Saturday, October 29, 2016

Unhand the world

Unhand the world  

Surrender by unhanding the world;
true humility, it seems, the perfect slave,

attained by embracing utter ignorance
and some sort of dynamic passivity.

Incapable of grasping the Truth, the mind
must be put aside, or by grace put itself aside.

Though it might lead, by negation,
to Truth’s threshold, for the pilgrim

to enter the Tomb-shrine, the discriminating mind
must resolutely and purposefully be discarded

like sandals outside the door –
feet bare and the world unhanded,

naked of any reactive defense
until it becomes dissolved in wholeness,

so They say, seamlessly forever unattached.
Ignorance embraced by faith,

nurtured and established until it becomes,
by grace, whatever True Knowledge is.

O child of God, Meher said, love Me;
do not try to understand Me.

(photo of Meher Baba's tomb - Meherabad, India)

Saturday, September 24, 2016

  Garment of leaves          

Heart like an apple core --
that’s where the seeds are. 

People take you for a lunatic
but it’s just the inner thunder

giving you that far away look,
(as Adam must have looked,

gazing back across the garden pale),
impeding nimble strides and coherent speech.

What’s a man’s gait anyway,  
but a limping away from his destiny?

Or smooth talk if his seeds are stone?
The crooked path he follows

can only lead back to where he began –
the garden in the chest.    

It’s all there in the core – root, leaf, bark, fruit;
soil, water, sky.  Time makes us think

the apple in our hand is ripe and ready
to sink our teeth into.

O child of God, shed that garment of leaves.
Venture naked into the new world.
(image by falco @ pixabay)

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Where the day will take us

Where the day will take us                       

Harder each year, becomes the routine –
folding and unfolding myself;

reach, stretch, bend and arch. 
Harder still to flex that not-the-body

pertaining to me – to keep it vital –
generous and receptive.

Jesus said, become as a little child –
when I went about 

where the day would take me,
shedding a life in time

of hierarchical impositions;
exploring the outposts and wild purlieus –

nameless and unruly; heroic and detached.
It’s not that unmarked tablet

(lost on the way to school)
we must recover but, our flexibility,

our susceptibility, slipping out
of our tendencies, our utterly crushing contexts,

young and vigorous, lithesome and nimble,
adventuresome deep in our bones,

as we go about exploring the vast,
Godly paths of where the day will take us.

O child of God, are your own arrangements
superior to your Father’s intentions?    
(photo by Dassel/pixabay)

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

God's gift

God’s gift      

Enjoy this moment God has made,
o companions, knowing full well

we have no right to joy –
not having earned it,

not owning it nor having created it. 
It’s a loan, a temporary possession,

slipping inevitably through our fingers.
Endure the suffering moments as well –  

God’s loan, also – knowing we do not
own suffering and have not earned it.

We pray for one and not the other
but, God gives neither joy nor pain;

God’s gift is life – temporary, also –
the fleeting, undivided experience

and awareness of it – the ecstasy and horror,
love and bitterness, grief and pride,

the gentility and brutality of it through which
we must make our way, time after time,

until God gathers it all back again
into His vast, bestowing arms.

O child of God, to accept the gift of God,
accept the total, eternal ownership of the Giver.

Monday, August 15, 2016



A charcoal portrait which represents me
as much as apparently anything else,

all down on paper in black and white;
stationary lines arc and wriggle,

twist and flow, crafting brows,
hairlines and facial features.

I’m the empty space, I suppose,
sketchy, binary, insinuated;

formed and shaped
by shades of black and gray.

The black is my ignorance – 
overwhelming; peripheral; defining.

The white is my emptiness,
at center stage, the light’s facsimile.

I become existent where there is nothing -
allowing the backdrop to seep through.

Having mislocated myself, I cleave desperately
to the ignorance that appears to define me.

O child of God, the goal is not to know yourself 
but to be Who You are and always were.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Apple-cheeked son

Apple-cheeked son

Perfect is the poem until the book is cracked,
meaning and structure imposed from without;

eyes taken off even for a moment
and it returns to its original

apple-bright, closed-cover perfection,
where, composed of unassailable unity,

aptness and utility, it doesn’t mean a thing. 
But seized and probed, quoted and exploited,

read assiduously between the lines,
its perfection is seemingly destroyed

by the critical reader’s inherent
self-serving fantasy, leaving it to rot

like carelessly bitten fruit tossed aside
in the original garden state of non-attachment.

