Is That My Father?

He wends his way from his room
to us on the balcony, my son, my pride.
"Is that my father?" brings me from my seat.

"Is that my son!" I reply approaching,
kissing him on the neck in Biblical fashion,
as father receives son in a firm embrace.

His mother is no longer, but in now our hearts.
Sweet is his countenance, his stature robust,
he is in my every most tender thought.

My very breath, in word and in stillness,
would lend his spirit all the strength
bespeaking our twenty-two years of trust, of love.

May our Heavenly Father give this father
the wisdom to further guide this son,
even that Father received his mother to the bosom

of His eternal sovereign love and joy.
My boy, my young man, apple of my eye,
song of my soul, should grow

and mature in the robustness of his great heart,
that he may meet and confront his future
with boldness of character and sovereign love.

His father will always have his back,
our Heavenly Father so willing - Whose light so
shine within his heart, even as he shine in mine.

Beware This Love!

In the center of my chest, in the core of my Being,
in the furnace of my belly, without effort, letting be:

I sense the love of my Father's spirit, my Source,
abon d'b'shmayim, eternal Father, take its course,

filling and fulfilling me, pushing forth, pouring out
into my atmosphere, subtle, onto all and about.

I get out of the way, remove myself, let it, and see...
let it pack and embrace the one standing before me.

Forbearing all, yet bearing nothing, it is the bear,
I but the bearer who carries and bares it openly there

where it chooses to express itself - this love I do not own,
this great and open secret, unspoken unseen sent down.

to manifest from one Human to another, from one created
Act of creation to another, this love may flow unabated.

One cannot make it so, fake it so, force it, but only surrender
to it when it calls, and witness to its quickening power.

Removing thought and theory, relaxing shadow-play of ego:
flowing from heart it greets, soothes, heals, because it's so.

Indiscriminate toward so much and many, taking all in its arms,
one would think its the nicest of loves, could do no one harm.

And this is true of course, yet it has quite other dimensions,
whose scope is fixed on those with foulest intention.

The intensity of love when directed at darkest forces ruling,
who rape and behead, burn and plunder in His Name and sing

praises of their deeds and examples they've taken -
shows itself as wrath upon these, they are entirely forsaken.

The wrath of God's love which shatters destructive egos must
be for those who know Him better not to fear but to trust.

All may receive this love, this moment.  Those who've earned this wrath now
will receive it tomorrow upon themselves and down to the marrow.

All is real, don't preach about illusions!  Regard what others are going through!
But all the more real, more real than all the chicanery, jihad mass murder accrued:

is this embracing love, and yes, love's wrath embracing those demonic entities.
Love doesn't reward but is its own; wrath however is the reward for wrathful jihadis.

My Father's Passion

 

"Whan that Aprill with his shoures sote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;..."

(When April has pierced March's drought to the root, and the rain's virtue has made the flowers grow;...)

That opening to Chaucer's 1391 Prologue to his best-seller is particularly fitting for my Spring visit - and our last, as we knew - with my son to be with my father, and his grandfather.  Our anticipated arrival had just been preceded by an uncharacteristically massive snowstorm for early May.  As we flew into Denver however, that was not only over, there was no trace of it having happened, but for some damaged trees.



Those May mornings were like being stoned on acid (not that I would know) or going through the Bardos (as fitting as quoting Chaucer, in this case).  Crisp hardly even describes them - the colors and the smells were intensely themselves, unique and familiar both.  This was where I'd spent my entire childhood, nine months out of the year, and with those mixed memories I took a long walk insisted upon by my six-and-a-half year old son, about ten long city blocks in East Denver, right up to 14th Ave., one before Colfax, and on to Krameria where our King Soopers supermarket was.  For nothing, just because.  Just because he loved it there.  Just because he insisted on peddling all the way on Uncle Richard's, then Uncle Greg's, and finally his father's, ancient blue, sturdy-metal-true tricycle - a half-century old.  And he managed it, the whole way.

