Nothing of substance

Nothing of substance                                                                      

Dust is existence without blood,

wrote the poet Francis.

Most likely the same thought

in a different language

spoken by Francis the saint. 

As in dust at His feet –

bloodless . . . without spit, too,

without tears, dried up,

crushed, yet breathing, speaking,

doing, thinking – serving the Lord.

Returned to the dust from which

the servant was fashioned

long before the ropes lower him

to his earthly repose; serving the Lord

as a jar of dust holding nothing

of substance – nothing of substance –

only the God-part, the love-essence,

the elusive, ethereal soul.

O child of God, emptiness is completeness

(say the mystics).  Nothing is everything.

The less you milk the dream

The less you milk the dream                                                         

As it turns out, the only bargain’s end 

to uphold is my relationship with the One,

my allegiance bit by bit being switched

from the multifarious, strangely enough

drawing me subtly nearer to the many

in which the One is contained.

Non-attachment (inside and out) is more feasible

as I learn continuously that I hold no sway –

becoming not an attainment but a godsend,

not a method but the truth, an immense

and steadfast comfort the more I dare practice it.

Choices revealed as mere competing compulsions –

effete illusions – the compelling force (as Meher avers)

that drives this individual and collective dream.

It becomes a release that is not an evasion

but an acceptance, an acknowledgement,

the long sought key to the long conjectured

and proposed obedience and surrender.

O child of God, the less you milk the dream

the more true sustenance you receive.

The emptiness of the dream

The emptiness of the dream                                                                      

When I began my quest,

the world made perfect sense;

the pieces fit together snugly,

clung tightly into place.

Then You came along,

bounding down the open road,

upending the apple cart,

proclaiming a new life –

a great living and breathing Mystery

and I was intrigued enough to follow,

study, query, surmise and conject.

Years later, You have become

the only thing that makes sense.

Not because I’ve come anywhere near

plumbing Your depths but because

You have shown me the emptiness of the dream.

I look to You now for the unfathomable truth

because everything else in my world

has proven demonstrably false, fleeting,

insubstantial, partial and delusory.

O child of God, it is Maya – ignorance –

that undergirds the Illusion.

The original dust

The original dust    

                                                 

This metaphor – perhaps it will hold water:

I am a clay jug with a crack in it.

Compulsively, I pour into myself

intoxicants, refreshments, elixirs

but end up always empty and athirst,

my vessel inherently unsuitable

for containment and repletion.

Indeed, this hollowed-out jug

is a barrier to my true function,

my ultimate immersion and satiation.

Nothing on earth (say the mystics)

can permanently plug the crack.

The only cure is abstention – allow myself

to become and remain utterly dry.

Then, will my Beloved come along,

return me by His hammer to the original dust.

O child of God, let your malformed nothingness

be absorbed into His perfect everything.