Like a moon in orbit around the
mesmerizingly
beautiful and seductively
enchanting planet
Death,
temptation does revolve.
But with holy meditation on the
Crucifix, on the
Hands and Feet cored like apples
by knife-like nails,
prayer
does temptation dissolve.
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 his
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 soul
fall
through the noose like
cement?
Joseph P. Castorino has a Master of Arts degree in English literature, with an emphasis in fiction, from Loyola Marymount University. He taught writing on the college level for ten years and now composes poetry that ranges from the tragical to the comical, and from the historical to the romantic. His work has been accepted for publication in PILGRIM, a Catholic literary journal.
In addition, he worked in the investment industry as both a financial advisor and an academic training leader. He currently manages his own investment portfolios as an individual investor who is passionate about the field of morally responsible investing, and he periodically gives talks on the same subject. For more details, please go to his website at www.mri4catholics.com.
Lastly, since 2007 he has been a member of the Association of Mary, Queen of All Hearts (this is a part of the Company of Mary that was founded by St. Louis de Montfort).
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I thought I was going to be a deacon. I was wrong. In retrospect, I can see that the Lord really does have a sense of humor...
I was just finishing my pre-diaconate studies at the Kino Catechetical Institute when the diaconal door suddenly slammed shut in my face. And the door was locked from the inside. I had come across the Association of Mary, Queen of All Hearts (formerly the Confraternity of Mary, Queen of All Hearts), and I felt drawn towards it. It is specifically intended for those who have made the consecration to Jesus through Mary that is recommended by St. Louis de Montfort. The consecration itself is magnificently beautiful, and since my initial consecration on January 1, 2007, it has gradually become the foundational rock of my entire spiritual life, simply living as Our Lady's little candle in the dark night. But, in addition, the good God had two apostolates in mind for me.
I worked in the investment industry, serving as both a financial advisor and an academic training leader, so from an investment standpoint, I am passionate about morally responsible investing. (For more information on this fascinating topic, please visit my other website at www.mri4catholics.com.)
However, I also have two degrees in English literature, including a Master of Arts degree, with a specialization in the area of fiction. In addition, I taught writing on the college level for ten years and also had the chance to teach some literature. So for a long time, I have loved literature -- and, really, the arts in general. I had seen Joseph Pearce, the great Catholic literary critic, on EWTN, and I appreciated hearing his perspectives on the life of William Shakespeare. So when I found out that he had just released a book entitled Catholic Literary Giants: A Field Guide to the Catholic Literary Landscape, I knew that I wanted to read it.
So I purchased a copy and began to read. When I did so, I had an epiphany moment. Pearce talks about three different kinds of apologetics: the apologetics of reason, the apologetics of love, and the apologetics of beauty (or cultural apologetics).
This was the first time I had ever heard the term “apologetics of beauty,” and I was immediately enthralled with the concept. I devoured the book, hungry to see Pearce apply this idea to many great Catholic works of literature throughout the history of Christendom, from Dante to Tolkien. I was fascinated.
The words of St. Catherine of Siena rang in my soul: “If you are what you should be, you will set all of Italy ablaze!” A fire was lit within my Italian soul, and I thirsted to be a part of the evangelization of beauty, the evangelization of culture. But how?
It was January of 2015, and my life was very much like a patchwork quilt, so the literary form that I would choose needed to fit the rhythm of my life. It did not take long before I realized that poetry was my best alternative, so I embraced it. I prayed and asked God to help me to compose poetry that could help make the world a better place, to help me and others to grow in holiness.
When I think back through the history of literature in the age of Christendom, I am dazzled by the array of beautiful and inspiring works, from the epic poetry of Dante to the mystical poetry of St. John of the Cross to the provocative plays of William Shakespeare to the historical fiction of Alessandro Manzoni. But, as Pearce so aptly points out, it appears that beauty has all but disappeared in our own times. With the rise of moral relativism, the arts have seemingly become a free-for-all, as more and more artists are trying to redefine beauty. Although there are exceptions, contemporary literature, for the most part, has become like the Dickensian neighborhoods of Fagin and the Artful Dodger: foggy, dreary, drab, and, really, hopeless. Or, to use another image, contemporary art is often like a puzzle that is missing the Messianic centerpiece; consequently, the light of God is missing, the Light that can dispel that darkness. Our world was convulsed by two unimaginably horrifying world wars in the 1900s, and the shadow of fear is still long and dark even in our own times. Our world so needs the light of God’s love to burst through and dissipate the fog of moral relativism, to pierce our hearts and souls with His love.