With every dismounting, carrying the trike with one hand over the next street from curb to curb, and remounting; with every eyeful of sparkling beauty in color and form, every beloved scent of May's lilacs; with every slow step, over the cracks, which only the Zen-of-Child normally would force you to in-joy and deeply experience when taking even the most banal paths you'd been over hundreds of thousands of times - but now as if for the first, both eerily familiar and eerily new, and for that:  ineffably poignant, embedded in eternity, your eternity; with all this, and falling in love again with my childhood, my Denver, my son - yes, acid could not even come close.

My father loved Walt Whitman, and I ought to have read "Leaves of Grass" aloud to him, as he lay in a hospital bed in the livingroom, there in the house I'd grown up in - a house so big then, and now so very small.  But he got Eliot.  I had brought my T.S. Eliot, quite aside from the fact that this livingroom boasted a library wall which surely would have had Whitman and Eliot somewhere amid the massively complete Shakespeare.  But I had my worn little copy of "Four Quartets", carried with me since I'd first discovered this masterpiece of English and of profound literary significance and earthy mystical insight, some 23 years earlier.

My liberal, Reform-Jewish father typically considered himself agnostic.  He was curious, a lawyer who liked word and fact and meaning, very conventional and reserved, a gentleman - and he was a warm funny guy who could surprise us with his actual depth of feeling and comprehension.  And he was dying.  And this sharing in depth and dying, this reading of Eliot's "Quartets" became both crown and cornerstone of my life with my father - and a passion we shared in our own personal and unique encounter.

His three sons, during respective visits, had brought and given him each his own particular gift of respect and gratitude, touching on his individual relationship with our father.  And mine was to bring his grandson from Berlin - and Eliot.

During our two weeks together, I sat on a low children's folding-chair just level, at his bedside - my voice close to his ear, four early mornings in a row, at an hour he was most clear.  As that east-facing picture window drew in the gradual rays of thousands of relived childhood mornings, I read aloud to him, one Quartet per morning, roughly a quarter of an hour.  He followed every word with rapt attention.  As he was the only one I know to whom I could have read this and it be appreciated, drunk in, and actually understood, in all its nuanced erudition - and depth - I was likewise the only one who'd have been sitting there reading it to him.  Eliot's "Quartets," read just as they were written and meant to be read, expressed the bond my father and I shared, our passion for English, more than even all the Shakespeare in the world would have done.  The work is universal and decidedly English, both.

On the second or third morning, my lad Joshua was acting up - I sent him to our room and told him to come out only when he'd settled down, as I was about to read to Grandfather.  Each of the four sessions was laden with a shared concentration of quiet intensity which was not to be disturbed - and it was not.

Each Quartet built on themes primarily stressing the generations and old folkways juxtaposed with existential relfections, addressing what is often dismissed as the most banal of life's rituals and rites of passage, comings and goings, birth and dying, celebration and loss, struggling with mortality and acknowledging eternity - in an earthy, surreal familiarity with all that he phrases and reintroduces from Quartet to Quartet, which one can only regard as deeply, masterfully poignant.

My dear son came out of our room after ten minutes or so, just as I was in the middle of that morning's reading.  I did not interrupt myself, and he (uncharacteristically) did not interrupt me either, but climbed, ever so gently up onto my lap as I continued without missing a beat.  There we sat, in the dawn's early light, forming a tableau of three generations:  the one lying on his deathbed, the one sitting beside him reading as from the Bardos, the one sitting on that one's lap (understanding no word spoken but knowing as a child, what nourishment is) - while Eliot spoke to us of generations living, and of generations passing.

My mother crossed the room at that moment with a basket of laundry, being much in her element, as we were being in Eliot.  Eliot ruled, he owned the room.  My mother stopped short right there and took it all in, muttered only that she'd wished she had a camera just then.  I smiled and gestured only, that we'll never need that camera, as this moment with all its impressions, which so embraces us in our entire past together, our here and now, and an eternity which is ours to take with us - is and will remain deeply embedded in our hearts, as would no snapshot ever, ever do justice.  She nodded, and brought her laundry out.  Eliot was being served - and digested.  For the road ahead.

(I couldn't be there at his memorial service; my penned eulogy was read for me, and consisted primarily of Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night," written for his own father.)

I'll fittingly close this with Eliot's own closing of the last section of the fourth Quartet:

                                       V.

"What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.  And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph.  And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration.  A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments.  So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

   "We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always -
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one."

