At cycle's end

At cycle’s end                                                                                                  

You even put it into prayer –
the plea for God to help us
 
hold fast to Your damaan
when, as You predicted,
 
things got rough at cycle’s end
and how easy it would be  
 
to lose our grip in the upheaval
of a world turned right side up.
 
And God has provided us, in silent aid and answer,
with no one and nothing else to cling to but You.
 
O child, God has backed you into a corner
so you might face Him at last.

A horse-hooved knowledge

Horse-hooved knowledge 

A lifetime of wandering here and there
among the trees looking for the forest.
 
A plastic sequin on a cheap gown –
such it is that snags the mind –
 
spangles not only worthless but pernicious
for they divert us from the real and the true.
 
At ocean’s shore the galloping horse stumbles,
unable to enter deeply where it can neither
 
stand nor swim or float; rear or whinny –
do anything other than drown
 
in wild, flaring confusion.  We cling
to the shore and the horse that got us there. 
 
Numerous lifetimes it takes to know
we do not know, can never know
 
anything of the ocean, anything of where
the horse is a foreign, ineffectual creature;
 
anything but the dust-ridden,
horse-hooved knowledge
 
that keeps us ever on the scent, ever
following one false trail after another.
 
O child of God, the mind reigns in duality
but can never leave itself to reach beyond.

 

There is a crushing

 There is a crushing                                                                                              

“How do I escape suffering, Lord”,
 And He gave me an answer (though I am reluctant to hear). 

 

It seems there is a crushing and a transfiguration. 
Grain becomes bread; grapes become wine,

then upon our tongues and in our throats, 
we partake of the body and blood of Christ.  

There’s no rescue (praise God for that, He tells me),
only endurance and culmination;
 
the end of hope and then, an awakening.
Only a trust in the process,

 

in the necessity and the outcome; 
Faith in love, in the Maker and the Father.
 
All shall be well (He revealed to one lover, centuries ago).
All shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
 
O child of God, request not rescue
but solace, strength and conviction.

This odd pitch of clay

This odd pitch of clay (birthday poem)                                                            

I’m carrying a torch for You.
I have used it to explore and experience
 
Your creatures and creation
and to search (ironically) for the Light
 
I once mistook for my own –
the Light that is You.
 
This odd pitch of clay will nevermore return. 
It is God Who will take another body.
 
There’s only God.  And as I labor now
to keep aloft, alight, this torch in my last days,
 
I find that I’m carrying it for You, carrying
a shimmering, splintered portion of You
 
back toward the foundry of creation –
toward that inevitable reunion
 
of You with Yourself –
the origin of fire and light.
 
O child of God, you are but a brief spark
from the forge and hammer of the Creator.

That clear still center

That clear still center                                                                                

If I had my way, I’d never come back

to another lifetime of sin and ignorance,

causing pain and harm to myself and others.

But that’s no virtue –

not wanting to cause suffering.  

It’s just another desire – the root of suffering,

the barrier to surrender and non-return. 

In the realm of illusion

where might pure virtue be found?

Purity has nothing to do with perfection.

It has to do, apparently, with getting off the wheel

onto that clear still center even as

the rest of the world shakes and gyres,

rattles and quakes, wavers around you.

If I had my way, I’d never come back

but then – it’s never been about me having my way.

O child of God, round and round and round you go,

too drunk to find your way off the dance floor.

Become the sought

Become the sought                                                                                               

Fool that I am, I have searched for You all these years –

the One Who is everywhere and in everything.

I’m not sure of what I’m seeking

but You’ve given it a name:  Meher Baba.  

I suppose I’m nearer the goal after all this time.

I’ve no way to gauge the distance.

You didn’t come to teach

and I’ve learned nothing of consequence.

Either I am You or Your creature

or somehow both and I’ll end up with You

some lifetime or another – or not.

You might never be mine

but just the same I belong to You.

I may be a fool but I’m Your fool,

hoping to die

with Your name on my lips.

O child of God, Meher said stop seeking

and become the sought.

Bottleneck

Bottleneck                                                                                                 

There’s a bottleneck ahead,
multiple lanes merging into one,
 
other vehicles escaping via numerous exits,
shooting off somewhere toward greener pastures
 
so that I end up alone on a narrow one-lane
strip of asphalt, overgrown and broken,
 
twisting through hill country and deep woods,
no road signs or mileposts.  I know not
 
what’s ahead or if I am on the right road
but it no longer matters. 
 
It’s my route, my journey,
my destination and now I know
 
I do not travel it by chance
and I do not travel it alone.
 
O child, if God is with you,
the journey and goal are secondary.

Castle in the air

Castle in the air                                                                                        

I’ve built a castle in the air, 

rooted precariously in the clouds.

I move through it daily inspecting

inconsistencies, shifts in solidarity

and alignment – yet also marveling each step

at its impracticable beauty and intricate improbability.

It began with a frail hope, then a desperate faith.

Now a feckless audacity keeps me

roaming its uncharted wings,

knowing what an absurd indulgence

my efforts are considered

by almost everyone stuck in the mire below.

Riding the clouds, built upon the wind,

having perhaps not a whit of substance

but, o I have found nothing

on terra firma to outweigh its promise,

its solace and my holy obsession

with its lofty, ethereal beauty.

O child of God, to reside within the mystery,

rise above everything on earth taken to be true.

A child of Meher

A child of Meher   

I heard of a man named Mercy,

those drawn to Him known as lovers

and ever since that long ago day,

in spite of my distrust, I have inwardly        

longed to be wholeheartedly

one of those sisters and brothers.

But how might a man of so little love,

so little mercy align himself honestly

with the lovers of the Lord of Love;

the Father of Mercy?  I have remained a beggar

outside the gates; listened to their songs of love,

even composed a few myself of praise and complaint,

expressing my allegiance, my hope for love,

my gratitude for the still-open invitation;

marveling at the path I have taken

since I first heard the mercy of His name.

O child of God, however stubborn your fears,

you could never deny – you are a child of Meher.

(drawing by Rich Panico)