O child of God, you are also
the apple-cheeked son of Adam and Eve.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Paper tiger

Paper tiger

At some point, the path becomes self-verifying,
its own guide; with easily discernible boundaries.

At some turn in the road, annihilation
portends freedom, the right thing to do;

the only treasure to give.  Every self-assertion
becomes transparent and repugnant;

every question identified as the dodge,
deflection that it is; every guile pathetic,

the crumbling castle, feet of clay;
the paper tiger insufficient in its roar. 

At some point, the arrows fail to penetrate
and the clamor of the crowd, the invalidation

of the enchanted, the drunken and oblivious
become palm leaves under donkey hooves,

aiding the pilgrim to wend his way. 
At some arrival, you swing through a door

and though you weave in and out for a time thereafter,
losing your grip and footing, there’s no turning back,

no way to remain that which you no longer
seem to be and have lifelong been.

O child of God, the path never gets easier
but dedication brings surety and daring.  

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

What Is

What Is   

Delve into existence beyond the apparent;
uncover evidence in this illusory realm

of the truth’s countless nuances.  Become wise
of your own ways and others.  Wisdom is righteous.

But, at some point you must turn away,
accepting only the apparent

because nuance remains illusion
and investigation is attachment

and the acceptance of existence
as being the ultimate reality.

To try and figure out life, ourselves and others
is to give it all too much importance.

To ponder beyond a certain stage
sweeps us away from God and the goal,

chewing the cud of falsity, indulging in the knowable –
a poor substitute for being and existence –

while the apparent is truly what is true,
happening in the one and only moment;

what our senses and mind encounters,
grapples with briefly and abandons ceaselessly; 

what is now, happening, holy, what Is,
signifying nothing beyond its miraculous existence.

O child of God, Meher urged everyone to see
beyond the form to Who He really is. 
(photo by Office 361 - pixabay)

Monday, July 18, 2016

The nature of stars

The nature of stars  

A sky full of stars and the magi looking
eastward to an extraordinary flare

moving contrary to fixed patterns,
to all known predictions,

contrary to the nature of stars;
then, following it pell-mell –

blazing sun, freezing nights –
in a burdensome gallop,

destination unknown. It didn’t matter –
they were chasing the cosmic,

leaving behind the earth.
The great mystery of heaven

had come down to greet them,
to intermingle and lay on hands,

no longer remnants,
distant trackers and observers

but burning, existential participants
in the ancient, great fires of creation.

O child of God, chase after truth;
let nothing stand in your way.   

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

I am not myself

I am not myself             

I’ve taken up the tightrope these last few years,
having so little to lose, life and time precious

but the cheapness of my indulgences
showing through, while that high,

tense wire is the only path to the other side.
To grieve, to judge, to mind, to intervene

is to indulge in Illusion.  When the mind fasts,
every sentiment and desire, every concept

is a tempting morsel of entrenchment,
intransience, disobedience, bread for the mouth,

wine for the throat of that false entity.
High above the abyss, inching my way

towards whatever beckons from the other side,
I forego as best I might self-perpetuation,

the one exception being to pause continually
and remind myself I am not myself. 

O child of God, were you to bear alone salvation
nothing would be possible under its crush.

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

Begging bowl

Begging bowl  

To seek the truth (it seems to me),
is to covet what God knows and is,

while seeking nothing honors His secret.  
To seek nothing is the ultimate faith.

A dearth of trust is truth-seeking,
the self-seeking of reward –

truth being not what is known 
but what is now; nothing else to know -

unstorable; unrepeatable; untranslatable.
To seek nothing is to abandon the paradigm 

of loss and gain; to accept the mantle 
of our being an illusory scrap of nothingness.

So our choice is to grasp at truth
with our empty hands or simply to hold out

and accept whatever is dropped
into our God-issued begging bowl.

O child of God, truth is not to be found
but experienced in absolution and obliteration.
(crop of a photo by sciencefreak @ pixabay)

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

The impedimenta of desire

The impedimenta of desire      

Evolution in the course of a lifetime
might be interpreted

not as consciousness expanding
but of encumbrances shed

yet so few and paltry
that little more light shines through

at the end than in the beginning,
always threatened by smudges of vice,

the impedimenta of desire
to overwhelm the journey’s

natural divestiture and unveiling.
Aeons it seems, requires the process,

the gathering up, the breaking off,
littering the landscape, a-tisket, a-tasket,

the mortal, humble basket,
until each entombed core of light

triumphs over the encrusted alias
of Who, by faith, we really are.

