Nino the Salesman

Nino the Donkey squeezes

   out every penny in sales,

His smooth, slippery power of

   persuasion never ever fails,

He legally pickpockets without

   getting thrown into jails.

Nino needs to learn how to

   sincerely serve each client,

He should give people a break

   and with pricing be more pliant,

He must make others’ lives

   easier and not be defiant.

To St. Paul

You watch with piercing pistol eyes as

  Stephen is brought before the Sanhedrin,

The leaders flog him with false witness,

  And revengefully rush at him;

They drag him outside the city,

  And lay their cloaks at your Pharisaical feet,

Then, with hellish hate, they hurl

  Spear-like stones that crush his body;

Horribly hideous thoughts float through

  The black ocean of your mind,

And you are obdurately obsessed with

  Driving Christianity into total oblivion;

You track and hunt down the Christians

  With dreadful determination,

You throw them into prison,

  Seeking to snuff out the sparks of the New Way.

On the dusty road to Damascus,

  You relish your recent conquest over the Christians,

You are smugly satisfied with your success

  Against those religious rebels;

But then there is a blinding flash,

  Infinitely brighter than a bolt of lightning,

Catapulted from your horse,

  You clumsily crash to the ground and collapse;

Then you unmistakably hear that familiar

  Gentle voice of Christ the Courageous,

He tenderly and mercifully asks,

  “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”

Suddenly you are struck blind,

  And you are entirely enveloped in darkness,

It appears as if God has blown out the sun,

  As if it were a giant candle in the sky.

Pondering and perturbed, you are praying quietly,

  In a home on Straight Street,

Lost in your thoughts, you rhythmically

  Stroke your black mustache and beard;

Your heavy heart weeps in dismay,

  As your brashness has led to your bitter blindness,

Now the hero who was persecuting the rebels

  Is himself converting into a rebel;

Scattered at your feet are the shattered

  Pieces of your old way of life,

A day ago those puzzle pieces all fit together,

  Like the pillars in Solomon’s Portico;

But now a key piece of the puzzle is missing:

  The messianic centerpiece,

You repentantly fast and pray,

  As Ananias approaches with the missing piece.

Gazing at the Circus Maximus, you know

  That your time in this world is very short,

As you reflect back upon your life,

  You realize how much you’ve changed;

Through the limitless love of the Lord,

  You have become a very humble man,

And through the Prince of Peace,

  You are filled with the fruits of the Spirit;

After so many years, you long to

  Give the kiss of peace to the saintly Stephen,

You hunger and thirst to embrace your

  Magnificent Messiah, Jesus the Just;

The sun sets in Rome’s crimson sky,

  Surrounded by clusters of woolly clouds,

This flock of lambs is ready to follow

  The shepherd-sun down into Vatican Hill.

The Inferno: A Divine Comedy

Based on Dante’s Inferno

Let’s now take a tour through Dante’s

  Inferno by going back in time,

It’s all about poetic justice down there,

  So let the punishment fit the crime!

Hell is shaped like a giant funnel,

  And it leads to the center of the Earth,

It’s an ugly place with a vile stench,

  And it’s certainly not known for mirth.

In the Vestibule are those neither good

  Nor bad who are like the living dead,

And as they are stung by wild wasps,

  Their elastic eyes pop out of their head.

In Circle One are the honorable pagans,

  Who lived by the glory of reasoning,

These souls are feeling sad in limbo,

  Since they will never taste heavenly seasoning.

In Circle Two are those with carnal passions,

  Who allowed sensuality to abound,

Lustful lovers are kissed by a whirling tempest

  In an eternal merry-go-round.

In Circle Three are the vomit-stained gluttons,

  In a squalid snow unholy,

Three-headed Cerberus loves their fatty flavor

  Even more than a tasty cannoli.

In Circle Four are the hoarders and wasters,

  Whose only idol in life was money,

They all have heavy weights on their backs,

  And shuffle around kind of funny.

In Circle Five the wrathful are swimming

  In the swampy Stygian mud,

They look like the drool a cow spits out,

  After it has blandly chewed its cud.

A flame from the Great Tower

  Marks a shift from upper to lower hell,

This flashing fire signals hell’s capital

  In lieu of a funeral bell.

In Circle Six stands the City of Dis,

  Shrouded with the smokiest fog,

The heretics are cooked in flaming graves,

  As if they are a barbecued hot dog.

