This odd pitch of clay

This odd pitch of clay (birthday poem)                                                            
 
I’m carrying a torch for You.
I have used it to explore and experience
 
Your creatures and creation
and to search (ironically) for the Light
 
I once mistook for my own –
the Light that is You.
 
This odd pitch of clay will nevermore return. 
It is God Who will take another body.
 
There’s only God.  And as I labor now
to keep aloft, alight, this torch in my last days,
 
I find that I’m carrying it for You, carrying
a shimmering, splintered portion of You
 
back toward the foundry of creation –
toward that inevitable reunion
 
of You with Yourself –
the origin of fire and light.
 
O child of God, you are but a brief spark
from the forge and hammer of the Creator.

 

Nettle tea

Nettle tea
 
The road to hell is paved with good intentions?
I’m hoping it’s the road to Paradise.
 
Ofttimes, I miss the mark but, more and more,
my intentions are to serve You.
 
My love-arrows fall short
and stab someone in the foot.
 
I spread my cape on the ground –
an elegant lady sinks up to her bloomers in mud.
 
My cup of kindness . . . often filled with nettle tea.
I’m like a man on a crowded bus –
 
reaching to help this one, I knock that one’s hat off
and poke my umbrella into someone’s ribs.
 
Turning to apologize, I wallop the entire third row,
distract the driver and cause a rear-end collision.
 
O child of God, fondly recall your Beloved’s promise
that God hears only the language of the heart.

                                    (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)

 

Keeping watch

Keeping watch                                                                                                 
 
In the square a stone soldier
keeps watch upon a muted greenscape.
 
His sturdy vigilance has been there for ages
but now his shoulders seem to sag ever so slightly,
 
his once staunch knees yielding a millimeter or two;
the elements having softened
 
his facial resolve into perplexity
as he dimly views his evolving duty.
 
It’s forbearance now, a detached benevolence
while returning in nanoscopic degrees
 
to pure, featureless stone,
weathering whatever God has in store,
 
yet keeping watch, keeping watch
until he is pulled down entirely
 
off plinth and pedestal
to mingle freely with the dust below.
 
O child of God, the only service God requires of you
is vigilance and a singularity of purpose.

 

New Meherazad

New Meherazad
 
Not external scaffolding, but changes within.
You be the Architect, I’ll be the mason
 
of a new Meherazad,
stone by stone within the chest –
 
humble structures of functional design,
sun-drenched, flower-laden; worn from use,
 
but solidly built, reverentially maintained;
colors more beautiful as they fade.
 
We’ll gather those old saints again,
teacups on the veranda,
 
for love and laughter,
remembrance and devotion.
 
O child of God, capture the essence of Meherazad;
carry it with you wherever you go.

                                          (from A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)