Source

To a trickle of water I spoke,
a droplet thereof I addressed:
behold the vast ocean, great river – and sea!
That all is there, in you, you're wet with That:
lifetimes and generations, form after form,
in all that you've weathered, your Father/Mother - and whether
you grasp this or not, it Matters not:
in every atom reeling, molecule, and cell is the genetic image
of your very Source -
(O Human, being – try seeing yourSelf in this droplet)
...so be great, or don't, it's alright,
a wave – a rave, a steam – esteem, a body Mass or a pearly drop:
you came from There, you return There, you are There -
so water you thinking?

Scene from a chapter of an unwritten book . . .

(probably San Francisco, year uncertain)

… We sat amicably at a pub on Wallace Ave., this lad and I, our faces and our necks lightly warmed by the mid-morning sun. His features moved me, and he was easily twelve years my junior. It wasn't his body which stirred my body; it was his face which stirred my heart. And the soberly thoughtful aspect which bespoke integrity in his soft Nordic face lent a slight melancholic pang – of what? - to my little pondering.

The beer stood half-consumed on the lacquered table. I poured from the pitcher as his eyes roamed the room, returning to the table, sifting impressions. Nothing was being spoken, we needed no conversation just then. There had been no idle talk, though we'd known each other but two days. He could be a good German "Aryan," but was Scandinavian by name; and his jaw, though squared, lacked the heaviness which often characterized the German bone-structure, to my reckoning; his eyes had that Scandinavian touch, the brows ever so light yet visible. His lips were so formed as to be full but willful, suggesting a straight-forwardness which would prompt him to say just what he thought – were he to break his reserve and speak.

My mind was fixed not so much on his features alone, but on what may have been his mother's or a sister's (got any sisters at home like you?...) - yes, I thought of that woman who brought him into the world, how much of her breath still formed him, even as he came into his manhood. I couldn't shake the thought of her; this one was but the product.

There was a shift in the attention, mutually felt. His eyes met mine. They focused on the mood in my face, and reflected caution. "No," mine replied, dismissing his concerns with an imperceptible flick of my glance. It wasn't that. No sexual motives were present between us. This he understood, and relaxed.

But my eyes did not shift. And what he couldn't have known from my looking upon him as his face returned to the sun outside and then back to my face – through which shone the sun in my heart – what he ought not to have perceived, which ought not to be said aloud, was this: that I want to father a child, a son, by the woman who bore you; I want to be that one by whom she conceived you.

And he nodded. For it was spoken.

A Prophet's Reward

July-Aug., 1976, Neve Shalom, Israel

On that evening before his Departure,

  the holder of the secret of Life

   bent low his head

    in the last private moment

     among his friends

      to pour into their own hearts

       one perfect Son's joy and sorrow

        on being called to his Father.

Removing those garments

  which distinguished him

    from his companions at the table,

     this personification of our souls'

      deepest prayer

       proceeded with towel and basin

To exemplify, as he had exemplified

  so often unnoticed,

   the attitude of the beloved Son

    of a loving Father.

For by his example alone could he in silence

  exhort his brothers to love

   the One in Whom

    we live and move and have our being.

Yet who had eyes to see?

  Who can hear the simple message

   of the gentle hand caressing

    the dust-laden foot?

Did Abraham recognize his stranger-guests

  when he washed them

   and fed them

    and gave them to drink?

One would doubt for the rest,

  it takes but one,

   and the doors of the heart

    are closed straight away.

And to him who would doubt

  did our beloved say:

   “Without understanding this

      you can have no part of Me.

“This – this is the holy sacrament!

   Why did I tell you to discard

    your swords, your pens

     and your books

      which deny men their Life?

“For the same reason that I would

   not defend Myself.

    Nor allow you to defend Me.

     O Father, Father,“

      he breathed a deep sigh

       and then continued,

“How shall I liken this generation?

   Will no one let his feet

     respond to the melody

      which the Father pipes through Me?

“Who will take up the tune and follow Me?

   Is there no one among you

    who can see what is being done?

“This night is the balancing point

   between the worlds:

    are you with Me now in this

     last hour?

“Verily, the feet are the key

   to Understanding and to Wisdom.