Circle Seven is a little bit different,

  And it’s divided into three separate rounds,

The sinners are suffering in divers ways,

  Making all kinds of screaming sounds.

In Round One are the violent souls,

  Mad warlords who wanted to be boss,

Their heads bob in a boiling river of blood,

  Like meatballs in tomato sauce.

In Round Two the suicides have turned into

  Trees that have black leaves on top,

Their souls are bottled up inside,

  Very much like bubbly soda pop.

In Round Three the blasphemers lie on burning sand,

  And it makes them really sizzle,

They must have heard the forecast wrong,

  Because there is a fiery drizzle.

Circle Eight is also quite unusual,

  Divided into bolgias numbering ten,

Each bolgia is a deep, cavernous ditch,

  More filthy than a swine’s muddy pen.

In Bolgia One are the selfish seducers,

  Who perennially rush around in a mob,

They look like interns late for the subway,

  Who are afraid of losing their job.

In Bolgia Two are the flatterers,

  Who speak words of sweet sugar-coated goo,

One of them falls into the pool of excrement,

  And swallows a mouthful or two.

Bolgia Three is lined with a honeycomb of tubes,

  For simoniacs who misused their position,

They’re crammed head-first into each of them,

  With their feet ignited by nuclear fission.

In Bolgia Four are the fortune tellers who

  Thought predicting the future was pretty neat,

But now they have their heads on backwards,

  And they look like twisted pretzels when they eat.

In Bolgia Five, the grafters look like fried frogs,

  Peering out from the boiling black tar,

When a demon raked one with a grappling hook,

  He felt like he got flattened by a car.

In Bolgia Six are the hypocrites, wearing

  Beautiful robes of the heaviest lead,

With buckling knees, they’re sweating bullets,

  And their faces are turning strawberry red.

In Bolgia Seven are the thieves,

  Who are grievously guilty of blame,

The serpents squeeze them very tight,

  And like matches they burst into flame.

In Bolgia Eight are the evil counselors,

  Whose murky malevolence is most dire,

They could really go for some lemonade,

  Since they are wading in a lake of fire.

In Bolgia Nine are the sowers of discord,

  Who are decapitated by a demon who looks drunk,

One of them palms his head in his hand,

  Like a basketball player preparing to dunk.

In Bolgia Ten are the crafty counterfeiters,

  Who loved to print monetary junk,

Now their skin is crusted with horrid diseases,

  And they have a stench like a fricasseed skunk.

In Circle Nine are the beastly betrayers,

  Whose souls are so grimly black,

The devil chews and chomps on them,

  In a crunchy never-ending snack.

Finally we’ve reached the bottom of hell,

  And our fascinating journey is done,

Hopefully Dante is pleased with the result,

  As we’ve had just a little bit of fun.

But the moral of the story is to remember always

  The very true words of St. John Vianney,

He put it quite well when he said with utter sincerity,

  “Hell exists!”

Traveling at the Speed of Light

NowLifeIsSoStressfulAndSoRushedAndSoObsessiveAndSoFast,

WeHaveToBuyBuyBuyAndBeSuccessfulAndAlwaysAvoidBeingLast,

WeNeedFlatScreensAndSmartPhonesAndNoTimeAtAllForThePastAnd

2,000 years ago life was lived at a slower pace,

There was time for family, and to see everyone’s face,

People made time for prayer, and to receive God’s grace.

To St. Andrew the Apostle

Your mariner’s heart hungers to know the truth,

  And your saltwater soul is satisfied with John’s words;

But the brave Baptist has spoken of a greater one,

  And you are thinking about what he will be like;

You hope that he will be the promised messiah,

  Who will handily harpoon and sink the Romans;

And you hope he will be the holy and majestic king,

  Who will restore peace and prosperity to his people.

One morning the Baptist paternally points towards the

  Shore of the Jordan, at the fearless Fisher of Men;

Your eager eyes are alert as you race after Jesus,

  With sweat dripping from your shaggy beard;

As you reach him, he turns and smiles at you with warm,

  Welcoming eyes, and your heart is mystically awakened;

It feels like a beautiful balmy breeze is sweetly caressing

  The sails of your fisherman’s soul.

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 his 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 she 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.

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.

