SCRUFFY ON TOP OF EUROPE

I’m just a little bichon frise on top of the

Jungfrau, and I feel like I’m super special;

I’m now the highest dog in all of Europe,

And my heart is strutting, filled with pride.

But I really can’t take any credit for it at all,

Because my Master carried me up all the way;

I’m like a fluffy little lamb, and the only reason

I’m special is because He makes me feel special.

The view is beautiful, and way down in the

Valley below, lovely cowbells ring their melody;

I feel like I’m in Heaven, and my heart serenely

And sweetly sings, because I know that I am loved.

FIRST TRIP

Dedicated to my father

Me and Dad were at

Knott’s Berry Farm and

he couldn’t wait to share

his favorite attractions with me;

the torch of his enthusiasm

burned even hotter

than the fiery ashes

of his cigarettes;

but I was like a wet match,

soaking wet,

and Dad had no chance,

no chance at all --

my whole world was

Disneyland;

hot words of anger

gathered in his mouth

like fierce storm winds,

but then he hesitated,

thought pensively for a moment,

and, finally, swallowed them;

with a smile of selfless surrender,

he took my hand in his own

and, together, we walked

towards the parking lot.

TO ST. NICHOLAS

You are the merry Christmas saint,

You tried to live without complaint;

A bishop with a cheerful heart,

Your words pierced like a loving dart;

Your gift of gold saved three sweet maids,

Who always feared the Roman raids;

With holiness you beat the foe,

Your jolly laugh goes ho, ho, ho.

OUR LADY, UNTIER OF KNOTS

Their perplexed brows are

knitted into knots

as they impatiently try to

conquer the unconquerable,

and so they slowly slide down,

down the slippery slope

of depression and despair

into the murky darkness

of melancholic misery;

but Our Lady touches their hearts,

and most lovingly leads them

along a path trustworthy and true,

through the White Way of Light,

and up the majestic mountain;

then as they drink the delicious

new wine of Divine Mercy,

their wrinkles of worry dissolve,

their souls serenely smile,

their hearts are made whole,

and, to their utter amazement,

they are absolutely and totally

born again.

A PROFILE OF COURAGE

Eugenio Pacelli is consecrated a bishop,

In Italy’s historic city of Rome,

But he is flung like a javelin into Germany,

And Munich is now his home;

Egelhofer sends Commander Seiler

On a mission filled with human hate,

The truth is Mr. E. thirsts for blood,

And Pacelli he wishes to assassinate;

Commander Seiler and this gang selfishly strut

To the bishop’s place of residence,

They’re planning a brash bold attack,

Plotting his murder with confidence;

They threaten the servant with weapons,

So he reluctantly lets them in,

Now they await the bishop’s return,

Thinking victory they will win.

Seiler stands ready at the door,

With his thugs in a semicircle around,

Armed with loaded guns and grenades,

Their faces are rather frowned;

When the bishop opens the door,

Seiler points a pistol at his pectoral cross,

Yet Pacelli fearlessly stands his ground,

And shows him who is boss;

The holy bishop speaks as soft as an abbot,

Or even a most prayerful friar,

But his courageous words rip into them,

Like relentless machine gun fire;

The bishop’s eyes are two spear tips,

That pierce right through their souls,

And in a daze they gape back at him,

As motionless as telephone poles.

With empty hands the would-be assassins

Return to Egelhofer the Extreme,

To his surprise, Pacelli still lives,

And in the Munich diocese reigns supreme;

The bishop bravely swatted their plans,

As if they were harmless flies,

Never before had they looked at a priest

With such powerful paralyzing eyes;

During the Second World War,

He saved countless lives from Nazi extermination,

And many Jewish people commended him,

For his covert operation;

This lean, stately figure ran the Church,

Though he never sought out fame,

He is better known as Pope Pius,

The Twelfth who has held that name.

TO ST. JUDE THADDEUS THE APOSTLE

You had fabulous fun playing with Jesus,

Your second cousin who knew no guile,

You loved to visit His mild mother,

Who always had the sweetest smile;

Through the patient passing of the years,

You saw the magical messiah mature,

And He chose you and your brother James,

To be apostles who strive to be pure;

In loving loyalty your mother agonized,

With Jesus’ mother at the foot of the cross,

Your father Cleophas was monstrously martyred,

And his death was a dire loss;

But you steadfastly served the Lord,

And were famous for physical healing,

You happily sought out holiness,

And spent much time prayerfully kneeling;

In a foreign land you were beaten to a pulp,

Until you were door-nail dead,

But it wasn’t satisfying enough,

So your murderers lopped off your head;

Now you wear a martyr’s golden crown,

And live in Heaven’s perennial jubilation,

Interceding for the Church Militant,

You help it become a new creation.

