Rumi's field

Rumi’s field                                                                                       
 
Rumi’s field – beyond ideas
of wrong-doing and right-doing –
 
is not so far away. 
I’m running my hand
 
along the top of its fence.  It was never
a great distance to traverse
 
but a coming to a halt,
turning the handle
 
and swinging wide the gate.
No one to meet me there but myself,
 
unencumbered of my knothole view,
my prejudices and opinions.
 
Ah, to lie down burden-free
in that long grass with the wildflower scent
 
in the sun-warmed field, upheld
and surrendered like a body on the ocean face
 
letting the current move me where it will.
It’s so near, just over the fence,
 
and I won’t leave here without a fight
or until I find a way through its summoning gate.
 
O child of God, not far away nor far in the future.
Seek advice from your constant Companion.

Not quite a poem

Not quite a poem                                                                              
 
To denounce someone, the first thing
given up is humility.  Elementary physics and geometry –
 
I must elevate myself to look down upon others.
Not telling anyone to refrain, mind you –
 
there are invariably good reasons –
just pointing out the price that is always there.
 
I crane my neck looking up at the mountain.  
From the top, I might see equally in all directions.
 
Knowing intuitively I have not the strength, the discipline,
the courage, the expertise to complete the climb,
 
I slip on my backpack and start up the rocky trail.
Better to die on the slopes than back at camp.
 
So many people in the world,
I’m sure they can do without me
 
adding my own brand of stridency
to the din of blind opinion.
 
Whatever you guys decide is fine with me,
knowing it will be the Whim and Will of God.
 
O child of God, you have paid the price,
lost your humility, writing and reciting this not quite a poem.

Salvage and salvation

Salvage and salvation                                                                         
 
Over a lifetime, in my own way,
I’ve been moving toward You –
 
in darkness, by fits and starts, studying warily
the scriptures, claims, promises,
 
attuning myself to some real
or imagined inner guide.
 
Here and there at various speeds and coming
now and then to a complete stop,
 
wondering which bedimmed fork to take,
or why go on with such a lonely, desperate search.
 
But only very recently, the sun has peeked
over the heaving edge of the world
 
enough for me to see that I have
ever been trekking the vast deck of a ship
 
as You return me surely, safely,
irrevocably to home port.
 
I’m leaning on the rail right now,
taking in the breaking sun, the salt wind
 
and wondering what I might do, if anything,
to aid in my own salvage and salvation.
 
O child of God, learn your ship duties;
prepare well for the immeasurable voyage ahead.

 

This empty cup

This empty cup                                                                                 

 

Enough for me, this empty cup.

With your own lips

 

You have drained it of the world’s wine

and left a promise – the distant scent

 

and stain of Your own vintage.

Each day I enfold its rough clay

 

and murmur a prayer,

lift to my lips its soured nothingness,

 

taste the exasperatingly faint

intimation of Your nothingness.

 

And setting it down, abandon again

the world’s shimmering images,

 

imaginings and intoxications,

its brief, bitter sweetness.

 

For me, enough (is enough) this empty cup,

until its clay mouth is crushed again,

 

its hollowness filled with debris,

buried in the earth’s whirling wheel  

 

for yet another stab at Your ethereal lightness,

assured Oneness, Your sobering, holy wine.

 

O child of God, the world is mad with drink.

Rejoice in your disaffected indifference.