Moraine Lake

It is a bright beautiful morning in the

  crisp clean air of the Canadian Rockies,

We ascend as I drive up a wonderfully

  windy road past babbling brooks;

I am driving the “Tin Can” (the affectionate

  name that we have given our car),

After reaching the sunny summit,

  we gently roll into the Valley of the Ten Peaks;

We finally arrive at the large lake and

  look up at the regal ring of mountains,

Yet I feel slightly saddened because

  somehow it’s less than I expected;

A lodge that looks like a big log cabin

  stands silently like a sentinel near the water,

We decide to dine there and enjoy a

  delightful bit of roast beef for lunch;

The savory flavor of my sandwich lingers

  in my mouth, as I think about my morning,

I try to cunningly convince myself that

  I’m not disappointed, but I know that I am.

Departing for our next destination,

  I wistfully walk towards our little car,

But as I look to the right, I see a

  tar-black hill with a winding trail upon it;

The people look like pilgrims as they

  make their way up the mysterious mound,

Curiosity gradually grows within me as I

  ponder, puzzled, where the path leads;

So I investigate and struggle up the steep

  trail, tripping occasionally on rock and rubble,

But when I get to the top, I am frozen

  with fascination as I behold the view;

Above me is a diadem of snow-tipped peaks,

  gleaming with the glory of God,

Below me is the pristine lake, and it is

  shimmering and sparkling like a gemstone;

It appears as if millions of sapphires

  and emeralds have melted into liquid,

And the blue-green color of the

  lovely lake is luminous in the sunshine.

My senses are suddenly soaked in Your

  Holy Spirit’s lasting love, and I feel Your beauty,

At this moment, nothing else matters,

  and I only long to be close to You;

At this moment, I am oblivious to my past,

  and I am oblivious to my future,

I am living in the eternal and

  mystical present of the great I AM;

You are Holy Humility, You are

  Magnificent Mercy, You are Limitless Love,

And with Your divine sense of humor,

  You really are the God of surprises.

Nino the Lukewarm Donkey

Nino goes to mass perhaps every month or two,

Since he’s so very busy, his prayers are quite few,

But he says he’s a good Catholic if you ask his view.

Nino needs to sincerely seek so that he may find,

He needs more time with the Lord, away from the grind,

Otherwise, the more he runs, the more he’ll fall behind.

To St. Philip the Apostle

Maybe like Falstaff you were a “practical” man,

  It’s even possible that from danger you ran;

Perhaps you were very timid and shy,

  Then Jesus called you to life on high;

Did you fear the Holy Spirit’s fire?

  If so, even introverts God can inspire!

In Bethsaida born and in Phrygia killed,

  Even the meek God’s kingdom can build.

A Poem to Commemorate the Jubilee Year of Mercy

Pre-judging is a vice that we don’t like at all,

Yet doing this can become a habit into which we fall,

Let’s not be like the merciless Pharisee known as Saul.

Instead, pre-loving is what we should do the most,

Assuming the best of others should be our boast,

So we need God's grace from the Eucharistic host.

To St. Thomas the Apostle

The Christ was cruelly crucified in

  that tumultuous Passover season,

So your life was shattered and shaken,

  and you surrendered to the god of Reason;

You started to sound like a practical pagan,

  and not like a Christian apostle,

For you to believe Jesus rose from the dead,

  it would take a miracle very colossal.

The other apostles saw Jesus alive,

  and that’s why their faces turned pale,

But to you this sounded like a stupid story,

  like a fantastical fairy tale;

With stony sarcasm you scoffed at them,

  and you told them you needed proof,

Without some truly indisputable facts,

  it seemed like an apostolic goof.

But a week later you were with them

  as He walked right through the wall,

Your dark eyes now twinkled in the Light,

  and tears of faith began to fall;

Then you looked closer at Jesus’ flesh,

  and it was ripped by a Roman lance,

So you crumbled to your knees in humility,

  and you melted in His merciful glance.

Your soul had dried up in the desert of reason,

  with troubling doubts all around,

But now in this flash flood of Living Water,

  they very, very quickly drowned;

You then became the apostle of India,

  as your journeys led to the East,

Helping many people find their way,

  to the Heavenly wedding feast.

The Mission of Charlie Candlestick

Charlie’s childhood dream

   was about to come true

As he bravely awaited

   his blast-off into space,

But at T minus 31 seconds,

   things started to turn tense

When the countdown

   suddenly stopped;

Fortunately, after many anxious

   hours, all systems were go,

And the rocket boosters

   powerfully ignited,

The stately spacecraft

   lethargically lifted off,

As if it had been awakened

   from a somber slumber.

