Dark tempests savagely surged
through the sullen black sky,
searching for saints to devour,
desperately trying to demolish
and destroy the City of Light;
but the valiant Church Militant
launched their weapons of war,
and their faithful, fervent prayers
speared through the startled sky,
piercing it like holy missiles; then,
The Divine Mercy shone through,
in all His dazzling brilliance,
with great power and glory,
and the stunned storm clouds
retreated into the Great Abyss.
I turn around and before me you stand,
one whose robe is dazzlingly white,
As you speak my name and say “Mary,”
you forever shatter my deep dark night;
With great love, you bestow your peace upon me,
through your wonderfully warm brown eyes,
Your merciful smile cheers my heart,
so that my soul can most sweetly arise;
In the joyful breeze of the Holy Spirit,
your flowing hair very gently swirls,
In my heart I totally surrender to you,
and for you this is a treasure of pearls.
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.
I love you, I love you
so very much,
more than you
can possibly imagine,
yet you carelessly
turn your back on me
and you ignore me,
living your busy life
as if I never existed;
now I kneel here
in this olive garden,
with my warm hands
clasped tightly together,
so deeply and so greatly
in love with you,
and my heart is breaking
because I want to share
my life with you,
my heart is nearly broken
because I love you,
and I painfully weep
hot tears for you,
and my sweat turns into
drops of blood --
all because of you.
Carrying my cross,
I take lumbering steps
up the steep mountain;
I grumble with every step,
like Job, wondering why
the Lord is asking me
to shuffle along, dragging
this heavy wood with me
wherever I go.
But then I come to
a dangerously deep
crevasse that threatens
to end my journey,
and even with a
giant Herculean leap,
I know that I would fall
down, down, down,
into the black throat
of the abyss below.
Suddenly, a white Dove
darts right past me,
causing me to jump back
from the edge of the cliff;
as I do so, the cross falls
forward so that its top
now rests on the other side,
forming a wooden bridge.
After I carefully crawl
to the other side,
I look back at the cross,
wondering if I should
kick it down over
the edge of the cliff,
but, instead, I choose
to slowly pick it up,
embrace it, and
faithfully follow
in the footsteps of Jesus.
As you bashfully smile,
you extend both arms
and wiggle your fingers:
your welcoming wave
is a gentle greeting to
the pilgrims at St. Peter’s.
A prudent theologian,
you write the most
eloquent of encyclicals;
as a classical pianist,
you wisely speak about
true beauty and true art.
In your own quiet way
you shepherd the flock,
for you’re a very holy man;
you’re an obedient son,
a simple man of Love,
a humble genius.
A Circular Poem with No Beginning and No End
revolution?
it all starts when the
emotional electrons of
selfishness and fear
crash and collide,
thereby causing a chain reaction
that sparks the pulsating protons
and irascible ions of
savage seething anger and of
horribly hellish hate,
and this in turn ignites the
molecules of misery that
electrically explode into
woeful wailing wars and
dreadful devastating death;
but the question is this:
will there ever be
an end to
A DIVINE MERCY PRAYER
Dearest Mary, Queen of All Hearts,
Star of Love in the dark night,
Have mercy on us,
And on the whole world:
Pray for us!
Precious Jesus, King of the Universe,
Lord of Love and Lord of Light,
Have mercy on us,
And on the whole world:
I trust in You!
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.
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?
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!”
As a strong spiritual mother,
You reliably and respectably
Reform the Carmelite order,
And your holy friendship
With St. John of the Cross
Helps your soul spiral upwards
Towards the Heavenly Kingdom;
Then, you close your eyes and
Your spirit penetrates into the heart
Of the Interior Castle of prayer,
And there, during the dark night,
You discover the true Light.
I am weary,
my eyes bleary;
I drag around,
without a sound;
I have no home,
so off I roam;
I beg for food,
my shoes are glued;
on the mend,
I seek a friend.
Your magnificent story I will tell:
The wondrous Miracle of Massabielle;
Our Lady came in breathtaking beauty,
And she knew that you would do your duty;
You came before her as God’s little child,
And looking down on you, she warmly smiled;
She gently asked you to dig in the ground,
And there spring waters were suddenly found;
Cripples bathed in the stream with salty tears,
And walked away whole without any fears;
Then hardened hearts started to melt,
And before the good God they humbly knelt.
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.”
A mystical priest, you are paradoxical:
Hated, you encountered Love,
Suffering, you experienced joy,
In trouble, you found peace,
Isolated, you surrendered in patience,
Maltreated, you felt kindness,
Kidnapped, you were generous,
Abandoned, you kept faith,
Abused, you replied with mildness,
Chaste, you were in ecstasy,
Unknown, you became famous,
Imprisoned, you found freedom,
In the dark night, you discovered Light.
A humble home was built
On a foundation of faith,
In the Town of Trust,
In the Province of Prudence,
On the rugged rock of
Divine Mercy:
The wild waves awoke
Like ferocious beasts
And beat against the
Formidable fortress,
Wailing with watery fists,
But all to no avail --
Nothing could harm
This holy house of Love.
A castle of carousing was built
On a lazy beach in
The City of Cool,
In the Province of Popular,
On the slippery sand of
Foolish fragile fear:
Then, a voracious tidal wave,
With a savage swarm of
Paranoid piranha,
Chewed apart the castle,
And a furious flood
Of thick red blood
Poured out in torrents,
Turning the green one red.
We must avoid the
stale cookies of selfishness,
for they always crumble
into complaints;
but with the Eucharistic
bread of thanksgiving,
we can then live like
the holy saints.
When liberty
is divorced from responsibility,
it dreadfully descends
in a dizzying death spiral of
selfishness.
But when liberty
is married to responsibility,
it courageously spirals upward
in a heroic flight of
freedom.