the well is dry
but because the truth is different
 
and deeper than you ever could have imagined
and it compels you now to faithfully allow
 
a change in direction, a change in yourself,
to remain obediently true to the fate that awaits you.
 
O child of God, the real search begins when first you sense
the depths of yourself and the inevitability of the goal. 

(drawing by Rich Panico)

   
 

The scriptures of the heart

The scriptures of the heart
 
Standing on the carousel,
having ditched my golden steed,
 
looking outward at the spinning world,
(as usual) expounding to the crowd. 
 
My incoherence met with glazed eyes, quizzical brows.
Every written word I once practiced
 
and preached as gospel, I now profess
to be beyond my ken, beyond my authority to espouse.  
 
Each time-worn ritual, sacred icon striking me now
as rudimentary, external and conceptual;
 
the preparatory substitute for a genuine, 
interior communion and fealty.  Maybe it’s humility
 
that has stolen my tongue or perhaps, futility,
as round and round I go, amidst the glaring lights,
 
the distant shouts and clamor of the midway –  
the hawkers, the carnies and the rubes.
 
O child of God, turn your back on this gaudy world
and endeavor to read the scriptures of the heart.

The Reality of which we are made

The Reality of which we are made
 
God alone is real (said my Lord).
Which means . . . we are not.
 
Wrinkles in the holy fabric are we;
waves upon the sea; clouds upon the ether.
 
We are the wind-shape of the dunes,
a burl in the bark; a hitch in the stream;
 
a speck of dust on the mirrored glass. 
How holy!  How precious and precise are we!  

Like the Reality
of which we are made.
 
O child of God, what is the worth of that
          which comes and goes?
Only its connection to the Everlasting.

The usual suspects

The usual suspects
 
My youth corrupted by the usual suspects;
the sprouting of tainted seeds already there.
 
I long ago stepped out into the weather,
trudged from past to present,
 
from fear to faith, from who I am
to Whom God has made and is yet making,
 
kenning with more clarity the transformation
and crediting more precisely from Whom it comes.
 
What does it matter if the poet
can’t find the proper descriptions
 
rummaging through his time-worn journals?
Truth is not found on ink-stained paper.
 
This poetry is assembled
one image at a time
 
as the light above blinks on and off;
faithfully transcribed until my pen runs out of ink.
 
O child of God, what a hodgepodge
of images from an age-encumbered mind.  

Getting wise

Getting wise 

People are getting wise to me now. 
Something a charlatan always dreads.  
 
My isolation and eccentricity and the reasons for it,
more evident, even to myself.  It doesn’t matter, does it? 
 
Nothing matters (said my Lord) but love for God. 
Nothing matters but that which I scantily possess,
 
too little to hoard, none to share and no way to obtain.
So I bow helplessly, (not quite hopelessly) before my Lord,
 
renouncing with throat and tongue, (if not mind and heart)
the very things I sought out of fear when I began this quest,
 
substituting now acquiescence for effort;
faith for hope; fealty for love.
 
O child of God, pledge your life to the one true Friend
not as an investment but as His irrefutable due.

The remote promise

The remote promise                                                                                    

It doesn’t take much to become dust.

I mean, it’s not like you start out a hero.

You have not to yield anything of real value.

Not a sacrifice really but the overseeing of a collapse.

It takes obstinacy, mind you, an obsessive vigilance;

persistence through constant failure;

a disheartening familiarity

with your own depthless inadequacy;

faith in the remote promise of a distant victory

constructed upon utter defeat.      

But what else is there to do when your Beloved

rouses in you the first inchoate stirrings of humility?

When He speaks of love and you discover your poverty,

your heart aloof and non-comprehending?  

What else to do with the shame from a lifetime

of duplicity, mistrust and a dearth of pity?

What else to do when your effort might bring

a brief smile, a nod of the head from your Lord

while you both wait for the one miracle

He promised He has come to perform?

O child of God, what else on God’s green earth

has more value than the dust gathered at Meher’s feet?

The crust of armor

The crust of armor                                                                                             

After laying down the sword

the self must unhand its shield,

climb from its crust of armor naked and doomed.

Surrender comes not only when the soldier

finds his cause hopelessly lost

but also unworthy, his rebellion needless,

his allegiances distorted, his submission righteous,

his adversary, in truth, his liberator.

And when the armor is abandoned

(per the mystics) the self proves to be

the armor itself – superfluous, illusory,

enclosing an ancient and ineffectual ghost.

O child of God, surrender is impossible without

the solace and beguilement of the Saviour.

The end of my eternity

The end of my eternity

Since my Beloved told me I am an eternal being,
much of the old urgency has fallen away.
 
Since I stopped believing in myself,
ceased rattling my karmic chains,
 
played my hunch on the law of must,
time matters little to me now.
 
Wherever it is I’m bound, God will get around to it,
my arrival as precisely orchestrated as the flight of stars.
 
How could it be otherwise under His exacting command?
If I’ve misjudged my position there will be
 
an abundance of time to correct the error.
What’s a few more centuries plastered on
 
to the end of my eternity?
Or an additional allotment
 
of illusory binding and suffering
before my fated release into the infinite sea of bliss?
 
O child of God, time is naught when the heart
becomes fixed upon the eternal now.

 (drawing by Rich Panico)