The turn of a knob

The turn of a knob                                                                                      
 
I hold my tongue (as You suggested
through a lifetime of silence)
 
and meet You in that immeasurable space
where real things are exchanged.
 
Even in these raw, preliminary stages,
I’m allowed through that door
 
where at the turn of a knob
I’m greeted by Your silence.
 
There to listen instead of barter,
quiescent rather than seeking,
 
immobile instead of on the prowl,
humble instead of scheming –
 
o Lord, I am the silence I listen to.
You are the silence I listen to.
 
We mingle there as one –
as I mutely place my hand in Yours.
 
O child of God, continue with your raucous verses.
Meher’s silence contains all sound.

Ocean shell

Ocean shell                                                                                        
 
Cup this shell to your ear
and listen to the ocean –
 
its hollow, hushed white noise
somewhere between a silence and a roar.
 
Shell to ear, ear to heart,
this is the silence Baba left
 
(with its intimate roar)
to drown out the world’s bellow,
 
its furor and anguish, 
sham and shallow glamour;
 
the mind’s incessant stream of self.
Cup this ocean shell to your ear
 
and leave the populous shore
for the solitude and intangible promise
 
of the deep high seas, farther out, farther out
towards oblivion and soundless nonexistence.
 
O child of God, ride the ocean waves
until you lose your boundaries in its briny vastness.

Under their trilling

Under their trilling                                                                             
 
The path of knowledge has petered out
into a thick pine wood ripe with scent and birdsong.  
 
Its remainder does not lie undiscovered up ahead.
It simply goes no farther.
 
There’s no key to God’s door
on my considerable chain –
 
a weight I’ve accumulated for years.
There’s no lock on God’s door;
 
most likely there’s no door at all out this far. 
What I should do now is toss these keys,
 
scatter the last of my bread crumbs 
for the gathered, guileless birds
 
and await my Beloved under their trilling –
hand outstretched but no longer for begging,
 
merely waiting, do or die, for Him
to take my hand and lead me home.
 
O child of God, leave it – your salvation
has always been entirely up to Him.

(Drawing by Rich Panico)

Of stars and stones

Of stars and stones                                                                                       
 
When they plant my stone on the green hillside
nothing earth-shattering will occur –
 
the ocean and the stars will function as ever before
once my little boat slips under the waves.
 
Often I listen to the world now as if I’m in a casket.
Listen to my thoughts as if they were wind in the trees.
 
Listen beyond the palpable noises,
beyond the stream of my thoughts
 
to the silence underlying every sound, inside and out.
The silence of stars and stones.  The silence of the blue sky
 
behind the clouds.  The silence of death.
I listen to – whether real or imagined –
 
the silence my Lord saved up for a lifetime
and left for me and others to listen to in our loneliness.
 
O child of God, why not, asked Meher,
consider yourself already dead? 

God-sent

God-sent                                                                                            
 
If my virtue requires a villain
I can be sure that I’m duping myself,
 
dabbling in duality with a quality
that belongs to another realm.
 
True virtue is God-sent, borne
of benevolence, humility and equanimity. 
 
It breaks us down – nearer to dust and ashes.
Virtue that lifts us above others
 
is a subtle self promotion, an empty grand gesture
that for whatever good it does,
 
adds to the darkness, the ignorance
and hypocrisy of ourselves and the world.
 
O child of God, in the depths of a ruse
nothing is ever completely what it seems.

When you look for God

 When you look for God                                                                      

The path seems more like a river now
than a road – I’m being pulled down it. 
 
I haven’t the choice even
of opening or shutting my eyes.
 
God, through the Law, does that.
The river wends where it will,
 
flowing also through my mind –
torrents of thoughts, emotions, moods 
 
often turgid with the impedimenta of fear.
Attachment is not only about desire, apparently,
 
it’s about existence – my existence.  It seems
I am a witness not a participant of my journey.
 
Thus I am bound and thus I am infinitely free.
Realization of that freedom is my destiny (I am told).
 
My search (which is not mine to claim)
is an unfolding of that destiny –
 
ever fated to seek and never find God
for I do not exist apart from Him.
 
O child, when you look for God, Rumi said,
God is in the look of your eyes.

The mercy of God

The mercy of God                                                                              
 
They sell a child’s car seat
with a steering wheel attached
 
to keep junior busy in the backseat
driving the car along with Dad.
 
Such is my relationship with God.
I’ve sought most of my life and failed
 
to find one truth which would
disprove the obvious, terrifying notion
 
that I am utterly at the mercy of God.
God Almighty has left me no choice,
 
no influence, power or control. 
No saving myself through any efforts,
 
merit, prayers of my own. 
Yes, all the Realized Ones
 
say God is Love.  God is my true Self. 
I am firmly lodged under my own thumb.
 
But that truth is so very far away.
Not much comfort to my unrealized self
 
with no work to do, no vows to keep,
no power of rescue or the alleviation of pain.
 
O child of God, becoming helpless and hopeless
is not an attainment but a revelation.

Giving myself up for dead

Giving myself up for dead  

                                                               

I got myself lost in the back country,
romping out of the barn on a jet black horse
 
just as day broke.  Rode wild and loose
for a long ways.  Lost my bearings.
 
I’ve nosed my old horse around ever since
studying every bleached-boned hint of a trail,
 
every wagon rut, dry gulch
cattle run that might lead home. 
 
At last I stumbled upon
an old ghost of a prospector
 
who advised me to drop the reins.
Let that tired, hungry horse under me
 
find its own way back to the stable.
I might not like the route or ride it takes,
 
but return, the old man said,
by giving myself up for dead;
 
by dropping all pride and purpose,
false hope, shallow expertise
 
to surrender completely,
beyond any intent or desire.
 
O child of God, not a trace of resistance!
Surrender tolerates no dishonesty. 

My worn out boots

My worn out boots                                                                                      
 
My worn out boots are on His porch
but my back is to His door.
 
I’ve knocked randomly, rang the bell.
Without an answer I’ve turned again
 
toward where I came from
down the shady stone walk
 
through the trim, thick grass
that leads back to the busy street.
 
Everything passing out there seems
(momentarily) important – each phase,
 
crisis, new adventure, each fleeting attachment.
Everything but God at every moment
 
seems alive and urgent.  Everything
but His quiet house set back from the road;
 
everything but getting a foot inside that door.
My worn out boots are on His welcome mat.
 
I’m not going anywhere – a blessing
and a curse – as I turn again briefly
 
to ring and knock, shout and study
how at last I might slip inside.
 
O child of God, to enter His house
turn forever your back upon the world.