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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
