the Rub, eh?

[Guest guest]

This That We Are Now, and As It Is, and It Is, It Always Just Is, eh?

Love. That's the Thing.

Aye, that is the thing; and surely Rumi would agree.

But when Shams was murdered, his body forever spirited away, it was

Rumi who wept, Rumi who grieved, and spent a year or more in deep

mourning. Rumi, who more than anyone who knew that Shams would have

admonished delight in being, love of the infinite now, the totality

of all.

And did Rumi embrace the murderers? Did he praise their deeds? The

plot involved one of his own sons! What terrible deeds, what

horrible realities to live with! That is the real world, the poetry

is simply the artwork that decorates it.

That ineffable joy and delight fades during the root canal work, I can

attest. As the wise story says, "this too shall pass."

I love you Mazie, but I worry about you, too, dear heart. A beautiful

delicate bowl is more easily shattered by rough handling. Sometimes

those pendulems swing back with a very hard knock.

Please keep eyes open so you can dodge that thing!

Love,

Blessings,

Zenbob

[Guest guest]

Sometimes the words leap

from my over-blown Heart

like a little, happy Shams deer,

leaping straight onto the page.

 

Other times, and this is the Play

being Played as us, for us,

because of us being That,

i feel like a fine,

fat, scaleless and colorful

golden Koi throwing itself

joyfully

upon the banks of Life,

and just to die there

is the true Life.

 

Going 'round the Kaaba of Robert,

i am lost, so lost,

with a loss that's a gain,

and before i can even begin

to think a thing like

"i win - you lose!" i see

what a loser i'd be

to see anything but this!

 

There's no winning to this,

this glorious game we play here!

We're all being so entertainingly played!

There's no losing at all to the All

Whom we all give it all up for and to,

for in the original, constant call to Love,

we do, and WE do nothing,

and with everything we're done.

 

Never missing a beat

in this drumroll i hear,

my feet still keep tapping out

that same old sweet song.

It keeps telling my Heart,

telling me, "You gotta Love It!"

 

The voice that is trilling

and spilling out everywhere,

and everything that's maybe,

sort of a sort of secret i have,

a murmured thing with the Beloved,

and i find i have nothing,

and yet i am everything,

even the One and especially

the One Who is Speaking.

The secrets become sweets,

sweet compilations of the mooncakes,

the first offering of the new year

that bakes us and takes us

into OneHeart.

A Mooncake of OneHeart!

No agenda

and no strategy,

in truth, i still say it.

 

i say that the Love of the One,

the Beautiful One,

is the Only One we can hear

with any comprehension at all.

i make claims about this,

and say stories about that,

but really, how can one give

an ungarbled sound out,

when lying and drowning

like a grape-clown in a big vat?

The cool cat of composing such tales,

He likes to use me!

 

"So you're really drunk my Mashuq,"

my Mirth-Maker says.

Making more Merriment

than i can ever repeat here,

The Beloved One of the Most Beautiful Ones,

the Only One,

He just lifts my wine-soaked

old garment and puts me in,

He puts me sometimes in

the center of the center stage.

 

So what of this is all i can mutter,

for now, right now,

i might stutter and blunder

and say stupid things.

But if i could say the things

that this Ol' Oenologists says,

i'd be drowning the entire vineyard

of this, and of that,

plopping into a Pool

of such Obviously Vintage SweetWine -

 

everytime we seek one another's Love!

 

Every Time we would all

just slip into Bliss.

But that's not my nod coming from God,

not yet, maybe never.

For just being clever

and filled with such Joy,

and saying It,

well, it's never, not ever

kept the shit from hitting the fan.

 

i have no fans to refrain

from growing a big head for,

for there's always that Door,

that Beautiful Door of the Heart,

so vast, yet so miniscule too

that i might need to get through,

giant head of conceit, or not.

 

Slipping into the moment

when no one is seeing anything,

anything but this Love,

this Crazy Comandeering Love

so compelling,

i must say my Dear Friends,

there might be a swelling,

a swelling up of my Heart

that squishes off the head of logic,

the head of intellectualism

and contension

and cat-calling ways.

 

i wonder what it might be like

if everything we ever saw,

we saw as only the Love of the Beloved,

the Heart of the Soul,

and that's some kind of Seeing

beyond the seer of the saying.

 

So i say it might be so nice

to throw rice, throw seeds

as if we were all, all of us

attending our very own Cosmically Kind

Wedding to one another!

i Love the Lover of the Beloved

and that is my lot, to Love alot!

And not just any particular one,

i seem to want to Kiss everyone.

 

Many might think i have a line

that i've drawn saying "them" and "us,"

but this, THIS is just the crock

of conundrumitity that prevails.

i sail along the song

of everyone i meet,

and i greet each.

 

Some silently stand in my Heart,

never apart, and then some,

they Dance like the last Tango in Paris,

filled with Heat and Heart.

There's never anything less

or more and this is the thing.

 

i wing along the Sky of the One

with everyone my feathers,

and i am the lifting

and the landing

and the dying of these.

 

Love Alone compels this Heart

so wildly soaring past to the Vast.

Beloveds, all my Sweet Sweetness'

of the One we Adore,

i put my head upon the floor

of your Heart and weep for this.

 

This That We Are Now,

and As It Is,

and It Is,

It Always Just Is, eh?

Love. That's the Thing.

 

 

LoveAlways,

 

Mazie