So I wanted to go back into the rich literary history of Christendom, in order to see and understand it from the perspective of great intellectual thinkers. I wanted to be like the man in Matthew 13:52: “... a householder who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old” (The Ignatius Catholic Study Bible: New Testament). My journey took me back to St. Bonaventure, a Doctor of the Church, a devout Franciscan, and truly one of the great minds of the Medieval period. In his work entitled On the Reduction of the Arts to Theology, St. Bonaventure rightly points out that the arts -- and, really, everything we know in life -- should take us back to God. In a sense, St. Bonaventure might perhaps have been the first artistic critic in Christendom.
Then, about three hundred years later, during the English Renaissance, Sir Philip Sydney came along and refined this thought further. In his Apology for Poetry he said, “Poesy therefore is an art of imitation… to speak metaphorically, a speaking picture; with this end, to teach and delight.” So, along these lines, I knew that I strongly agreed with both Bonaventure and Sydney. I always wanted my poetry to lead back to God. But, more specifically, I wanted it to teach and delight.
However, I also wanted to get contemporary perspectives on artistic criticism, so I looked to two of the great spiritual and intellectual giants of our time: St. John Paul II and Pope Benedict XVI. In his “Letter to Artists” (1999), John Paul the Great made some profound statements. Let us begin with his view of art in modern times: "It is true nevertheless that, in the modern era, alongside this Christian humanism which has continued to produce important works of culture and art, another kind of humanism, marked by the absence of God and often by opposition to God, has gradually asserted itself. Such an atmosphere has sometimes led to a separation of the world of art and the world of faith, at least in the sense that many artists have a diminished interest in religious themes."
But then he went on to point out our role as artists in the contemporary world: "In order to communicate the message entrusted to her by Christ, the Church needs art. Art must make perceptible, and as far as possible attractive, the world of the spirit, of the invisible, of God." Even now, when I read this sentence, it stirs the flames of love in my own heart. This is the kind of literature and art that I wish to read and to experience. This is the kind of poetry that I wish to produce. I want to compose poetry that, as he said, makes a relationship with God attractive. We might best describe John Paul the Great as the “saint of light,” which indeed he was, shining the light of God’s love in the midst of the dark night of Nazism and of Communism, in his native Poland. He successfully battled and, by God’s grace, defeated the latter during his pontificate, as the documentary Nine Days that Changed the World so beautifully and accurately illustrates.
Therefore, in a similar manner, with St. John Paul II as one of my guides, I wish to produce “The Poetry of Light” (though at other times my poetic style might be best described as chiaroscuro). This focus on light reminds me of the magnificent paintings of Charles Pabst and Thomas Kinkade, whose works touch my heart, and fill me with the joy of the Holy Spirit. Their beautiful artistic works are radically different from most other contemporary paintings.
In addition, Pope Benedict XVI followed the same path as his famous predecessor. He said the following in his “Meeting with Artists” (2009): “Authentic beauty, however, unlocks the yearning of the human heart, the profound desire to know, to love, to go towards the Other, to reach for the Beyond.” Here he takes us right back to St. Bonaventure, a man that he studied in great depth as a theologian. All literature, all art, must lead us back to God.
Then, in “Art and Prayer” Benedict XVI used an interesting image to describe the role of artists in their creation of beauty: "However some artistic expressions are real highways to God, the supreme Beauty; indeed, they help us to grow in our relationship with him, in prayer. These are the works that were born from faith and express faith. We can see an example of this when we visit a Gothic cathedral: we are enraptured by the vertical lines that soar skywards and uplift our gaze and our spirit, while at the same time we feel small yet long for fullness...."
His image of the highway is so appropriate. When I experience contemporary art -- poetry, short stories, dramas, novels, operas, ballets, classical concerts, paintings, architecture, etc. -- I usually don’t feel like I am on a highway to Heaven, a highway basking in the truth and clarity of the Light of the World. Oftentimes, quite honestly, it feels more like a highway to hell. But so many Catholic and Christian artists seem content to drive on neither of these. Instead, they all too often seem happy enough to drive on the road that is between them, straddling the border between the worlds of light and darkness, living in the twilight.
So, in short, my goal and purpose is to drive down the poetic highway to Heaven, leading towards God, showing the beauty and harmony of God, as well as the ugliness and emptiness of life without Him.
Once I knew my goal, my destination, I had to determine what my poetry would actually look like from a stylistic perspective. So I broke it down into five categories: content, description, organization, poetic verse, and tone. Let’s begin with the first one, content. I would describe my poetry as being essentially Marian because my goal is, very simply, to point to Jesus. No one was better than “La Madonnina” (as St. Padre Pio would affectionately call her) in humbly loving through her quiet example and, when necessary, through her words. Her life was like a signpost pointing towards God. That’s all Our Lady ever really did in her life. At the wedding feast in Cana, her last words recorded in Scripture say it all: “Do whatever he tells you” (Jn 2:5). In a similar way, every poem on this website, either directly or indirectly, points to Jesus.