TO ST. SIMON THE APOSTLE

You were a zealot against the Romans,

Whom you terribly wanted to crush,

Perhaps you dreamt of spearing their skulls,

And watching their bright blood gush;

But Jesus of Nazareth was meek and mild,

And he turned the other cheek,

When He healed the Roman’s servant,

Did you think the Messiah was weak?

But Jesus spoke to rich and poor

With an amazing proclamatory power,

And before no man -- Jew or Roman --

Did He ever stoop or cower;

His multitudinous miracles filled your

Heart with amazement and with awe,

Almost imperceptibly you came to realize

That He was the fulfillment of the law.

Some say that you were cruelly crucified,

Just like Our Most Blessed Lord,

Others say you were sawed in two,

With your body savagely and brutally gored;

Either way, the acid anger of hate corroded

The malicious murderers’ brains,

While in your holy heart God’s Spirit

Everlastingly and eternally reigns.

TO ST. FAUSTINA

You, the mystical

missionary of mercy,

are honored as

the first saint

of the Great Jubilee,

the first saint

of the new millennium;

you serenely smile

as the blessed blood

and the blessed water

kiss and mingle

in the infinite ocean

of Divine Mercy;

you see the barque

of St. Peter as it

faithfully floats on

the beautiful waves,

protected from the

storm winds of worry,

free from all fear;

like the warm welcoming

arms of the Bernini Colonnade,

Divine Mercy is ready to

earnestly embrace every

hardened sinner who

hungers for healing and

thirsts for generous love:

Jezu ufam Tobie!

TO ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI

Your jolly, joyful eyes dreamily dance

to the sublime, saintly symphony

Of the unimaginably beautiful creations

of the Most High Lord God;

Your pious, prayerful persistence

and earnest embrace transform the

Leprous lechery of our lives into

the radiant Son-shine of lasting love;

Your voice, like a melodious and

musical church bell, resonates and

Reverberates throughout the ages

with the clarity and purity of truth;

Your simple, kindly actions speak

louder than the sonic boom of the

Ghastly gossip and eloquently

empty chatter of the world.

THE CHAPEL OF DIVINE MERCY

My Via Dolorosa

has brought me here,

so I drag myself into

the dark chapel,

my body weakened

under the weight of

my crosses and woes,

and I am hopeless.

But here, kneeling,

my hands knotted together,

deep in prayer,

I surrender all to Him,

and, behold, a soft light

like that of a little candle

emanates from the

holy tabernacle.

Then as it gradually

intensifies and brightens,

the wick of my soul is lit,

and I relax in His presence,

my heart smiling as I am

completely enveloped in

the luminous Sonshine

of Divine Mercy.

WILLIE THE WORRIER

Willie the Worrier woke up in bed,

He was quickly filled with horrible dread;

His main goal in life was to get ahead,

Yet he stumbled and fell behind instead;

Never satisfied with his daily bread,

Now this stressaholic is door-nail dead.

TO ST. JOHN PAUL II

You have a playful, loving smile

that was delightfully disarming,

You have pleasant, penetrating eyes

that looked deep into our souls,

As a humble seminarian you silently

evaded the nefarious Nazis,

Years later, your heroic words crushed

the cold-hearted Communists;

Your valiant, victorious voice was

carried on the wondrous wings

Of the cheerful cherubim who raced

round the globe and rained down

On the world your heavenly hope

and wonderful words of wisdom.

You are a saint for our century:

poignant poet, daring dramatist,

Protector of the powerless,

merciful mystic, pro-life pope,

And stalwart spearhead who ignited

the fire of the New Evangelization;

Your hideous opponent the devil,

like a sly, sneaky soccer player,

Tantalizingly tried to kick abortion

through Holy Church’s doors, but

As the goalie of the Chair of St. Peter,

you flicked away temptation,

With your rock-solid shepherd’s staff

gripped in your warrior-like hands.

In Poland, you relentlessly pursued

Christ’s love even though

You had to trudge terribly through

the dreadful, dreary dark night

Of Nazi dictatorship, and you had

to bear the wicked weight of the

Cruel, crafty Communists in your

beloved, historic city of Krakow;

Through your remarkable writings

you lifted us ever so high in the air

In a Heaven-bound spiral, far far above

the murky mist of moral relativism

And into the sublime, sunny splendor

Of Christ’s truth and freedom.

Via Crucis

Pummeled by Parkinson’s,

he battles through the basilica,

leaning forward, heavily,

hunched over, crushed

under an invisible

wooden cross, laden

with the world’s woes;

from the ocean of onlookers,

like Veronica with her veil,

a mother mildly lifts up

her little newborn;

the Holy Father’s

old, wrinkled face

winces with pain,

like a warrior’s,

as he most tenderly

blesses the babe

with a gentle kiss;

the spectators exhale

a halo as they breathlessly

and solemnly sigh, “O!”

