Head over heels
To indicate the effect
breaking His silence
would have upon the
world,
Meher Baba once cupped
His hands
to form a globe and then,
deftly, flipped it over.
Why shouldn’t I believe
Him?
Secure within the
predictable
and familiar orbits and
juxtapositions
of various touchstones
and landmarks,
well-accustomed to the
daunting pattern
of stars spinning above
my head,
the dependable earth
beneath my feet,
my Lord, mercifully,
upended my world,
set me upon a path
through foreign territory –
everything new, strange
and oddly out of whack.
Even today, years later,
whenever I come close
to regaining my
equilibrium, re-acquiring my bearings,
with a swift sweep of His
hand, He clears the playing board.
He once formed a globe
with His hands and then, flipped it.
Upside down, someone said,
interpreting the gesture.
No, He wryly
corrected. Right side up!
O child of God, celebrate
the moment you fell
head over heels in love
with your Beloved.
Where do I go?
Where do I go to get my
innocence back?
O fresh-cheeked, joyous,
clear-eyed boy!
Shall I break the news to
you?
I sold you out – ages
ago, for shining trifles.
Innocence strewn and
squandered,
compliance wheedled and
coaxed –
secret indulgences,
anonymous compromises,
a whisper and a hope . .
. and all for love;
all for love but I lacked
the courage.
Beaten up, pasted over,
trampled under,
I betrayed you and failed
you and here you are again,
o innocent one, forgiving
me, begging me to come clean.
I have no promises to
make. It will take courage;
all the courage I never
had –
the countless moments of
truth
that came and went and
found me wanting.
Where do I go to find
that courage?
To get my innocence
back?
Here, said my Beloved.
Come here. Come to Me.
O child of God, your
pretenses worn threadbare,
let your humble, homely
truth shine through.
The business of love
I love you more, said Meher Baba,
than you could ever love
yourself.
My self not in the
business of love –
neither payments nor
debts;
my self – the absence of
love
and love – the absence of
self.
Not finding love within
ourselves, we look to other selves –
who look to us across the
great divide.
The love of which my Lord
speaks
offers neither barter nor
bargain –
love not because of what
we might give
(or receive) but what
might empty us,
what might make room, make
room –
make room for Love; make
room for God.
O child of God, what is
this business of love?
Meher says it’s the
essence of your being.
Wrens and sparrows
I write my poetry on a
crust of bread
I found in the bottom of
my pouch,
dropping crumbs along the
path
for the wrens and
sparrows.
I won’t be coming back
this way and no one will
follow
into this particular plot
of trees.
The woods are deep. I’ll write
as long as the light
holds out.
God illumines the path
only one step at a time
and my own torch has been
thrown down.
It’s like a crust of
bread –
the moon above the
horizon.
My mortal existence is a
crust of bread.
This poem is dedicated
to the wrens and
sparrows.
I wish I had more to
give.
O child of God, venture
where there is blitheness
in dissolution; unalloyed
bliss in obliteration.