    And Wisdom is born out of the bond

      of Knowledge with Compassion.

       Therefore be ye diligent -

         and watch what I do.“

The hand was not separate from the foot

  nor the water separate from the breath

   of this Yeshuah,

    this our Friend who taught us

     the meaning of Friendship

      with his Life.

Wherewith our Teacher

  took and washed our feet

   giving special care to each companion

    as though they were the feet of his Father.

When he finished washing our feet,

  he rose, ever so slowly

   and evensofar as we his brethren

    felt new life in our limbs

     and in our hearts,

      his own seemed now to carry

       a massive load.

And in a moment his eyes

  were once again clear and penetrating,

   his voice softer yet commanding:

“Who receiveth any in My Name receiveth Me

   and so doing receiveth My Father.

    Who receiveth a prophet,

      to him shall be a prophet's reward.

“You ask, Where is Grace,

   when will we see the God of our fathers?

“Verily, wherever ye stand,

   whomever ye face,

    whatever may appear to happen,

      know this to be the Grace,

       which reveals itself to you even now

         if your hearts are ready to see:

“That in My Father's sight,

   the last shall be made first

    and the first made last.

“As only the Father can love

   have I loved you;

    henceforth take ye up

     and follow in My Way,

      and become the Truth,

       that Life may be yours.“

He looked at each of us

  directly and coherently,

   regarding each person

    as though according to his station,

     and then shared further his secret:

“Witness, each one of you, as you partake,

   and know that you partake, if you would,

    of a broken heart.

“Be not saddened nor confused,

   for I will bear this sorrow Myself, willingly,

    that you may learn wherefore

      its nature and its source.

“I am with you, I am with you,

   therefore be glad of spirit.

    This wine I pass amongst you

      as the flowing water which poureth forth

        from the broken heart.“

Raising his hands as though

  in benediction, he fairly shouted,

   “See, see, and be transformed!“

And for that moment, in the midst

  of such overwhelming silence,

   certain ones among us nearly conceived

    of the magnitude of the Love

     which this single being embodied.

He joined us all hand in hand

  and said:

   “Wretched limbs

      have you always amongst you -

        take care of them;

         those in poverty always are with you -

           feed them;

“But truly, I send you out

   as healers of broken hearts

     from all walks of life,

      as now I break Mine in order

        to prepare you

         for what is to come.

          Go out and mend all hearts

             in remembrance of Me.

“Do you think that I am come

   to bring condolence for one another's beliefs?

“I tell you, I am not come

   to bring condolence but a healing scalpel

    to put an end to the suffering

     caused by so many beliefs.

       Not by placating, but by understanding

         the nature of beliefs

          can you be free.

“A knot tied in a moment may take a lifetime to undo,

   but know what is in your sight

    and all that is hidden

     will be revealed unto you.

“Begin, therefore, at the Moment,

   as I have shown.

    For the feet shall prepare the way

      to the Heart,

       and at the feet doth the way begin.

“The way hath been shown;

   the hour is come,

    and the cock croweth, O it croweth -

     Who shall be prepared to answer

        in My Name?“

And at the end of that sacred communion

  we sang the closing hymn

   and wept as lovers do before parting.

Then sitting awhile in deep contemplation

  we listened as our beloved Friend

   gave his final blessing to us.

And rising before those who stayed with him

  he whispered,

   “The hour is come.“

JUBILATE!

(For about two solid years until the point of this writing, I had been known for going about - on campus, on the streets, in parks, and finally there at Neve Shalom, with water basin and towel, with almond oil in hand, washing the feet of anyone, literally anyone, who accepted the offer. It was my own way of internalising what I had gotten out of the Gospel of John. This poem developed and evolved directly out of inspiration drawn from that Gospel and the Secret Gospel of Thomas, the teaching of Murshid Samuel Lewis, and working with the 112 Breath Sutras given by Lord Shiva. Upon finishing it, about 1 a.m. in August of '76 and crawling into my sleeping bag in the middle of a field, nearing the end of our “Jerusalem Camp,“ I received a rather profound dream instructing me what to do with the world Muslim community, and feel challenged to this day as to how to bring that to fruition. The poem was published in the April '77 issue of "Sonflowers," put out by the Holy Order of MANS.)