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.

RICKY THE RUSHER

Ricky rushes madly all the day long,

He’s petrified things will turn out all wrong;

His two nervous eyes seem made of green rock,

That shift like the pendulum of a clock;

Keep up with the Joneses, he must, he must,

Or all of his dreams will turn to grey dust;

His sad sour life is a merry-go-round,

And Fear chases him like a hungry hound;

Tragically, he lives at a breakneck pace,

With worrisome wrinkles on his blank face;

Ricky’s afraid he just might go crazy,

The truth is that his future’s quite hazy;

He needs to run, run, run, and buy, buy, buy,

But he never stops to ask himself why.

THE DAY TRADER

Ignoramus Maximus is his name,

And playing the stock market is his game;

With a dark ghoulish smile and fiendish eye,

Greed burns inside him and will never die;

He listens to the experts on TV,

Thinking these people the future can see;

As the stock market climbs to all new highs,

He trades hundreds of stocks of every size;

Thinking of nothing but buying and selling,

His addictive life is very telling;

To the god of riches does he succumb,

So that his sick brain becomes very numb;

But seeing his statement, he starts to choke,

He finally learns he’s totally broke.

THE OPERA SINGER

"Pride goeth before a fall"

As the titanic tenor sings a tune,

Pride inflates him like a hot air balloon;

With an arrogant wrinkle of his brow,

He revels in a long slow snooty bow;

The crowd erupts in explosive applause,

And he smiles a plastic smile with his jaws;

But then something unexpected takes place,

A vine-ripened tomato hits his face;

The singer gives the guy a dirty glance,

But then abruptly trips and rips his pants.

THE LITTERBUG

Ignoramus Incredibilis is his name,

Or call him Litterbug -- it’s just the same;

He wipes his hands on his ketchup-stained shirt,

And drops his wrapper right into the dirt;

A stroll to the trash can is just too far,

So he tosses the bottle from his car;

But here is a fact pondered by the wise,

That Litterbug wears a sneaky disguise;

In truth, he’s very hard for us to see,

He actually looks just like you and me.

THE TWILIGHT

Whoever says he is in the light,

Yet hates his brother or sister,

Is still in the darkness --

But beware of The Twilight,

Neither fully in the light

Nor fully in the darkness,

The Land of the Lukewarm,

Like the Laodiceans of old,

Who are neither hot nor cold,

Who will be spit out like

Salt that has lost its flavor,

Like vines that have no fruit,

They will be thrown out

And they will wither,

Ever so slowly wither,

Into the black earth.

THE DARKNESS OF DOOM

Act I

There was midnight madness

in the heart of darkness,

where lustful lovers caroused

and burned with wild passion,

and although they were

warned by pilgrims who

were on their way to Rome,

they lived the philosophy

of carpe diem:

they could always repent

tomorrow;

but early in the morning

on the very next day,

an event took place

that forever changed

the world of Pompeii:

it was August 24, 79 AD, and

proud Pompeii was bathed

in warm peaceful sunshine

when the earth began to quake

to the awakening heartbeat

that began to stir deep inside of

the voluptuous Vesuvius,

and here and there the roof tiles

of the stately city of Pompeii

undulated in a rhythmic motion,

up and down, and up and down,

before resting quietly

and slumbering again,

as Vesuvius silently and stealthily

yawned a slow stream of

thin white smoke into the

clear blue sky.

Act II

By the afternoon,

there was a light veil

of white smoke that now

draped Vesuvius’ verdant body,

but when she suddenly and

violently erupted in anger,

belching coal-colored smoke

from her crater’s trembling lips

and spewing it high into

the pale blue sky,

it was only a matter of seconds

before flaming black rocks,

like Mephistophelian meteorites,

revengefully rained down

from the swiftly darkening sky,

smashing the roof tiles and

crushing the marble statues

above the villas’ courtyards;

meanwhile, the stunned citizens

scrambled and stumbled around

as the vigorous heartbeat

of the vain Vesuvius

pounded powerfully,

and a cataclysmic earthquake

ripped through Pompeii:

the sleeping giant

was now fully awake;

as the terrified men and women

raised their wild eyes

to the sullen sky,

they screamed like savages

and cursed their pagan gods

for punishing them,

and they spat in the air

at their pathetic gods.