In terms of description, I would say this collection of poetry is essentially Johannine because, like the Gospel of John, it is filled with light juxtaposed against darkness. In fact, in this respect it is not unlike J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia. In like manner, it is also quite reminiscent of Dante's masterpiece The Divine Comedy. But light and darkness only reveal one aspect of the description. While the content is decidedly Marian, the descriptive element is quite Franciscan. St. Francis of Assisi wholeheartedly loved beauty, exactly the same kind of beauty that Pope Benedict XVI discusses in his “Meeting with Artists.” In addition, St. John Paul II’s “Letter to Artists” specifically mentions St. Francis’ insightful realization that true beauty is a reflection of God. Therefore, my poetry often strives to illustrate not just caritas in veritate, but truth in beauty. I must also add that I am a great lover of sights and sounds -- in other words, the senses -- so my poems are often brimming with figurative language and alliteration, occasionally even delving into the mystical, once again not unlike both St. Francis and St. Clare of Assisi.
Next, let’s turn our attention to organization. When composing his Theology of the Body, rather than using the more common Aristotelian structure (going from beginning to middle to end), John Paul II chose to employ a spiraling organizational strategy. So instead of going with a linear structure that is horizontal, he decided to utilize one that spirals upward vertically. I have organized my collection of poems with the same concept in mind. It fits perfectly because I wish to draw the reader’s gaze from earth to Heaven, to think above and beyond the world that we know here below, to gain greater perspective by remembering that our imperfect world is only a teardrop in the vast expanse of eternity.
As a result, there are several different types of poems in this collection: dark tragedies, dark comedies, mystical narratives, mystical reflections, luminous histories, and luminous romances. The tragedies and comedies are essentially dark poems that are missing the messianic centerpiece. The narratives focus on various journeys, while the reflections deal with a wider range of topics.The histories and romances bring to life, in a very unique manner, the lives of Our Lord Jesus and the Blessed Virgin Mary and the saints.
Speaking of the saints, I chose to write about them because I’ve noticed that surprisingly few poets throughout literary history have dealt with this subject. During my spiritual journey, I had hardly ever thought about our “extended family” in Heaven. Then, at my old parish, my pastor did something at Saturday morning masses that I had never seen done before, and I found it to be quite delightful and refreshing. Instead of giving the standard two-minute weekday homily, based in the Scriptures of the day, he simply read a brief summary of the saint of the day. Oh, how I began to look forward to those Saturday morning masses! A whole new world had opened up for me as I got to know my long-lost spiritual relatives. So the mystical histories are intended to familiarize readers with these great personages, in a literary fashion.
With that we come to the subject of poetic verse. Now although this entire collection of poetry is in some way about the spiritual journey and our lofty goal of “theosis” or spiritual union with God, the reality is that we’re still sinners saved by grace. Therefore, I wish the meter to be a reflection of this, and I have chosen to use what I call “crooked verse.” In other words, regardless of whether or not a particular poem has a rhyme scheme, I am employing verse that does not have a predictable meter, in order to highlight our erring human nature (the only exception to this would be some of the dark comedies).
Lastly, in terms of tone, the poems that I have composed are centered in hope. St. John Paul II, who was a “witness to hope,” a beacon of light shining in the darkness, is an inspiration for me. I never want to lose sight of the truth, that no matter where fear and evil ultimately lead our world, the Light, the Word, will always be shining in dazzling brilliance.
As an addendum, I have a link entitled "Artistic Perspectives" which includes magnificent insights into the arts by St. Bonaventure, St. John Paul II, Pope Benedict XVI, and the Catechism of the Catholic Church. It also includes "The Holy Rosary in Art," masterpieces of art depicting the joyful mysteries, luminous mysteries, sorrowful mysteries, and glorious mysteries. Finally, it includes "Spiritual Masterpieces," which is very much like a Hall of Fame for the saints (naturally, this is a selective list or it would be far too lengthy).
In writing these poems, I share the sentiments of St. Teresa of Avila. When she concluded her masterful book The Interior Castle, she made the following comments: "If you find anything in the plan of this treatise which helps you to know Him better, be certain that it is sent by His Majesty to encourage you, and that whatever you find amiss in it is my own.... If these writings contain any error, it is through my ignorance; I submit in all things to the teachings of the holy Catholic Roman Church.... May our Lord God be forever praised and blessed! Amen, Amen." I feel very much the same way. It is my hope that you will enjoy the collection of poetry on this website, but I am all too aware of its defects. It is my sincerest hope that the good God will write straight through the crooked verse of my poetry, and it is my deepest desire that He will use these poems to bless you, even if only in a little way.
