Of life eternal

Of life eternal 

The Gita says, what is born must die.
And as the bodies pile up,

our noses continually rubbed in the dust,
we begin to tremble before such a truth.

But in that truth lies a subtle assurance.
What is born in illusion – our temporal selves

over and over again born of ignorance,
must by the same truth someday die eternally

while the God part of us, the part never born,
never born, can never die. Can never die.

O child of God, take note of death
only as a harbinger of life eternal.

Who I am not

Who I am not                                                                                            
 
Life and I pass each other by,
never in conjunction, never at rest. 
 
Choices are made, accepting as best I might
their consequences, numerous happenstances
 
over which I hold no sway. 
That’s the game I was taught – 
 
how well to keep head and heart until death,
balancing sorrow with happiness,
 
triumph with tragedy, peace with fear. 
But lately I’ve come to know –
 
the game is other than that.  Not life at all –
life being merely the arena in which it is staged.
 
The game is finding out first
who I am not and don’t have to be;
 
who I am not – in route
to the truth of who I really am.
 
O child of God, you checked the roll
and found yourself absent without leave.

No leave-takings

No leave-takings                                                                                        
 
One by one, my sons left home – walking each
down to the property’s edge; entrusting them  
 
reluctantly to God, themselves and fate.
One day, I’ll stand at the same gate
 
and watch myself disappear over the hilltop,
knowing, at last, that I do not, never did
 
hold any sovereignty over that character
I’ve known so thoroughly, portrayed so well.
 
To get to God, apparently, is to forsake
the only other intimacy I’ve ever known,
 
neither of us having any real existence
or relationship beyond the omnipresence of God.
 
O child of God, in truth there are (says Meher)
no leave-takings, no loss nor gain.

Water strider

Water strider                                                                                            
 
Whatever you say about God,
declared Meister Eckhart, is untrue.
 
(Including, presumably, his own
aforementioned pronouncement).
 
Buddha simply smiled and upheld a flower.
Meher stopped speaking altogether.  
 
It was the best He could do for His lovers –
with their scaled eyes, human ears,
 
chattering brains; fledgling hearts
beating erratically in their chests.
 
This poetry is not about God
but about the swirling images
 
and ideas surrounding God.
The water strider knows well its milieu
 
but it cannot, could never (spindly lightweight),
fathom the depths below the surface;
 
incapable of deep submersion;
incapable of ever drowning.
 
O child of God, Meher gives you words
in lieu of the real things.