Act III

Several hours later,

above the hellish rubble

of this humbled city,

the black sun approached the

black horizon and ominous clouds

suffocated the helpless sky:

Pompeii wailed in pain

and writhed woefully

under the victorious Vesuvius,

who was bathed in the seductive

red glow of liquid lava;

electric bolts of

volcanic lightning danced

like convulsive demons

and lit up the murky sky

as ashen rain fell feebly

to the flaming ruins below;

maimed dogs howled in horror

at the shockingly surreal and

apocalyptic spectacle,

while the lonely human survivors,

their psyches severely shattered,

huddled together for cover

under the crumbling columns

that were sinking in a sea of

charcoal-gray ashes.

Act IV

As the sun slowly rose

the next morning,

the new day dawned with

a deep deafening silence,

and the sickly sun shuddered

as it peered through the

broken black clouds,

lamenting the loss of the

once grand city of Pompeii;

as the scattered survivors

clutched ever so tightly to

their shredded sliver of hope,

it appeared that perhaps the

volcanic storm had finally

exhausted itself,

and the remaining citizens,

with empty expressions

on their blank faces,

slowly and weakly

began the process of

putting the splintered pieces

of their lives back together again;

but in the distance

they suddenly heard a

thunderous roar that

rapidly and frighteningly

crescendoed as it drew nearer,

sounding very much like

a stampede of the gods;

with great trepidation,

the people lifted their

bloodshot eyes and they saw a

massive wall of

whirling gray clouds --

as tall as Vesuvius herself --

rushing madly along the

surface of the ground and

coming right towards them;

it paused momentarily,

as if trying to catch its breath,

before making one last

diabolical attack upon its enemy;

then in a twinkle of time,

the voracious cloud of hot ash

charged through and hungrily devoured

the crumpled carcass

of pitiful Pompeii.

Act V

As Time drearily dragged the

morning into afternoon,

the poor Pompeians

were forever frozen

and cemented into history,

buried alive under a twelve-foot

blizzard of blazing ashes;

the solitary sun looked down

sadly upon the waveless

gray ocean of volcanic ash,

and Pompeii was nothing more

than a desolate wasteland --

even the powerful Vesuvius

was left seriously crippled,

with her cone blown off

by the explosiveness of her fury;

when the news of this event finally

reached the imperial city of Rome,

Pope Cletus gathered for mass

with his flock and, together,

they fervently prayed for

the souls of the victims who perished

in the very dark tragedy of

the doomed city of Pompeii.

WHO WAS JUDAS ISCARIOT?

Was he actually

humble?

Or did his pride

puff

like swollen eyelids and make him

stumble?

Was he possibly

kind?

Or did silent envy

creep

like a serpent into his

mind?

Did he patiently

wait?

Or did his simmering anger

boil

as he smelled that costly nard with

hate?

Did he have

zeal?

Or was his faith

sluggish

like at his last supper

meal?

Did he perchance

share?

Or did his fingers

clutch

the silver coins to keep in his

lair?

Did his temperance avoid every

snag?

Or was he a glutton who

gobbled

all the leftover loaves from the

bag?

Did he have self-

control?

Or did he pant and burn for

power

since killing the Romans was his

goal?

Did he ultimately

repent?

Or did his faithless soul

fall

through the noose like

cement?

TO ST. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX

Good St. Bernard, you love

Our Lord and Our Lady so much:

You were a sincere confessor,

But in the confessional, 

You were too severe,

Far far too severe,

And so the Spirit taught you

Gentleness, sweet gentleness;

Maybe it was from you that

St. Francis de Sales learned,

For he so famously said that

We will catch more flies 

With a spoonful of honey

Than with a barrel full of vinegar.

TO ST. LONGINUS

You rammed your lance into His side,

  And quickly the crimson blood poured;

Startled that He could have died so soon,

  You looked up at the crucified Lord.

Later His sacred blood pierced your soul,

  So you knelt down and began to pray;

This gradually led you towards holy freedom,

  To a path that was known as The Way.

Pontius Pilate marveled at your courage,

  For as a martyr you chose to die,

He wondered if what he heard of Jesus

  Might be the truth and not a lie.