The Little Candle said to Our Lady,
“Your merciful and majestic eyes
are dazzlingly modest,
Sparkling like radiant jewels
of kindness and compassion;
Your serene smile swiftly
steals my humble heart,
As you point me towards the
path that leads to Jesus;
Your majestic mantle and sky-blue
sash dance joyfully in the breeze,
Reflecting the mildness and the
gentleness of the good God;
Your ladylike lips whisper
words of wisdom
That split the air like
atomic loving lightning;
Your sweet, saintly actions
ripple through the universe,
Like warm, welcoming waves
of heavenly peace.”
Seven-foot Sauron stands imperiously
like a goliath on the mound,
Wearing his glistening, gleaming armor,
he longs to be crowned;
His wind-up is Smaug-like and
slithering and serpentine
As if he’s been guzzling and gulping
hot Mordor turpentine;
Brimming with poison pride, he
frantically fires a fastball of power,
That rings through the air
as it aims to devour.
Recognizing the temptation,
Mr. Baggins the most honorable,
Surrenders to the Spirit and humbly
lays down a bunt phenomenal;
The baseball sneaks softly
down the third-base line
And Mr. Baggins thinks to himself,
First-base is all mine!
Then, like a slingshot, off to
first base he invisibly darts,
And the burglar makes it safely
because he’s so smarts.
Nino the Donkey thought
he was much better than all,
His diamond-studded saddle
made him feel rather tall,
His pride did nothing but fill him
with the most bitter gall.
Nino should focus so much
more on his good deeds,
Instead of wearing the most
fashionable fancy tweeds,
He would be better off thinking
about other people’s needs.
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.
With the sensual swirl and clustered
curls of her wild, wicked whirl
Of hair, the wanton white witch
stood on the mound ready to hurl;
The saucy wench went into a
windup most sultry and seductive,
Her voluptuous goddess-like physique
flamed as a volcano eruptive;
She fired a cutlass-like curveball,
ready to slice into the lion’s soul,
And the ball sang through the air
like a Siren, quite out of control.
There stood Aslan the Amazing,
the spectacular baseball star,
He royally dug into the batter’s box,
ready to hit the ball far;
Then, the Spirit spoke: “If you gaze
at her fair face, you shall be undone;
Through Truth, unmask her sickly soul,
and the battle shall be won!”
Clutching his bold, brave bat, he crouched
like a catapult ready to spring,
Then, as he humbly surrendered to
the Spirit, he took his first swing.
His bat flashed around like lightning
and filled the crowd with wonder,
And as the ball hit his bat, there was
the sound of crackling thunder;
Filled with chastity and purity,
he crushed a laser-beam home run,
And gently trotting around the bases,
he was as radiant as the sun;
When he was in the near occasion
of sin, Aslan was on his guard,
And that’s why he’s now strolling
down Championship Boulevard.
If you never prune your spiritual tree,
Your sins will be like an untamed storm at sea,
And, even worse, you’ll never ever be truly free.
Monthly confession can make you really alive,
It can also help your spiritual life totally thrive,
Making the Lord first is the goal for which to strive.
Your exquisite bright blue eyes
are soft and serene,
Beholding the remarkable
richness of God’s creation;
Your honey hair cascades
over your shoulders like a
Wonderful waterfall of God’s
ineffable, indelible love;
Yet you choose to be a
princess of holy poverty,
And your only wish is to
sweetly serve in simplicity;
You are a faithful friend to
the good Saint Francis,
As you both sacrificially surrender
to Jesus the Just;
You are a merciful mother
to the nuns of San Damiano,
As you guide them in purity
and prudence and peace;
You are a beauteous bride
to Christ the Courageous,
And your soul is bedecked with
the precious pearls of virtue;
As you fervently follow in the
footsteps of Our Loving Lord,
May we too live on in
the laudable light of Christ.
The long, arduous journey
was finally over,
More challenging than going
from London to Dover;
Clarissa Candela opened
her deep, dark eyes,
She got out of bed not
expecting any surprise;
For the last 33 days it’s been
a time for new prayers,
Almost like climbing a beautiful
resort’s elegant stairs;
Going upward towards God
in an imperceptible way,
She didn’t notice any spiritual growth
when she knelt down to pray.
As the beacon of dawn
gradually conquered the night,
The sinful, fearful darkness
was very quickly put to flight;
The angels unfurled the banner
of God’s light across the sky,
As on the freeway Clarissa
calmly drove in the desert so dry;
Her pilgrimage was to the beauteous
chapel of Our Lady of Solitude,
And since she could see the cupola,
her arrival was a certitude;
With holy sunbeams striking a
stained glass window from afar,
The chapel looked like a lighthouse
reflecting Bethlehem’s star.