The spacecraft thunderously

   roared and rumbled upwards,

With red fiery flames

   dancing behind,

And black billows of

   smoke quickly clouded the

Launching pad like a dark,

   gaseous galactic nebula;

Charlie shook in his seat

   as if he were riding on a

Rough road in a rickety,

   rollicking stagecoach,

And in two minutes of breathtaking

   acceleration, he was

Traveling over three

   thousand miles per hour.

He was now thirty miles up

   and halfway to space,

When the rocket boosters

   abruptly disengaged,

The two of them toppled

   and fell downward towards

The bright blue ocean like

   giant worn-out pencils;

Still accelerating, the

   orbiter speared upwards

At the scintillating speed

   of one mile per second,

Charlie’s orbiter now flew

   like lightning, and in a

Mere thirty seconds

   he was soaring in space.

Charlie was then surrounded

   by stars in the black sea

Of space, and he felt

   wondrously weightless,

Now gently gliding around

   Earth, he was fascinated

As he watched the sensational

   brilliance of the sun;

Below, he saw the beautiful

   blissful blue globe and

Was awed by its peacefulness

   and by its grandeur.

Interestingly enough,

   Charlie’s spiritual life

Has followed a very

   similar flight path,

Years ago, his petitions

   and other prayers seemed

To vanish into the vast void

   of a bleak black hole;

This was because his pitiful

   prayers were mumbled

Meaninglessly in the last

   few minutes of the day,

His rockets had little spiritual

   fuel for a journey to Heaven,

So his life’s countdown

   suddenly stopped.

Without enough spiritual fuel,

   Charlie knew that he

Risked crashing and burning

   in the fearful fires of hell,

An open-throated grave

   that savagely swallows

Sinners and belches forth

   filthy fumes of smoky sulphur;

He knew he needed to

   double down on his prayer

 Life to give greater thrust

   to his mission,

So he went to mass more,

   and delighted in the

Divine Office a little at a time

   throughout each day.

Because of Charlie’s awakening,

   he made the decision

To make persistent prayer

   the top priority of his life,

At first he didn’t notice a

   change, but with patience,

His spiritual life lifted off

   and safely reached orbit;

Soon his spirit was freed

   from the burdensome bonds

Of serious sin, and he felt

   wondrously weightless,

He gracefully glided towards

   the flaming monstrance

Of the Son, and His

   rays of Divine Mercy.

From the happy heights

   of the heavens, his

Panoramic perspective

   really changed,

Life appeared so much

   simpler through the

Detachment of prayer in front

   of the Blessed Sacrament;

The petty possessions,

   the worries of the world,

The fettering fears,

   the doomsday deadlines:

They were all so surprisingly

   insignificant compared

To a fabulous future

   filled with perfect peace.

Merri and the Sweet Surrender

Everyone runs here and there calling for Merri,

They all need her help for their work at the dairy,

With so many interruptions, she has no time to tarry.

But Merri’s sincere surrender is gentle and sweet,

She turns her life over to Jesus and doesn’t miss a beat,

Living in the present moment, she washes the Lord’s feet.

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.

The Crucifixion

In a shadow of deep darkness, the Light

  of the world hangs crooked on the cross,

A jagged crown of razor-thin thorns is

  thrust maliciously into His throbbing head;

Bright-red blood and the fickle crowd’s

  sour spittle trickle into His stinging eyes,

He licks His cracked lips, and He tastes

  the bold bitter flavor of blood.

The Roman soldiers’ wild whips tore

  and radically ripped Jesus’ holy flesh,

And now the sticky crusted wounds cling

  to the weatherbeaten wood and ooze;

Knife-like nails puncture His hands and feet,

  and make them look like cored apples,

His shoulders slump down, crushed under

  the weight of every sin in human history.

The soldiers hellishly hammered the nails

  into Jesus’ flesh, as if He were an animal,

Indescribable pain blasted through the

  bones of His body like dynamite;

He now surrenders His body, mind, soul,

  and spirit to the will of His Father,

He lovingly practices what He preached,

  and He prays for His persecutors.

Jesus is high up, as if atop an isolated

  island, surrounded by a sea of hate,

A cacophonous chorus of insults assails

  His ears, and the smell of sin is in the air;

His mother, living in the dark night of

  unknowing, silently waits and watches,

She kneels in total surrender, while a 

  sword of sorrow slashes her heavy heart.