TO ST. PATRICK

You’re a stout lad from the big Scottish isle,

A future bishop without any guile;

Kidnappers took you away from your home,

Across a sea that rippled with white foam;

In Ireland you were made a poor slave,

Life was rough, though you tried hard to be brave;

You drew close to God and He set you free,

At last with your eyes your homeland you see;

You return to Ireland so smart, so wise,

And clearly reveal all the devil’s lies;

You pray “Christ on my left, Christ on my right,”

And you help the Irish find the true Light.

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 baptized 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.

THE LIGHTHOUSE

A simple little child of God,

He humbly and obediently ascends

The steps of the sanctuary,

In holy reverence and awe,

Then as he stands before the ambo,

He stands before The Word,

And he is inside the lighthouse;

As he slowly begins to proclaim, 

The Spirit swiftly descends and

Love shines forth brilliantly from

The lighthouse into the nave,

Radiant red and white beams

That fill our hearts with wisdom,

Wisdom from the Divine Mercy.

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.

THE DOVE OF DIVINE MERCY

The passenger jet takes off

In the deep Dark Night,

As the low clouds stealthily

Creep in from the ocean,

The journey soon becomes

Turbulent, and the people

Start to wring their hands

With worry, wondering

What will happen next,

But then out of nowhere

The Dove of Divine Mercy

Appears, with a wingspan

Wider than that of the aircraft,

He nestles under the jet, like

The Mother protecting The Babe,

And as He very gently flaps

His holy wings, He calms

The hearts of everyone, then

He safely takes them

Where they need to go –

Straight into the heart of

The Divine Mercy.

TO ST. HELENA

Dear modest, majestic

   mother of Constantine,

You sweetly speak

   with stately serenity;

As a holy pilgrim, with

   eyes alive and animated,

You search for Christ’s

   true cross on Calvary.

Lumbering laborers dig up for

   you a dizzying number

Of dirty crosses -- yet

   only one is miraculous;

Only one cures the

   worn-out woman’s incurable

Disease when she is

   wondrously made well.

Then, when you eagerly

   embrace its holy wood

In your amiable arms, you

   tremble with jubilation;

Strands of your long flowing

   hair blow in the breeze across

Your lovely face and then

   softly caress the holy cross.

TO ST. VERONICA

Under the cross, the Christ is crushed,

  And He staggers to the ground,

His loveblood pours from thorny wounds,

  Yet He utters not a single sound;

The stony Roman soldiers encircle Him,

  Watching for a menacing threat,

But with holy compassion for the Master,

  You just want to wipe away His sweat.

Like an invisible angel you pass them by,

  Focused on serving your Lord,

You approach to clean His bloody head,

  A head that has been badly gored;

For the very slightest moment of time,

  The weary Jesus has time to relax,

Then He presses His face into your cloth,

  Like a signet ring pressed to warm wax.

The savage soldiers abruptly grab you,

  Rudely and cruelly pushing you away,

But something catches your attention,

  A hopeful sign on this sorrowful day;

Your eyes twinkle with sincere wonder,

  And diminished are all your fears,

For there on your simple white cloth,

  The bloody visage of Jesus appears.

TO ST. MARTHA

You are a wonderful woman of hospitality,

  Anticipating all the guests’ needs,

While your sister sits near the Master,

  As the people He spiritually feeds;

But your mind is whirling with worry,

  Shackled by a million trifling things,

Meanwhile, the Word speaks of true freedom

  That lifts people’s souls with wings;

That day you learned an important lesson:

  First things always come first,

If we drink of the Lord’s living water,

  Then for the world we will never thirst.

TO ST. MARY MAGDALENE

Your attractive dark hair,

very long and wavy,

flowed aimlessly and

hopelessly over your

darkened eyes --

you were worn out

by the world’s dirty coins

and dirtier men.

But when you met

Him, the brightest light

of the purest love

streamed into your eyes,

driving the deadly demons

into a fearful frenzy and --

suddenly -- you found yourself

finally free.

Then, on the third day,

you giggled like a little girl

as you jubilantly ran

from the tomb

to the upper room

of your heart,

with a smile sparkling

and a soul soaring.

TO ST. ANNE

As the wind blows,

Your wise brown eyes

Are covered by wisps

Of your brown hair;

You watch your

Little Maria,

Your saintly cherub,

Skipping away

With a smile;

Your finely furrowed brow

Is knitted in a knot,

As you are pensively

Waiting, wondering:

What does the Mighty One

Have in mind for my

Darling dark-haired daughter?

May the Messiah be on the move?