The only one in the room

The only one in the room                                                                                     

In Your presence (and in their memory)

often they would say

You were the only one in the room.

Even Eruch (or some other) interpreting

your gestures or reading the board

became a disembodied voice

as they beheld You –

the essence of Love and Truth,

the only one in the room.

These latter days when we

are alone together so often,

let it be my meditation

to dwell upon You

until You are once more

the only one in the room,

leaving this illusory life,

myself and all the insistent,

suffering world behind.

O child of God, within and without, Meher said,

present and past, existent or imagined, God alone is real.

By candelight

By candlelight                                                        

By candlelight I search my self’s

nooks and crannies for the source of darkness.

How deep is myself?  It has no end

so long as I’m looking for it,

upheld in the ever deepening maw

by invisible threads always a bit beyond

the tip of my outstretched sword.

Down through the mountain gap,

I’ve entered now the redemptive ocean

but my walking stick keeps me afloat

and I’m kept on the inside dust-dry

by my impermeable skin.

I’ve tried silence and cessation as well,

huddled with myself in the expectant dark,

at His infinite mercy but it’s no good –

just another phony calculation,

inadequate as every other attempt

to lure the grace that admits no compulsion.

           

O child of God, that which would deliver you

you have no idea how to do.

In God we trust

In God we trust                                                                                         

The sea-knowledge of the onetime fisherman

drained his faith and sank Peter short

of reaching Jesus as he walked the pitching sea;

kept the others frightened aboard,

entreating their Savior, yet trusting instead

a makeshift construct to keep them afloat.

But it was Jesus who lifted Peter from the brine,

subdued the storm and brought the ship to shore.

In God we trust . . . there’s no one else –

save our treacherous selves.

Everything is true and congruent to the whole

except our separateness.  The one false thing

(never to be trusted) – our erroneous faith

in ourselves and who we take ourselves to be.

O child of God, the construct of the false self

is the source of an ocean of suffering.

Piscean

Piscean                                                                      

Here’s another poem

about the wind-swept sea –

its froth and spray, churn and tumble,

bitter dash upon the shore.

Another poem diving only

deep as I can hold my breath,

gather my fears, buck my buoyancy –

everything below that left unfathomed.

One day, per my Lord, I’ll become Piscean,

crafted and structured to bear the weight

and pressure of the depths.

When that happens, ages hence,

I’ll be known for my wide-eyed

oceanic silence, my lack of output –

no fingers to hold a pen or type a letter. 

No fleshy mechanism to form a word.

O child of God, when you come to know,

surely you’ll have nothing to say.