Clarissa got out of her car, and a
sweet smile danced across her lips,
Her long, dark hair through the comforting
breeze ever so gently whips;
Looking at the chapel, she saw arches
and columns in a style European,
The dappled desert stone, rustically
elegant, made it look Galilean;
The cupola, topped with a simple cross,
was Our Lady’s jeweled crown,
And the t-shaped tau on the gable
declared good St. Francis’ renown;
Clarissa looked up, twirled around,
and saw an immense sky so blue,
She had never seen such beauty clothed
in such peace, ‘tis so very true.
Then she entered the chapel
experiencing a spiritual thirst,
Truly there were not many people
at mass on this January First;
Their few voices were humbly and
quietly raised almost inaudibly aloft,
And the Franciscan priest said mass
in a voice that was very, very soft;
The devout Poor Clare nuns were
all engaged in the deepest prayer,
And, honestly, the mass was so silent
that it was exceedingly rare;
When Clarissa’s 33-day prayers of
consecration were finally done,
Might she be in danger of ending
as uneventfully as she had begun?
But St. Louis de Montfort’s
Consecration to Jesus through Mary,
Was recommended by her wise old
Irish pastor Monsignor O’Clary;
He had preached quite a fine homily
about this special devotion,
Saying, “It can really change your life,
if you have the notion”;
But now let me share with you
one rather noteworthy fact,
St. Louis’ closing prayer is
really a form of holy contract;
She knelt before Our Lord’s
beautiful crucifix near the altar,
And she dearly hoped that her
heart would not ever falter.
Midway through this closing prayer,
Clarissa’s heart was passionately,
Preciously pierced by the sweet sword
of the Spirit; her soul, suddenly
Brimming with God’s majestic mercy,
soared in a spiraling celestial
Crescendo of God’s love for her;
fearing that her heart, like a fiery
Supernova, might explode with emotion,
she silently slipped out
And sat quietly, alone, on the sofa
in the pilgrims' guest room;
Here she serenely surrendered all
to the Spirit, like a noble
Knight of Christ, Through Our Lady,
The Queen of All Hearts.
Then like a giddy geyser she gushed
torrents of light-hearted laughter
And happy, heavenly tears; this golden
cascade of pure love poured
Over her soul like a warm, wonderful
waterfall of holy honey; deep down
Inside, the Spirit was strumming on
the harmonic harp of her heart, and
She was deliciously, delightfully deluged
by this overwhelming ocean of God’s love for her.
Afterwards, Clarissa softly strolled
back into the chapel to finish her
Closing prayer; approaching the altar,
with awe, she beheld the crucifix
Where Christ the Courageous heroically
hangs; from the back of the church
She felt his love as a light, blissful,
balmy breeze; but as she
Drew closer to that crucifix, she felt
His love magnificently magnified as it
Ignited into an intense, surging storm
of explosive, electric joy;
Kneeling before that same crucifix,
as a bold, brave warrior, she battled
Through her emotions until
word by word, slowly,
Meaningfully, she finished
her prayer of consecration.
Every year for the rest of her life
this holy devotion she would pray,
She would always return to Our Lady
of Solitude on the very same day;
Just as Our Lady had very few truly
remarkable days in her saintly life,
Clarissa had few days in which intense
joy pierced her soul like a knife;
Although she never again experienced
a cascading heavenly waterfall,
Every so often a raindrop of pure,
holy love her heart would enthrall;
In the twinkling of an eye the sword
of the Spirit would pierce her soul,
As if to remind her that perfect love
in Heaven must always be her goal.
You frequently get so
obsessed about things,
You need to recall the
anxiety a possession brings,
You start to obsess and need
a warning bell that rings.
But even so much better
for your peace of mind,
Pray a little at a time throughout
the day, to avoid the grind,
Truly God’s ineffable love and joy
you will most certainly find.
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.
Philovanitas didn’t want a spiritual life
Where she had to follow lots of rules,
For her the Church was run by men
Who were really a bunch of old fools;
A free life where she could decide
Was her idea of sensible fun,
So she steered her ship into enticing seas
While soaking up some sun;
But the evil one launched a surprise attack
And thunder she started to hear,
A tempest rushed in with frantic fingers
And tried to strangle her with fear;
Like demonic fireworks, lightning exploded
Fanatically all across the sky,
And murderous rain came down like daggers,
So it was impossible for her to stay dry.
Philovanitas was trapped like a captive
At sea in a savage Storm of Deception,
She spun her ship around in the wild, wicked
Wind and lost all sense of direction;
She was engulfed by the tangled, twisted
Waves of venomous and violent temptation,
And so she paid the ultimate price
For her silly pursuit of sensation;
She stood aghast in terror as the breakers
Blasted against her vessel,
And her formidable foe was far too strong
For her to ever even attempt to wrestle;
She said, “Oh, dear Lord Jesus, please please
Rescue me from this frightfully horrid place,
I’m sincerely sorry for my sins and want
Nothing more but to see your sweet face!”