O child of God, hide not your lamp
beneath the bushel but let it shine.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Orb of the heart

Orb of the heart         

The center of the sky once was earth,
the movements of planets and stars

erratic, calculations difficult and complex.
The sun took over and flights clicked

more easily into discernible patterns.
And when the center of the sky

became a distant, conjectured,
long-ago point of origin, the earth,

stars and planets began to interact
in simple, calculable and precise ways,

parts of an infinite, well-oiled machine.
As long as that blue, stone cold

orb of the heart is taken to be
the center of the universe,

every outward movement,
every body spinning beyond

will be judged as erratic and arbitrary,
inexplicable and incalculable.

O child of God, the truth makes things
o-so-much-more effortless and clear.

Tuesday, June 14, 2016



The closer you get to truth,
the more tightly wound

around itself is paradox,
the linear poles gone limp,

loosely knotted like shoelaces.
Oneness is attained (apparently)

by disassociation from the illusion of self.
These deftly orbiting aggregates don’t mean

the hub exists as more than a not-quite-arbitrarily
selected point in space, a makeshift home

where we might hang our cognizant hats
until we’re ready to walk away from it all.

There is only one attachment to break
(which propagates all others) –

Oneness is attained by disassociation!
O pilgrim, honor your name –

quit the symbiotic partnership
that binds you to one spot

and venture forth, toward
whatever there may be beyond.

O child of God, infinity has no center.
To what do you daily tether yourself?

Monday, June 6, 2016

The truth of illusion

The truth of illusion          

Moths circle the lamp, hover and hurtle,
attracted to the flame but, also

driven from the midst
of its dark surroundings.

You reach God (they say)
when you come to the end of yourself.

You get wise.  It’s the truth of illusion
that shatters, that jades;

the truth of illusion that bores, sates,
disheartens, disenchants.

You rush toward God when God
outshines His surroundings.

When the dark has gobbled you up –
bones and blood,

you rush and flail
and hurl yourself toward the light;

seeing there’s nothing of worth
in the darkness to leave behind.

O child of God, turn from illusion
toward the way, the truth, the light.


Monday, May 30, 2016

Cross yourself

Cross yourself         

Cross yourself – routinely,
in whatever form customary –

puja, zikr, mea culpa;
yarmulke, psalter, prayer,

kusti, damru, nembutsu, suf . . . .
Cross yourself – quietly, discreetly;

go against the grain. 
Apply deeper wisdom,

a farther vision, visceral caution. 
Keep your balance to help

balance the world around you.
Cross yourself, o traitorous one,

and you may find after so long a time,
crossing yourself befriends the Friend –

befriends the Christ, the Other,
the One, befriends your Self.

O child of God, give only advice gingerly
gleaned from the words of the Master.
(photo from the Vespasian Psalter -
King David and his musicians - Wikipedia)

Monday, May 23, 2016

The unfolding answer

The unfolding answer              
To a man of faith, life itself
is the unfolding answer to all prayers.

Pain, fright is there – but not
anxiety; loss but not grief;

failure without disappointment;
solitude without loneliness;

death (they say) without termination.
On the tip of the bow,

a man of faith is serenely poised
to receive, to pass along

only what he’s given; responsible
for nothing but vigilance and acquiescence.

He gets the big picture, though as yet,
is unable to grasp the details.

Less than a hair’s breadth (the Masters say),
separates heaven from earth –

it requires an unhanding, an atrophy of judgment,
a relinquishment of presumption.

Life itself to a man of faith
is the unfolding answer to all prayers.

O child of God, give anything, everything,
life itself, to become a man of faith.
(photo by a1961184127 @ pixabay)

Monday, May 16, 2016

Light and lofty

Light and lofty              

The linnet bird touts
its high wire wisdom 

without contention, knowing
not enough to be consequential –

a statement of conditions,
not a song of complaint or praise.

Brilliant, this moment of sunlight
in the glen on its warm,

feathered, bird-boned back,
a smidgen of bliss

far as the breeze will carry. 
How light and lofty

to be inconsequential,
above all, in God’s corner

singing in, of and for the blue sky
and the wide green world

not one qualified, discordant,
contestable note.

O child of God, trade in your intuitive discernment
for the clean abandonment of not-knowing.

