Extraordinary forms
So many masters in the
world promising heaven.
I belong to the One Who
declared Himself
free
from all promises!
I’m in exile; down to the
bitter dregs.
Now, You say, the real
work begins.
I’m nostalgic for that
moonlit garden;
the fragrance of Your
sanctuary . . . .
But the artist, You say,
sculpts in a studio
far from the garden’s
pedestal.
No slaughterhouse in a
field of lilies,
nor butcher’s table
beneath the pergola.
Love takes extraordinary
forms --
disillusionment, grief,
chaos, despair.
Not for the weak, nor the
faint-hearted.
There’s ample evidence of
that!
O child of God, the One
Who seems so far away,
is at your elbow, sword
in hand.
(photo by Bob Aherns)
The fruit sublime
Climb out farther on the
limb,
the utmost ends,
where the sublime fruit
grows,
only the rare ones eat –
assorted birds,
extraordinary climbers,
graceful, long-throated
beasts.
You’ve been rooted too
long in the shadows,
settling for the
ordinary.
Climb where the limbs
splay and sag
under your weight;
know the body’s full
price.
Your soul, fed on such
fruit, eventually
will leave this
entanglement
and with the birds soar
the farthest reaches of
the sky.
O child of God, you’ll
transcend this realm,
when you’ve developed a
taste for the fruit sublime.
Utter stillness
I have always adopted, in
this human dilemma,
the rational approach,
but, secretly, I long for
a love that makes no sense.
My every motive is
self-preservation,
while my heart’s wings
propel me, inexorably,
toward oblivion.
Let those royal falcons
build their nests
in the clefts and crags
of Your holy mountain.
I want only to throw
myself over the edge.
Let them haunt the rugged
peaks.
My fate is farther down
the slope,
where Your ocean swallows
me.
Below that rugged
exterior lie
the quiet disintegration
and utter stillness I crave.
O child of God, your
longing is romantic and self-serving.
When will you see
yourself as you really are?
Sweet on the tongue
They gave You a lovely
name,
sweet on the tongue –
they called You Mercy.
Other names would have
sufficed –
Purity . . . Valor . . .
Fidelity –
but not quite hit the
mark.
Mercy is what we’re
begging for
with Your name on our
lips.
O Meher – Compassionate
One,
sweet on the tongue,
the sacred Rose around
which
a multitude of
nightingales –
Your name in their mouths
–
gathers and sings, hoping
to catch Your ear.
O child of God, the
Beloved has a thousand names.
Call Him by the one that
drips like sugar
from your lips and tongue.
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