Spiritual Poems
by Barry McDonald
The Eagle
Because the human eye cannot see far
We pray to see things as they really are;
To rise up like an eagle soaring free,
To know and love the Truth we long to be.
And high above the valley of the soul
There is a world where time does not grow old—
No grief or laboring, no fearful night;
The dreamer wakes inside the eagle’s flight.
The Wise
Among men or alone on mountaintops
The wise live in the presence of the King.
Because they see the deep nature of things
Through them a stream of prayer never stops.
Down through the centuries in every place
The saints remember God both day and night;
Some of them are like eagles in full flight
And others leave the world without a trace.
But while they live they own a single theme:
In silence and in song they hear His Name.
In different words their meaning is the same—
Because the world is more than just a dream
Their certitude shines like the summer sun
And they see through the many to the One.
The Treasure
Setting a ring-stone is a jeweler’s work
But sages place the Truth in every word.
Not rubies nested in the finest gold,
Their treasure is the consciousness of God.
A midnight bell rings at the end of time,
But through the darkness wisdom is revealed—
A few wise men pass round a cup of wine
And praise the naked beauty of the Real.
The Return
Although we walk together down a road
We are like raindrops falling to the sea.
The world is never what it seems to be;
The only story that does not deceive
Is telling how the soul returns to God.
Some pilgrims travel to the holy land,
While others close their eyes and sit quite still.
The reason is not hard to understand:
All of creation tends toward the Real—
Even a speck of sand becomes a pearl.
Year after year the restless soul may search—
A plain and simple flower shows the way.
Blooming out of the darkness of the earth
It turns its face toward the light to pray.
The Poor in God
The poor in God are beacons of the age
And quiet words of prayer are all they own.
Through every state of soul they travel on—
The Invocation is their pilgrimage.
What is there left for them to see or do?
They find their happiness while passing through.
The ego like a wave rolls on the sea
But there is something deeper they would be:
A single voice, older than Abraham,
Weaves consciousness through flesh to say I am.
The Shore
Although men say there is no Absolute
The sun stands like a prophet in the sky.
Thinking the truth is that there is no Truth
The mind sinks root into the deepest lie.
While shadows of opinion rule the night
A few souls on the shore of morning meet;
There God still sings Himself into the light
And from the heart of silence wise men speak—
And in the moment time is flowing through
The oldest prayer remains forever new.
Reality
With no vocation but Reality
The poor in God are roses on a grave;
Steeped in the consciousness of Unity
Their words are shaped by gratitude and praise.
Wrapped in their robes of silence they are free
And through the vision of the heart they see
Why should they bow to gods of lesser things?
One song alone a naked traveler sings.
Why are they passing through the here below?
To know the Truth, and be the Truth they know.
Gnosis
The eye of certainty is like the sun—
There is no veil through which it does not see.
The center dwells in the periphery,
And as each ego thinks itself alone
All numbers must contain the number one.
The depth of God is more than we can tell;
Next to the deepest knowledge of the Real
Every religion is a heresy.
Eckhart, from whom God nothing hid, knew well:
To reach the kernel you must break the shell.
And Ibn ‘Arabi, absorbed in prayer,
Saw nothing but an ocean without shore—
Its waves are flowing still through every soul:
There is no part that does not touch the whole.
Kali
The night of Kali falls over the world—
Ideas are without reason or rhyme.
In every passing year there is less time
And men forget the soul contains a pearl.
Who knows this moment is a gift of gold?
Who tells a story needing to be told?
Men think the circling wind of dreams is real
And they know nothing more than what they feel.
The stars that long ago were temple bells
Are quiet now; few men can hear them toll.
On earth there is a grief that will not heal
And in the heart grows something hard and cold—
The age of miracles has come and gone:
The goddess dances in the fire of dawn.
The Icon
The poor in God must learn to travel light,
A prayer is all they carry on the way.
Why fear the time that chips away at life
When from the here and now they never stray?
They see creation is by beauty lit—
The world’s an icon of the Infinite.
All parts, in perfect equilibrium,
Reveal the Self-Disclosure of the Sum.
And since the Oneness of the Real holds claim
There’s nothing that does not repeat God’s Name.