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

The joy of breath

The joy of breath

It’s like sewing the torn seam
of a treasured jacket –

needle pushed in, pulled out
to patch the rend that lets the chill in

and the warmth escape.  You might say
His name with each stroke if you’ve a mind to

and go through the day
with mercy in your throat;

like a swinging gate awhisper on well-oiled hinges –
you keeping a nearby watch

to chronicle the traffic, follow your thoughts
where you will and leave off where you must –

stand and observe the lone traveler
disappearing against the sky.

Wherever you end up, the gate will follow,
ready for you to take up your post again.

You won’t change much – just become
less and less, fewer chased-down desires,

rash decisions, careless attachments.
O seamster, name-dropper, sentinel, spy!

holy, holy witness, knowing only the moment,
inside and out, and the primal joy of breath!

O child of God, will you ride the ox or
chase forever behind its random wanderings?

Tuesday, May 3, 2016



Easier these latter years to be content
with everyday chores, ordinary mind

knowing its once distracting visions
come to naught at best, heartache more;

that flailing away at ourselves redeems not
the future, serving only to entrench

even further the recalcitrant self. 
All life’s conflicts are resolved here –

in the sparrow’s wing, the hand on the plow,
the hammer of the bell, the eternally shifting now.

Consuming our simple breakfast,
strolling the April garden, a tune

sung in the quiet dusk - a cul-de-sac,
not a crossroads of judgments, decisions;

regrets and desires, realized or thwarted.
No running out of time here.

Thoroughly encountering the mundane,
the mundane becomes unworldly,

extraordinary, no sacrifice –
enough, enough, more than enough.

O child of God, whatsoever thy hand findeth to do,
rest assured, it has just left the fingertips of God.
(photo by adrianaromundo - pixabay)

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Regarding the mystery

Regarding the mystery   

This language which I do not speak,
lately comes to me by way

of the great mystery no one comprehends
and so I remain silent mostly – better not

to understand, nor speak, this wisdom
than the human, understandable points

held forth daily, apparently far from any truth –
the constant parroting of love and mercy,

courage and virtue without the least authenticity
or reality behind the uttered words.

So perhaps better mere silence, refraining
from complicity, regarding the mystery

and its tenacious beauty, so terrible
and unimaginable – this Word, this God

unutterable on every human tongue,
this purported Oneness,

this homecoming along the inexhaustible,
unfathomable, inexpressible Way.

O child of God, you regret your silence
and then you regret your speech.
(photo by danymena88 - pixabay)

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

The work that must be done

The work that must be done   

It appears the loneliness
will become almost unbearable.

Sorted out along the way
by unidentifiable voices,

stripped of being the soldier
you always prided yourself on being;

nothing at all dramatic –
just the bleak, quiet, tedious,

bare-boned loneliness
of the immeasurable, unmarked terrain,

once you get down to it –
the work that must be done.

No one to share your trials, triumphs,
failures, whether the mission bears fruit,

not the least recognition given
except from God, perhaps, if there is One. 

O child of God, your every thought and utterance
binds you to the delusion under which you suffer.
(photo by Schnauzer @ pixabay)

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Go with it

Go with it      

I want to not know
any other way to be.

Cut my alternatives
down to zero, the original grain

good for me, good for me;
truth will out and out of that

worn out humbleness
holiness revealed,

holy however
imperfect, impure, impaired.

Dream if you must
of unbridled potentiality.

I want to not know
any other way to be,

rubbed down to the nub, the original grain
and go with it, go with it, go with it.

O child of God, Meher said God is found
where you are not.

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

That old zen saw

That old zen saw      

Ride your horse, goes that old zen saw,
along the edge of a sword, observing calmly –

to one side, the outer forms;
to the other, the inner realm.

Ride between, grasping neither, clean
as a whistle, not a hoof print left behind.

Bodhidharma counseled outside –
no engagement, no entanglements,

no arousals or intervention.
Inside – no indulgences, no rejection,

no denial or shying away.  Settle down
where there is no settling down –

in the saddle of the horse,
along the sword’s edge; ride on,

a part of neither, caught not in the dust-mire
of the outer nor the seductive fantasy of the inner.

O child of God, you are, apparently,
the whole of both and more. 
(photo by Sponchia @ pixabay)

Sunday, April 3, 2016

Empty threats and promises

Empty threats and promises    

On a perch overlooking the ocean,
I sit in folded meditation. 

