Ephemera
Paper products primarily, made for short-term use,
then thrown away – tickets, paper cups,
posters, flyers, tissue, confetti.
We are that, apparently – our bodies,
personalities, our immediate human histories;
utility and sacrifice the purpose
of our very existence,
the execution and fulfillment
of some long-term ineffable
goal of the soul
with no opinions worthy of a listen
from a crushed paper cup
or complaint from a torn ticket stub –
the temporal, the discardable
in the face of the Eternal;
the creature as opposed to Creator.
O child of God, escape to a realm where time
and space, weight and gauge do not exist.
Speaking of God
Make Me your constant companion,
gestured Lord Meher, speaking of God.
Like an imaginary friend, I told myself . . .
but, no, not imaginary –
beyond imagination and conception.
From Aloneness God created loneliness,
the illusion of separateness, of other,
to be eventually quenched,
so love could run its course
and God could find Himself
though He was never really lost.
God alone is Real, my Lord gestured also.
O my friends!
It is you and I,
His
playmates, who are imaginary.
O child of God, apparently, everything is
love. Love
the verb, love the noun, love the ongoing mystery
of God.
Our only hope
Everyone is taking sides,
yet everyone is on the same side –
it’s our vision versus God’s.
I offer my tongue, o Lord,
for You to quell, flesh to subdue,
my sometimes thunderous heart to becalm
amidst this impossible rebellion.
Not in piety and passivity
but as a clear and dutiful course of action,
out of my compassion, such as it is,
out of my ignorance and impairment;
out of a tenuous devotion to mercurial truth.
A pledge and a prayer, I offer – to cleave
to the narrow way, Your way,
as best it might be determined,
holding out faithfully for the one great hope –
our only hope – the truth
from God’s perspective, God’s big picture.
O child, keep your promises to yourself.
Only silence should come from a grave.
No room for why
The monastic cell, narrow as a gate.
No room for why;
for discouragement or zeal;
joy or despair; nor comparisons,
emotions; conviction or doubt;
stripped of everything but one,
last dot of self from which to witness;
offer silent praise and prayer.
To be so tiny, this cell
must open to the sky;
have no walls; the whole
round planet for its floor
and contain in its every unfolding moment
the complete history of existence.
Narrow is the monastic cell; only long,
deep and wide enough for God.
O child of God, the scripture says
enter into a closet to pray.
