The Great Secret
Echo: All is Grace, the marvel of delight;
And Glory fires you to return to fight.
I. The Miracle that Speaks no Word
They say that dwelling near the cataracts
Of Aswan, or Niagara, one can't hear
The thunder or the tumult, only facts,
The silent memories of sounds of fear.
Do we lose hearing, or the power of sight
For the marvelous? Kept awash in plenitude,
Immersed in color, shade, and light?
—As if the shapes rehearsed were not renewed.
Birdsong and butterflies, a sudden breeze,
The glint of sunbeam on the morning's dew,
The bass of car horns through the distant trees,
And startling—sudden knowledge—all is new.
What is the roar of mystery I have not heard?
What is the miracle that speaks no word?
II. The Fire Has Smoke
It is no wizard's trick to know you're alive;
The sameness of the moments dulls the sense.
You wake, you shave, you dress and keep pretense
Of working, so your conscience won't revive.
You smile and speak when spoken to, and drive,
Careful not to speed or hit the garden fence.
Nothing to draw attention to an expired license,
Or cause your kids to treat you like you were five.
But try as you may, one day the spell is broke,
You see, and smell, and know the fire has smoke.
The sunburn stings, the light switch sparks,
And in the closet, coats; they all are darks.
Sameness is fragile, you are not allowed
Routine, the sweet illusion of the proud.
III. To Speak the Truth
The secret is, there is no Secret, Code,
Nor Password to unlock the hidden door.
The Questor stands befuddled on the floor
And shakes his head, frustrated to explode
The gate, break down the doors, but nothing comes;
The silence at his question mocks his soul;
Nothing makes sense, nothing makes error whole,
And there the doorway that belies his sums.
Only the riddle in the ancient runes,
The tantalizing recipe, to speak,
To make known publicly how weak
His self-sought knowledge, its cramped boons.
To speak Truth, is to speak Love, agony;
Love forces doors to open, sets him free.
IV. Underneath, Underneath
Burdened with plenitude and bereft of sense,
The questing mind finds solace in its pain.
Daughter of Indolence, Despair again
Makes of the wondrous Word but case and tense.
No tongue to speak the vision glimpsed by day,
Nor voice to sing the glories of the night,
The mystery is hidden in the light
Of galaxies, of paradigms of play.
Only the knowledge that the doors are there,
That somewhere there is entry for the soul,
That underneath, the strong unyielding roll
Of being stands beneath the empty air,
Keeps the long Quest from foundering in the muck,
The knowledge that the end is not mere luck.
V. The Great Secret
All then is Grace? All mysteries?
The moonbow glinting in the drop of dew,
The birdsong starting from the gloomy yew,
The dog bark, cat's cry, from the distant trees,
Over the rooftop honking flights of geese
Heading for warmer climes, signal their clue,
And turn, great wheels, toward destinations new.
And frogs, tree frogs, peep constantly their pleas.
Everything leaps to life, is poised upon the mark;
The world awakes, the first light breaks; the heart
Thrills with awareness that it can survive.
So bearing God, like mothering the dark,
All senses ring with knowledge of the art
Of speaking, singing, shouting, "I'm alive!"
Re-echo: All is Grace, the marvel of delight;
And Glory fires you to return to fight.