Between gusts of wind plaintively
whispering, stroking my skin –

the sounds of the crashing waves below.
Thoughts and feelings, hopes and fears

arise, wash over me and recede.
Though intimate and particular,

they are no more substantial and crucial,
no more belonging to me

than the wind’s caress and the surf’s roar.
No need to take seriously the fleeting touch

of the ineffectual, capricious wind,
the surf’s cacophony which is outside

myself and beyond control.  No need to follow
their empty threats and promises 

down the winding trail that leads
away from the Source; from the sea’s edge;

away from my body perched and folded
on the precipice above the breakers’ roar.

O child of God, from where arises this stranger
who you consider to be yourself? 
(photo by Obsedian3825 - pixabay)

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

The author of chaos

The author of chaos     

At the center of attention, I’m the author of chaos.
Things ever-shifting outside myself and within –

rise and fall, come and go; strong winds blowing;
east and west never to meet; time marching on. 

But when I make it to the periphery,
a hush falls over existence; a timelessness

comes to the ever-changing scene.
Things settle into a pristine order; 

beauty rises on the wind; subtleties
become obvious and celebrated.

Moving from the center to the periphery
the center disappears – God has my back.

I’m no longer surrounded;
the past forever behind me,

returned to that sustaining,
mighty arena of the Unborn.

If I lose my grip on the periphery I am told,
I’ll go hurtling off into Oneness.

O child of God, the great illusion, Meher said,
is that you have ever been separate from the One.

(photo by brenkee @ pixabay)

Saturday, March 26, 2016

On shoe shining

On shoe shining        

Following the path of Love,   
every moment is devoted to God

while moving through the world,
in everything you do.  Shining shoes? 

Shine them – God in your heart and thoughts,
taking the extra care and attention demanded,

perhaps, murmuring under your breath
with each buff, your intimate name for Him.

The Zen method while shining shoes
is to concentrate on shoe shining –

as a way to honor the given task,
the extra care and attention required

in surrendering wholeheartedly
to the holy moment – its great mystery – 

ceaselessly arising and intertwining
where the form and formless, the One

and the many, the eternal and fleeting,
where God and humanity, meet and touch.

O child of God, the Masters’ every sundry methods
are designed to remove your pernicious ignorance.

(photo by NadineDoerle - pixabay)

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

A dutiful man

A dutiful man       

A friend of mine – a terrible fate –
he’s an important person. 

He can’t get free; a terrible weight;
bound too tightly to become a child.

Such a dutiful man, his whole
adult world would have to be upended,

friends betrayed; admirers turned aside.
Who could swim against such a tide?

No one would allow it.  Better to be
a nobody – then you have a chance

to slip out when the world isn’t looking,
through that loose board in the fence;

by that patch of elderberries, wade the narrow stream;
cross the open meadow and into the woods.

But my friend – he’s so tightly bound,
he parades around, wearing his chains like jewelry;

his bindings like vestments. Making his stand;
fighting the good fight.  He’ll make a dignified,

stately corpse one day; be much-mourned,
highly-lauded at his well-attended funeral.

O child of God, work to get yourself free
for the sake of yourself and your goodhearted friend.

(photo by k_r_craft - pixabay)

Monday, March 21, 2016

Hitch a ride

Hitch a ride      

Viewing the moon’s rise and flight
cater-corner across the backyard,

rearranging the shadows and reflections
as it goes. Only so many more left to catch

this time around, like a giant pearl
rising from the green wood.

Take me with you, I want to shout.
If I could hitch a ride, sit atop its soft light

making its rounds, illuminating, befriending,
without preference or intention;

always up there to fade into, to lift up
with one strong arm and plant me on its back

so we might leisurely patrol together
the heavens with a quiet non-attachment

toward the busy, frightful workings
of this illusory, binding world below.  

O child of God, ride the moon that never rises,
never sets, neither waxes nor wanes.

(photo by Petra Fischer - pixabay)

Tuesday, March 15, 2016

A peacock feather

A peacock feather      

At mosques in India they brushed me down
with a peacock feather before I entered

on bare feet, an invitation to leave
my dust behind, clean of accumulated sanskaras.

To enter the shrine of the holy moment,
my sandals must also be left at the door,

my dust-laden small self brushed clean
lest the false narrative, the illusory context

with which I consistently, erroneously frame
the holy moment, track the immaculate floor,

leave the clumsy evidence of my intrusion –
dust and shadow upon the bright mirror,

a metaphor and more, outside that portal
leading to the infinitely structured,

wind-partitioned, stone floor, starry ceiling
shrine of the holy eternal moment.