In the afternoon, Golgotha is enveloped

  in a mysterious murky darkness,

Then, when Jesus dies, the earth quakes

  in violent anger at the murder of its Creator;

Rumbling and roaring, buildings catastrophically

   crash and crumble to the ground,

The terrifying temblor forces the sanctuary’s 

  curtain to explosively burst apart.

That mysterious murky darkness remains

  in the hearts of Jesus’ faithful followers,

Their entire worlds are seriously shaken,

  and they are stunned and stupefied;

But on the third day, the nebulous fog

  of uncertainty will finally dissolve,

On the third day, a heavenly ray of Light

  will come, far brighter than the sun.

Nino the Fearmonger

Nino is a newscaster who’s

   always in hot pursuit of fame,

He aims at human targets

   to drop his bombs of blame,

Then he justifies himself saying

   it’s just a part of the game.

Vin Scully could certainly

   teach him a thing or two,

Nino should stay away

   from bombastic gossipy goo,

He should calmly and simply

   tell the facts that are true.

To St. Matthias the Apostle

You were added to the Eleven just a little bit later,

you’re the one who is known for replacing the traitor;

You were a part of the mission of the seventy-two,

and you saw how Jesus’ power made all things new;

On Pentecost you received the promised Paraclete,

and heard the first papal speech of good old St. Pete;

You mortified your flesh to kill your desire,

coupled with virtue, it helped put out the fire;

As a martyr, you were stoned in the year 80 A.D.,

now surrounded by Love, you’re finally free.

The Dark Night of Unknowing

It’s early morning and

the crafty enemy

crouches and waits,

like a hungry lion ready

to devour my world,

with worthless worries;

in the neutral zone,

transitioning out of sleep,

I lie in bed with my eyes closed,

and my mind gradually

awakens into the

nebulous fog

of fear.

My day begins

in the dark night of unknowing.

The enemy tries to strangle me

with multitudinous doubts:

about time,

about interruptions,

about irate people,

about conflicts,

about coertion,

about expectations,

about performance,

about success,

about reputation,

about ability,

about sales,

about money,

about choices,

about decisions,

about relationships,

about rejection,

about knowledge,

about honesty,

about truth.

The fog of failure threatens

in the dark night of unknowing.

With my eyes still closed,

still in the neutral zone,

I am in the darkness;

but the Light is there,

though my mind’s eye

cannot yet see it.

I reach out in faith

in the dark night of unknowing.

I place myself in the presence

of the good God,

I invoke the Holy Spirit,

and in my mind

I sing a hymn of praise;

and through the cloudy mist

like a distant diamond

I see the sparkling of the

Morning Star.

The Light twinkles

in the dark night of unknowing.

In prayer,

I abandon myself

totally

to Jesus,

The Lord of Love,

through Our Lady,

Queen of All Hearts.

The Light shines

in the dark night of unknowing.

Our Lady sweetly

and gently

draws near to me,

in a tunnel of dazzling

Son-shine;

she warmly smiles at me

with her angelic aquamarine eyes,

and her soft hair

and her majestic mantle

blow in the balmy breeze

of the Spirit;

and she lovingly clasps

her own warm hands

around mine,

and then tenderly

embraces me,

with the limitless love

of the Lord.

The Light electrically explodes

with glorious golden rays

in the dark night of unknowing.

Next she places a radiant

little candle

in my right hand,

and points to her only Sun,

Christ the Courageous;

she sweetly whispers to me,

and then, together,

we humbly kneel down

and offer prayers

of complete surrender

to Our Lord and King;

the flame of my little candle

dances with delight.

The fog of fear evaporates

and my heart leaps

with confident joy.

The dark night of unknowing

has been triumphantly

transformed into

the bright light where God’s love is flowing.

Our Lady's Little Candle in the Dark Night

The poetic corner of the public square

  Has grown exceedingly dark and dreary,

And the fetid fog of moral relativism

  Has made this place rather eerie,

The dingy marketplace of worldly poetry

  Weighs us down and makes us weary.

But Our Lady ignites her little candle,

  To make bright this deep dark night,

At last, beautiful sweet poetry comes to us,

  That is right in God’s glorious sight,

The candle’s flame is a spearing sword,

  Ready to fight for the one true Light.