She turned around and before her stood
One whose robe was most dazzlingly white,
On His head was a glistening gold crown,
Set with gemstones radiant and bright;
With love He compassionately caressed her
With his wonderfully warm brown eyes,
And his mild, merciful smile rescued
Her heart and made her spirits arise;
Then He looked up, thrust His arms into the air
And commanded the storm to be still,
The tempest immediately retreated
And was obedient to His holy will;
Back fled the thunderclouds, back fled
The lightning bolts, to the dark abyss of hell,
The sun now shone cheerfully, the sea now
Splashed gleefully, and all was well.
At this the evil one foamed at the mouth
Like the monstrous madman Othello,
He wanted revenge and he wanted it now
So he vehemently started to bellow;
In a gruesomely gravelly voice he raged,
“All hands on deck! Attack! Attack!”
And as the pirate demons sped by,
He gave each one a menacing whack;
The pirate demons loaded up their weapons,
For the spiritual blitzkrieg was on,
Time was of the essence, otherwise
Their opportunity might be all gone;
They boarded their ghastly ghost ships
Like a swarming plague of flies,
They fanatically followed their emperor,
And he be the Father of Lies.
Soon the ghost galleons’ powerful armada
Half-surrounded Philovanitas’ ship,
The evil one stood up like a hunchback
And was ready to crackle his whip;
Impatiently pacing, back and forth,
He was like a lion that was ready to devour,
But when he saw the handsome Holy One,
His attitude really turned sour;
With a slobbering spit of hot yellow sulphur,
The evil one gave his sign,
And the pirate demons loaded their weapons
While drinking some stale wart-hog wine;
The great Battle for Philovanitas’ Soul
Was almost ready to commence,
And for the angelic crowd in the clouds,
There was certainly growing suspense.
The Father most kind and gentle humbly
Sent down the sweet Spirit of love,
Carrying a sword from the celestial heights,
The Spirit was shaped like a dove;
He shot down from Heaven like a sunbeam
Through a sky that was stunningly blue,
And He delivered the sword to Jesus,
The Lord who makes all things new;
With a hilt of gold and a blade of steel
The sword was razor-sharp,
And when Christ the Courageous swung it round,
It sounded like a melodious harp;
Swinging the Sword of the Spirit was
Something for which Jesus had a knack,
So He turned around, got in the ready position,
And waited for the enemy to attack.
With that the devil’s hateful, hellish heart
Burned like Halley’s Comet,
So he gave the signal to attack
And sulphurous lava he began to vomit;
The demon archers with cryptic crossbows
Shot electric arrows into the air,
The arrows buzzed like a swarm of sparkling
Bees as they targeted Philovanitas’ hair;
But Jesus exhibited tremendous athleticism
And certainly He frustrated His foe,
With His sword He deflected the electroarrows
And they fizzed into the sea below;
The devil saw that the arrows were useless
And it was time to turn to flaming missiles,
These are the kind that blaze through the air
With terrifying and eerie whistles.
Jesus then changed His grip on the holy sword
As if He would stab Death in the heart,
Then He flung the sword like a spiraling spear
And it gave the devil a start;
When the sword struck the sea, there was a
Blinding flash and a deafening sonic boom,
For the evil one and his pirate demons
This could certainly only spell doom;
A supersonic shock wave swiftly fanned out
Like Saturn’s colorful rings,
It explosively ripped through the devil’s galleons
By the power of the King of kings;
The devil and his pirate demons were blown right back
Into their dark, infernal pit,
And because of where they were painfully injured,
They found it very hard to sit.
Jesus saw that the splintered wood from the
Galleons was strewn all over the sea,
Troublesome temptation had been driven out
And Philovanitas was finally free;
Jesus turned around and saw her trembling
Because she had such a terrible fright,
So He took His bride into His arms
And then embraced her very, very tight;
Jesus said, “Henceforth you shall be ‘Philothea’
For now you love God above all,
I shall always love you as a treasure
And be with you whenever you call”;
Then He tenderly kissed her cheek
And she felt the softness of His bearded curls,
Never had Philothea felt so special,
Even more precious than the rarest of pearls.
He pierced her soul with truest love,
And her heart brimmed with Heavenly light,
Thanks to Christ the Courageous,
Philothea’s spiritual eyes regained their sight;
With a peaceful smile on His face,
The Lord wiped away her happy tears,
Her heart was so full of contentment
And banished were all her fears;
She learned that freedom’s not freedom
Without love and responsibility,
And avoiding the near occasion of sin
Involves a lot of spiritual agility;
In the brisk balmy breeze, Jesus’
Flowing hair so very gently swirled,
He said, “Behold I am with you always,
Even unto the end of the world.”