TO ST. THERESE OF LISIEUX

My sweet Little Flower,

your humble acts of charity

are like tiny grains of sand,

yet when they’re poured out

upon the fruitful fields of Heaven

by the Father’s faithful fingers,

they form a mountain of love

that would gracefully tower

over the mighty Everest;

you stand in great strength,

as the missionary of missionaries,

in the gentle presence of

the Virgin of virgins,

the Mystical Rose

of incomparable beauty,

and your precious seeds of prayer

are cultivated with care by the

ever patient Divine Gardener,

nourished by His living water,

producing a bountiful harvest of

salvation in our suffering world;

above the clouds of worry,

your cheerful sky is always blue --

help me to follow your example

so that my soul too may sing

those heartfelt words of wisdom:

“My vocation is love!”

TO ST. MATTHEW THE APOSTLE

You collected terribly tall taxes,

And that’s why many called you a beast,

But then you met the loving Lord Jesus,

And quickly your financial career ceased;

Some felt you were a bloodsucker,

With a black-hearted desire to be rich,

But when you followed the mild Messiah,

Immediately you found your niche.

Perhaps like Scrooge you were selfish,

And you knew not how to love,

But then the Savior softened your heart,

And it became like that of a dove;

Maybe you counted clusters of coins,

And had lofty luxurious goals,

But after the Good Master inspired you,

You wrote a gospel to save sinners’ souls.

DIVINE UNION WITH THE DIVINE MERCY

My soul surrenders to

The Spirit’s tender embrace,

And Love sweetly surges

Through my being with the

Warm wine of holiness;

With indescribable delight

My humbled heart

Bursts with heavenly joy,   

Burning with passion for

The Crucified Christ,

Yearning for union with

The Divine Mercy.

TO ST. PADRE PIO

When we, your stubborn spiritual children,    

  Don’t listen to you in holy confession,     

You slap the Spirit into our sleepy souls,        

  As you make prayerful intercession.

When we plan to drop the blitzkrieg bombs        

  Of mortal sin into our desperate heart,     

You bilocate and bravely speak the truth,

  And the holy fear of God to us impart.        

When the evil one stealthily attacks us,    

  Aggressively seeking victims to devour,        

As a warrior, you heroically hunt him down,        

  And lasso the beast with Rosary power.

TO ST. MONICA

You agreed to marry Patricius the pagan,

  Humbly submitting to your parents’ will,

You were very kind and generous to him,

  Though he responded by treating you ill;

But about a year before leaving this world,

  He finally accepted the Nicene Creed,

Through your example of faith and love,

  His stubborn soul was finally freed.

However, you still had much work to do,

  For your son Augustine broke your heart,

He was a teacher who was very arrogant,

  And he strutted because he was smart;

But you vigorously persisted in prayer,

  Fasting with tears over his empty life,

When he met the great Bishop Ambrose,

  The Spirit pierced your son like a knife.

It was on Easter that the saintly Ambrose

  Joyfully baptised your prodigal son

Who went on to become a Church Father,

  And many victories over heretics won;

The end of your life was so very sweet

  As Augustine treated you like gold,

You’re the patroness of motherhood,

  And of your story many have been told.

AVE MARIA

She gently rocks me,    

back and forth,     

in her slender arms,    

since I’m a little babe    

who can’t find Jesus    

alone, without her;    

she lovingly caresses    

and warms me in the

cold dark night,     

and her smiling eyes    

twinkle in the Light;    

her soft rosy lips        

sweetly kiss me    

as she leads me    

faithfully and joyfully

to her merciful Son,    

the Bread of Life.

DIVINE MERCY: THE CLOSER IN THE DARK NIGHT

My Merciful Manager

hands me the ball,

and I take the mound     

in the ninth inning   

since our team is    

ahead by one run.    

I go to confession and then        

devoutly pray Lectio Divina,        

reflecting upon Sacred Scripture        

for at least thirty minutes,        

and I pitch a supersonic fastball

that crisply crackles in my

All-Star catcher’s glove --     

the first hitter strikes out,

with an aggressive         

swing and a miss.

Next, I receive Holy Communion,        

and I swiftly snap off a    

knee-buckling curveball --    

the second hitter in the lineup        

strikes out, frozen    

like a cement gargoyle        

as he watches the baseball        

bend over the strike zone.    

Finally, free from attachment

to every inclination to sin,

I pray an Our Father,        

followed by a Hail Mary,

for the Holy Father’s intentions,    

and I release a knuckleball        

that dives through the air    

like the Dove of Divine Mercy --         

the third hitter in the lineup        

strikes out, waving his bat            

helplessly, hopelessly,            

missing it by a foot.

Suddenly a bright star        

speeds across the dark sky,        

streaming red and white    

in unimaginable exhilaration,                

escaping the pains of Purgatory        

and finding the pleasures of Paradise;        

then my All-Star catcher,

the sweet Lady of Love,        

leaps into my waiting arms,        

joyfully embracing me  

with the kiss of peace,     

to celebrate yet another

heavenly save in the

Kingdom of Divine Mercy.