O child of God, quietly now connections are made;
facts gathered over a lifetime falling neatly into place.

(photo by gloria_kasket @ pixabay)

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

The small self passing

The small self passing    

There’s a narrow walking down
through thick woods road to a river

and whatever is met on that road,
that walking down, is left forever behind.

At the river the road keeps going, 
always new and even after arriving

it is only illusion, so the sutras
and discourses explain, illusion

that makes us believe in the small self passing
that owns the body that walks the road,

only the provisional construct
and thoroughgoing habit gathered

over lifetimes from various fragments,
sustained by ignorance and fear

and the divine plan and o, my fellow pilgrims!
what a relief it would be, would it not?

a joyous, destined liberation to walk that road
all the way down to the never-returning river

where everything met is passed through
and left forever neatly, cleanly behind.

O child of God, remove thyself,
said Hafiz, for thou art the veil.

(photo by AElliot - pixabay)

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Salt grain

Salt grain                                                                   
Today the ocean is rough; yesterday it was serene.
I no longer hope it to be one way or the other.

My shouting above its roar, flailing about in the surf,
my quiet prayers ashore, leave no lasting impression.

There is a way of sorts – a footpath through the dunes
that widens upon a rock-solid perch with a panoramic view

where I might sit dispassionately; partake of the salt air,
the siren music, become drenched in its erratic spray –

at a distance - breathing room -
until that distance dissolves

in the salt grain of an ocean drop
joining without boundaries or objections

its mighty eternal, infinite
storm and calm, ebb and flow.

O child of God, the Ocean calls you. 
Work to get more than your feet wet.

(photo by robiweber - pixabay)

The formless pitch

The formless pitch 

When the stars go out, at last,      
God will fold up the tent,

His performance over for a while.
We can all have a good rest.

The catch is that each star
must burn itself out deliberately,

voluntarily, against all good judgment,
accepting its inherent emptiness

rather than the roaring flame
of its separate existence.

It will happen – in a timely fashion.
It is foretold; as one by one the innumerable,

temporal stars give way to the original face of God
made visible again in the formless pitch.

O child of God, you speak of stars while failing
to grasp the immediate at your fingertips.

(original photo by Petra Fischer - pixabay)

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Bite your tongue

Bite your tongue                 

One place to get to and here we are
but a hair’s breadth away.

Watch where you next step;
it may lead to a gate.  And beyond –

a garden rich, spacious,
redolent, varied, serene.

Step back to take in the whole view.
Bite your tongue to hear the birdsong.

And to smell the blossoms – 
stop sniffing your own sweat. 

People become free of care
when care is taken seriously;

light-footed when burdens
fall from their shoulders; tipsy.

Ordinary perfection; ubiquitous singularity.
Wordless poetry; thoughtless profundity –

it’s all awaiting us in the garden beyond
that even row of staunch white pales.

O child of God, a glimpse of heaven
reveals – you’re not in the picture.

(photos by Stevehoward2203/StillWorksimagery- Pixabay)

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

A holy partaking

A holy partaking        

They send me postcards,
friends traveling the world –

colorful glossies; scribble on the back
notes of their adventures.  

No cards may be posted
from the realms I explore.

I just sit. Or tour my small house
and yard.  Do routine chores.

Enjoy quiet conversations with old friends.
I work on my flexibility; equanimity.

Read; paint; compose; prepare simple meals. 
The beauty of these ordinary happenings

I cannot reciprocally send their way
to fall upon busy, itinerant eyes and ears;

too subtle for photographs and words,
for the established premises, patterns,

constructs and commonality
of human communication.

O child of God, each morsel is a holy partaking
from the table which has been laid before us.


(photos by TerimakasihO, gwendoline63 - pixabay)

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

The avenue to no-self

The avenue to no-self    

Take heed, the Buddhists say,
to keep the mirror bright, dust-free.

Or stated in another tradition –
become, as best we might, dust

at the Master’s feet –
self-effacement; mastery in servitude.

Kishizawa Ian was renowned
for his willful nature – a tiger,

self-proclaimed, as a young monk.
As an old abbot – a pussycat;

a callous upon his forehead
from incessant bowing –

his obstinacy turned upon itself
to eliminate his greatest impediment.  

O child of God, a dust grain is the Ocean drop,
the avenue to no-self, Oneness, Love Divine.