Cigar box treasures

Cigar box treasures                                                                               

O child, your father is kindly indulgent,

viewing your cigar box treasures.

You hope to catch God’s ear with imaginings

garnered from the teachings –

proud of your knowledge, your disciplines,

your rock-ribbed faith.  O petitioner!  

You have to be broken to pray –

drop to your knees as if from a blow;

broken, not like a horse – but, irrevocably,

like an egg crushed underfoot.

You have to bring to your father

your most humble possessions –

ignorance, trepidation, disbelief;

helplessness and bewilderment.

You have to bring Him the truth

sans adornment or elaboration.

O child of God, when will you view yourself

through the eyes of your father?

The rhabdomancer's art

The rhabdomancer’s art                                                                          

O seeker, you want the living water

but long crusted over is that fount. 

Your tears speckle the nondescript dust

while a stone’s drop beneath you,

silent to your ears,

the living water roils

in the thirst-no-more fountain of Jesus.

It requires the rhabdomancer’s art –

a true divination where and how

to unearth this treasure.   

You’ll never find it on your own –

you’re not sharp enough,

your dual, disparate ends

not coming together

into that magically effective,

one-pointed rod of divining and divinity.

O child of God, silently Meher points the way

to the most rewarding place to delve.

                     

A reluctant tongue

A reluctant tongue                                                         

I wish, at times, I could go the rest of my life

uttering not a word, only essential,

handwritten notes or perhaps an alphabet board,

to preserve not my silence but, my solitude.

There’s safety in solitude.

It’s so wearisome – at times – the vigilance,

tolerating any other’s presence.

We embrace as the waltz begins.

I try to follow the music;

my body fails to cooperate.

My knees stiffen.  Poise deserts me.

I clump along praying for the song to end.

How often I have prayed to be different than I am.

The angel at the gate, (answers my Lord),

is on the lookout for a slim, timid man

with bum knees and a reluctant tongue.

O child of God, play the part as written.

Every element serves the plot.