Stick horse

Stick horse                                                                                                         

I’m bound hands and feet.

Resistance binds me all the more.

Someone shared a photo,

holding it before my eyes –

me as a child on a stick horse galloping

like a pony under the great gray trees.

I wept so hard I thought

I might die but I didn’t.

Imagine somewhere, I am told, other than here;

somehow other than this trussed up existence.

I wonder what good it does, seeing

that I can’t move an eyelash

back towards innocence

nor forward towards liberation.

O child of God, it’s a long journey.

Some days are better than others.

Original grain

Original grain                                                                                           

I want to not know

any other way to be.

Cut my alternatives

down to zero, the original grain

good for me, good for me;

truth will out and out of that truth

a worn out humbleness, holiness revealed;

holy however imperfect, impure, impaired.

Dream if you must

of unbridled potential.

I want to not know

any other way to be,

rubbed down to the nub, the original grain

and go with that, go with that, go with that.

O child of God, Meher said God is found

where you are not.

Play dead

Play dead                                                                                                 

I’ve received the handoff, apparently,

deep in my own territory,

lumbering towards daylight

but they’re after me.

It’s all a mistake!

I don’t want to be here

but there it is

deep in my belly.

A shaky glimpse

of that impossibly distant goal;

lurching forward

until I’m roughly brought down,

one shrill, sharp whistle

blowing the play dead.

O child of God, existence, Meher Baba said,

is a game God began on a whim.