Rejoice
Rejoice
when your life has become smudged,
yellowed
with age, corners curled up
like
an old snapshot viewed too many times.
Rejoice
in your longevity; not everyone reaches this shore.
You’ve
been given it for a reason. Rejoice
in
your friends and loved ones who have gone before,
moved
on to another opportunity. Rejoice in
your infirmities
which
encourage you, in your many-lived journey,
to
quit your infatuation with your body.
Rejoice
in your immobility – there to teach you
that
there is nowhere to go. Rejoice in your
fading mind
which
has misled you all of your days.
Rejoice
in your failures – graciously teaching
you
to bow down humbly before your Maker.
O
child of God, in this great migration toward God
every burden holds a
hidden blessing.
Nothing
matters
When
you come to the truth
that
nothing matters (per Meher)
in
this dream of life but love for God,
standing
helpless and hopeless
before
your Maker,
you
may gain then a foothold
on
the approach road leading
to
your own demise and liberation.
A
life of perfect surrender is one in which
nothing
matters
– come what may;
where
every moment is received
and
humbly accepted with acquiescence
by
the faithful servant, the perfect lover,
as
the sacred will and wish of the Beloved.
O
child of God, view this dream of life and death
as an important
journey wherein nothing matters.
(drawing by Rich Panico)
SomeOne
of authority
It’s
a winding course I’ve taken.
It
seems to have been set by someOne else.
I
feel like a pawn in a grandiose, enigmatic game –
an
unsettling notion at best yet not nearly as fearful
as
the possibility that I make my way
through
the world alone and unobserved.
I
seem to possess abundant faith in God the Creator
but
not so much in God the Beloved.
Our
Creator I have generally taken to be self-evident,
but
it took someOne of authority, someOne I trusted,
to
insist that God is Love . . . so that I began to follow
my
heart, upturning all my previous assumptions.
This
ongoing examination and interrogation of mine
is
not evidence of my disbelief
but
proof of my abiding faith,
my
skepticism merely a signature trait
(as
the Creator is well aware)
of
just who in the world I am
or
at the very least, the imperfect role
I
have been chosen to play.
O
child of God, you can’t know the truth of God’s love
by looking it up in
the dictionary.
Ode
to Fear
Lifelong
have you hounded me,
thwarted
my surrender,
the
great contradiction being,
as
my constant companion,
you
have also been the compelling force
in
my flight toward surrender.
For
that, I begrudgingly give you credit.
God
by definition is fearless, so why and how
do
you manifest so inherently in His children?
Per
the Mystics, you are merely
one
aspect of God’s everything,
an
illusory absence
in
the eternal essence of Love.
O
these incongruities and contradictions!
Such
is my life on the battlefield
which
underneath (They tell me)
has
always been a vast green and fragrant meadow
leisurely
raked by the random summer winds.
O
child of God, where there is love, said Meher,
there is no
fear. Where there is fear there is no
love.
The
true question
During
every pilgrimage over the years,
I
have bowed down twice a day (or more) at the Tomb;
attended
and dutifully listened
to
the various Meherazad testimonies.
Returned
home to clasp my hands daily
before
a relic-adorned shrine, trying,
perhaps,
to prove a sincerity I do not feel.
I
have attempted to make Meher the center of my life –
attending
events and meetings, visiting the Center,
professing
before God and others the love
I
hope to one day possess, though it now seems
that
the true question is not whether I love God
but
whether He loves me . . . (or not)
and,
in lieu of any certainty, do I believe it myself?
O
child of God, make Meher the center of your life
in the hopeless hope
that one day He will become its entirety.
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
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
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
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.
