True-blue friend

True-blue friend                                                                                       
 
I’m your One true-blue friend, said my Lord,
ever heartily engaged in orchestrating
 
your absolute, irrevocable demise.  Trust me.
I know what I’m doing undermining
 
your every aspiration; rattling your certitude,
exasperating every comfortable position,
 
challenging every concept you embrace.
You will never know the truth, My friend,
 
until you utterly despair of ever knowing the truth.
Don’t worry. I will not be swayed from My task
 
of personally pulling down the pillars
of your every carefully constructed temple.
 
O child of God, surrender is not
ultimate attainment but ultimate faith.

Sweet cajoling

Sweet cajoling                                                                                            
 
It’s never been much of a mystery, this poetry;
short on ambiguity, esotericism, obfuscation.
 
Very little sentimentality or frivolity.
Heavy-handed as a poet; heavy-handed as a seeker,
 
let me now cease my loud, unseemly protestations
and merely lean against Your door;
 
let my heart do the pleading, its subtle rhythm,
humble ardor catching Your ears. 
 
The world is at my back,
having lost its coherence. 
 
Its music no longer enchants,
no longer intrigues, no longer frightens,
 
as my pressing heart and ear listen and thirst
for the perennial beauty of Your ancient silence.
 
O child of God, whisper your sweet cajoling. 
He is nearer than your own breath.

Your handiwork

Your handiwork                                                                                        
 
Sew me up, my open wounds,
if it be Your will; staunch the flow,
 
so others, not repulsed, might come near enough
to view Your handiwork and marvel –
 
see me emptied out; You shiningly
apparent through my threadbare coat.
 
Now that You’ve changed me inwardly,
darkness to light; bitterness to balm,
 
let it manifest outwardly, if it be Your will,
yet only to glorify You.  Let them witness
 
my candle dwindling, the flame You lit
yielding to the one light of Your elemental sun.
 
O child of God, bow at His feet
never to rise again.

The dorje of time

The dorje of time                                                                                               
 
A mandala by the holy monks intricately created –
a colored sand circle to enjoy briefly and admire,
 
a tool for devotion, the learning of truth,
beauty and impermanence, to be after a time,
 
(with a dorje) ritually destroyed, ceremoniously offered
back to the ever-running river.  O Lord!
 
You created the Mandali – a beautiful circle
made of clay, intricately crafted, who became dust
 
at Your feet and for a time left afterwards
to be briefly enjoyed and admired, to be learned from –
 
true devotion, the impermanence of illusion
and the cling-to permanence of Your silent, profound truth.
 
O child of God, the living, vital beauty of the Mandali
has been reverently erased by the dorje of time and fate.