Nino the Donkey was the
biggest gossip in the state,
He couldn’t wait to text the world
about Kate’s awkward date,
He’s the kind of guy
people can absolutely hate.
That’s what happens when
Nino wants to be cool,
He laughs at others because
he’s a ridiculous fool,
Nino needs to learn that
the Golden Rule is a jewel.
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.
MacScrooge steered his sailing ship
Towards the swirling maelstrom of mystery,
He heard that it held one of the most
Tantalizing treasures in all of human history;
Old sailors say millions of sparkling
Diamonds are twirling round and round,
Spinning like a glittering galaxy,
The maelstrom makes a murmuring sound;
When he entered the Forbidden Sea,
His ultimate goal was near,
He had heard that the vortex was deadly,
And there was certainly reason to fear;
But more than anything else he wanted
To own an envious pile of wealth,
Perhaps if he kept a safe distance,
Then he might succeed through stealth.
From afar the magical whirlpool
Shone with shimmering, glimmering light,
It was completely blanketed with diamonds
Floating so very bright;
MacScrooge eased his ship carefully
Into the whirlpool’s serpentine tail,
The waters seemed so peaceful
That perhaps his mission wouldn’t fail;
As the waters crept along sleepily,
Many gems by MacScrooge were collected,
With a heavy net he snatched them up,
And there were many more than he expected;
His insatiable appetite for riches
Grew through his laborious task,
MacScrooge’s beard dripped with sweat,
So he took a drink out of his flask.
MacScrooge became so obsessed with diamonds
That of surroundings he lost all sense,
But when his ship suddenly surged forward,
He abruptly became very tense;
He noticed that the ship’s speed had
Augmented in a very disturbing way,
The sea rapidly became rather turbulent,
And it was turning into an ominous day;
Black clouds swiftly eclipsed the sun,
And extinguished nearly all of its light,
MacScrooge’s heart sank like an anchor,
And he trembled with terror and fright;
An icy, wicked wind began to blow,
And he saw the waters violently churn,
Sadly, MacScrooge knew it was too late --
He was beyond the point of no return.
From the center of the whirlpool
There was an explosive and thunderous blast,
MacScrooge knew that something dangerous
Was approaching very, very fast;
Then the vortex vomited sulphurous lava
That sprayed high into the skies,
And molten rock fell like blazing meteors,
A dreadful sight for his eyes;
The flaming boulders struck the sea
And every diamond was ignited,
When MacScrooge saw the maelstrom on fire,
He had never been less delighted;
Faster and faster the murderous maelstrom spun,
Like a whirling wheel of fire,
And all of these events were triggered
By MacScrooge’s inordinate desire.
MacScrooge had arrived at the mouth
Of the vortex, and clearly this was not good,
While his ship was burning in ferocious
Flames that hungrily ate its wood;
A vile, horrid, foul stench arose from
Deep within the cavernous abyss,
This was far, far different from his dream,
Of power and worldly bliss;
His ship plunged down into the funnel,
In a death spiral leading towards hell,
And clutching the helm tightly,
MacScrooge cursed and swore as he fell;
Then volcanic lightning blasted him
And cooked the flesh off of his head,
The ship disappeared into the void below
And, tragically, MacScrooge was dead.
When Lady MacScrooge heard the shocking news,
Terror gripped her heart,
Like MacScrooge she lusted for power,
But now she wished to make a fresh start;
She would try to avoid all temptations
That invited her to hoard,
Instead she would strive for love and peace
Just like our Blessed Lord;
MacScrooge did only what he wanted,
And that’s how he rolled the dice,
He avoided not the near occasion of sin,
And that’s when he paid the price;
Since MacScrooge gambled with temptation,
In the end he only got hurt,
It would have been better for him,
If he had remained sober, vigilant, and alert.
When Nino gets angry, he blows his top,
He wants control, but without it he’ll pop,
His selfish attitude must come to a stop.
Patience will help him win in the clutch,
Broadening his boundaries to not need so much,
The Holy Spirit he must reach out to touch.
Your fishing boat bobs up
and down in uncertainty,
As you reflect upon the
meaning of your life;
With a sterile stare you
gaze at the wobbly waves,
While the wonderful wind of
the Spirit is silently approaching;
A merciful Son of Man is
standing on the sandy seashore,
He is looking for his Rock,
to make him a fisher of men;
The breeze blows through
your stubborn dark hair,
As the Son of Man asks if He
can come aboard your boat.
