The atelier door

The atelier door                                                                              

The canvas is bare and the base coat is pain,

as we begin our self-portrait, muting

even the sharpest delineations, the staunchest hues. 

We dream of truer colors until some cry of pain,

returns us abruptly to the task at hand. 

But, soon we shall drift away once more,

to conjure up another masterpiece of illusion,

hovering abstractly over palette, canvas and easel.

The base coat is pain and the atelier door  

is locked from the outside.  The portrait paints itself –

beyond our judgment, control or critical flair

and we are, alas, try as we might,

bound inextricably to our labor,

yet, unable to add or subtract a single stroke.

O child of God, the origin of ego is attachment

made manifest through ceaseless imaginings.

                                                  Drawing by Rich Panico

The business of love

The business of love                                                                    

I love you more, said Meher Baba,

than you could ever love yourself,

My self not in the business of love –

neither payments nor debts; 

my self – the absence of love

and love – the absence of self.

Looking for love in the assorted galleries
of fantasy and flight.  Finding none

in ourselves, we look to other selves –

who look to us across the great divide.

The love of which my Lord speaks

offers no barter nor bargain –

love not because of what we might give

(or receive) but, what might empty us,

what might make room, make room -

make room for Love; make room for God.

O child of God, what is this business of love?

Meher says it’s the essence of your being.

The bars of this poetry

The bars of this poetry     

I talk about Your silence.

(The irony does not escape me) --

knowing nothing, chattering along

while You hold Your tongue,

mouth containing universes,

and motion with Your eyes

toward the path

You wish me to follow.

When will I get the hint?

When will the world get the hint? –

this snickering, shouting,

riotous and blasphemous world?

I quote Your words.

Lord, let me quote Your silence

and leave behind forever

the tongue of my conceit,

the lips of my folly, the hollow,

brittle bars of this poetry.

O child of God, honor your poems.

They are addressed from Him to you.