As Jesus ascends, He disappears
into nebulous misty clouds,
You feel like a floundering
fisherman without his nets;
Without the Good Shepherd,
your heart seems hollow,
You now appear more like
a pebble than a rock;
But later, a deafening wind
whirls through the room,
And fantastical flaming
fireballs crown all present;
In divers tongues, all mystically
praise the good God,
And you proclaim the Word
with holy courage.
As you are cruelly crucified
upside-down on Vatican Hill,
Your life is brimming with
meaning and significance;
Your blood falls to the earth
like a myriad of mustard seeds,
Where the Church will
take root and grow strong;
You are the first link in
the precious papal chain,
An unbreakable chain dripping
with martyrs’ blood;
This chain will withstand
the hammering of heretics,
It will be like a fruitful vine
bringing Love to the world.
Like Rosary beads dipped in holy water,
Raindrops are falling from the sky,
Seventy thousand people in the roaring rain
Who would really rather be dry;
The valley of the Cova da Iria is a black
Blanket of umbrellas and hats,
And the drenched, dripping crowd is like
A muddy mob of very curious cats;
Three children kneel before an outdoor altar
As they await the promised sign,
And non-believers mockingly joke that
The children are just tipsy with wine;
The riotous rain finally stops at noon,
As the weather is forced to succumb,
But noon passes, and Heaven is late,
So perhaps no miracle will come.
But then a marvelous, mystical stillness and quiet
Come over this blessed place,
All laughter subsides and totally vanishes,
Without even the slightest trace;
Our Lady appears to all the three children,
Wearing garments dazzlingly white,
Her shape is graceful and delicate,
And her clothing is brighter than light;
Her eyes are like sparkling jewels,
And her sweet voice makes their hearts sing,
Her face is most exquisitely beautiful,
And she is a treasure of the great King;
But after hours and hours of waiting,
The crowd sees nothing at all,
If a Heavenly sign they don’t get,
Then perhaps the children they’ll maul.
After speaking to the three young children,
Our Lady casts a glance up above,
She gently points upwards to Heaven,
With a heart filled with mercy and love;
Then Lucia quickly points at the sky,
And tells everyone to look at the sun,
They only see a thick cloudy darkness,
So their expectations are little or none;
But through the clouds the sun is slicing,
And it’s spinning like a circular saw,
At this very strange and unnatural sight,
The crowd’s nerves really feel raw;
The sun is like a gyrating sparkler,
With sizzling sparks flitting about,
It is held by God’s invisible hand,
He is mighty -- of this there is no doubt.
Then the fickle sun changes colors,
And the many spectators reflect its glow,
The chamelionic sun lights up sky and land,
Putting on an impressive show;
First the sun turns a stunning silver,
And this is followed by a brilliant blue,
Then it turns a glorious, gleaming gold,
Followed by a most radiant red hue;
Every so often there are stellar explosions,
With blinding bursts of light,
The people are starting to tremble,
And are wondering if they should take flight;
They stare at the sun for a very long time,
Yet none of them hurt their eyes,
The whole crowd gapes in surreal wonder,
Observing this sign in the skies.
But suddenly unbolted from the wall of clouds,
The sun moves about in the sky,
It looks like it’s riding on a roller coaster,
On invisible tracks way up high;
The blazing orb dances in a fiery frenzy,
Although there’s not a lot of wind,
And glacial hearts are melting below,
Of those who have seriously sinned;
But now, like a menacing molten meteor,
The sun falls down towards the Earth,
Thousands of people cry out in terror,
Not experiencing any kind of mirth;
Alarmed atheists pray Our Fathers,
As their hearts’ flag of surrender is unfurled,
And agnostics stagger and stumble for cover,
Fearing it’s the end of the world.
Approaching at a frightful velocity,
The sun gradually drinks the dark sky,
As the speeding star draws ever nearer,
The people are preparing to die;
The red giant now fills the heavens,
And the situation is exceedingly dire,
The surface of the sun is a seething solar ocean
Of fantastical flaming fire;
But all this time the three good children
Have visions from the Heavenly realm,
They experience ecstatic joy and peace,
Since the good God is at the helm;
Then, in the twinkling of an eye,
The crowd looks up through happy tears,
They’re stunned because their nightmarish vision
Very suddenly disappears.
Just ten minutes earlier, the spectators in the
Cova were standing in the mire,
But now, in a flash, it is completely dry --
Faster than anyone could ever desire;
Ten miraculous minutes…
Have forever softened many thousands of souls,
Their lives are totally transformed,
And they no longer seek secular goals;
October 13, 1917…
Will be remembered throughout all of history,
Though for skeptics who read of Fatima,
This day may always be a mystery;
Many atheists and agnostics saw a miracle
That made them turn quite pale,
So know that this story happened,
And it is not some silly fairy tale.