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.
I start the day with you,
Close by my side,
My hand caressing
The pearl-white rosary
Like your soft gentle fingers,
But too soon I walk away
And foolishly forget you,
So you throw the beads of
Your holy lasso around me,
Lovingly, and oh so gently
Draw me back to your side,
To live the holy mysteries
Together, in awe and wonder.
Pummeled by Parkinson’s,
he battles through the basilica,
leaning forward, heavily,
hunched over, crushed
under an invisible
wooden cross, laden
with the world’s woes;
from the ocean of onlookers,
like Veronica with her veil,
a mother mildly lifts up
her little newborn;
the Polish pope’s
old, wrinkled face
winces with pain,
like a warrior’s,
as he most tenderly
blesses the babe
with a gentle kiss;
the spectators exhale
a halo as they breathlessly
and solemnly sigh, “O!”
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.
A Tribute to Venerable Fulton J. Sheen
In stature the bishop was rather short,
But spoke with power like a judge in court;
Sometimes his sharp eyes were piercing swords,
Other times his smile was warm, like the Lord’s;
His divine sense of humor won us all,
Yes, “Uncle Fultie” always had a ball;
His Shakespearean drama shook the soul,
Yet leading us to Heaven was his goal.
When we, your stubborn spiritual children,
Don’t listen to you in holy confession,
You slap the Spirit into our sleepy souls,
As you make prayerful intercession.
When we plan to drop the blitzkrieg bombs
Of mortal sin into our desperate heart,
You bilocate and bravely speak the truth,
And the holy fear of God to us impart.
When the evil one stealthily attacks us,
Aggressively seeking victims to devour,
As a warrior, you heroically hunt him down,
And lasso the beast with Rosary power.
Spiraling through Little Pearls of Prayer
Guided by the Spirit,
I strategically move
The little chess pieces
Across the chessboard
Of my daily prayer life.
I awaken to Our Lady’s advice,
I surrender to sweet Divine Mercy,
I spiral slowly through the Rosary,
I feast on spiritual communion,
I whirl through the holy Word,
I praise God through poetry,
I magnify Him in holy mass,
I delight in delicious devotion,
I confide totally in the Christ,
I listen intently to the Light,
I wonder at the wisdom of the saints,
I honor the Hour of Mercy,
I meditate on the Holy Family,
I examine my conscience in humility,
I sleep in my guardian angel’s arms.
The evil one has no moves left,
He fearfully wrings his hands and
Grinds his teeth in eternal despair --
Jesus is the King of the Universe,
He is the Unconquerable One:
Checkmate.
Dedicated to my Delightful Daughter
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
located in the pilgrims' parlor;
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.
Some were very surprised you were
Elected by the College of Cardinals,
Still others thought you were not
Dignified enough for the papacy,
Yet Our Heavenly Father chose you.
With your happy smile and mild speech,
Who would have ever thought that
You would have had the courage and
Strength to convene Vatican II,
Yet Jesus Christ knew you.
In your humility you were obedient,
And like the sweetest little lamb you
Trusted Our Good Shepherd
As He held you in His strong arms,
So the Holy Spirit used you.
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.
You, the mystical
missionary of mercy,
are honored as
the first saint
of the Great Jubilee,
the first saint
of the new millennium;
you serenely smile
as the blessed blood
and the blessed water
kiss and mingle
in the infinite ocean
of Divine Mercy;
you see the barque
of St. Peter as it
faithfully floats on
the beautiful waves,
protected from the
storm winds of worry,
free from all fear;
like the warm welcoming
arms of the Bernini Colonnade,
Divine Mercy is ready to
earnestly embrace every
hardened sinner who
hungers for healing and
thirsts for generous love:
Jezu ufam Tobie!
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.
My sweet Little Flower,
your humble acts of charity
are like tiny mustard seeds,
yet when they’re poured out
upon the fruitful fields of Heaven
by the Father’s faithful fingers,
they form a mountain of love
that would gracefully tower
over the mighty Everest;
you stand in great strength,
as the missionary of missionaries,
in the gentle presence of
the Virgin of virgins,
the Mystical Rose
of incomparable beauty,
and your precious seeds of prayer
are cultivated with care by the
ever patient Divine Gardener,
nourished by His living water,
producing a bountiful harvest of
salvation in our suffering world;
above the clouds of worry,
your cheerful sky is always blue --
help me to follow your example
so that my soul too may sing
those heartfelt words of wisdom:
“My vocation is love!”
Behold the Little Flower’s mom and dad,
They pray for parents about to go mad.
The Martin family had five sweet girls,
So their devout home was filled with French curls;
Louis and Zelie were full of great love,
They taught their daughters the path of The Dove;
With their “little queen” they had lots of fun,
And each of their girls became a young nun;
When Louis and Zelie finally died,
Heaven’s beautiful doors opened real wide.
So parents that want to pull out their hair
Should ask them for help, for they really care.
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.
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.
As a soldier you were really quite inept,
And as a student you weren’t much,
Although the seminary gave you a chance,
It seemed holy orders you’d never touch;
But when the good God takes charge,
There’s nothing that He cannot do,
So through the intercession of Philomena,
Grace most bountifully fell on you.
Sent to a corrupt village named Ars,
You woke it up with fiery preaching,
People were flabbergasted by your words
And threatened by your priestly teaching;
Yet in the little box of the confessional,
You won a victory over selfish hearts,
Though the devil anxiously pursued you,
God extinguished all his flaming darts.
So many made pilgrimages to see you,
And confession lines were terribly long,
But through God’s grace you read their souls,
Bringing hope to many in the throng;
Thus the devil grew angrier and angrier,
That’s why the beast ranted and raved,
Still you won over many many souls,
In God’s mercy they were finally saved.
Why do some seek to erase
You from history’s chalkboard?
Why do they wish to cancel out
Your love for Native Americans?
In these deeply distressing times,
The Franciscan Way must lead:
Love must conquer all hatred,
Pardon must heal all injuries,
Faith must replace all doubt,
Hope must cast out all despair,
When Light scatters the darkness,
It is then that freedom rings.
You are a man in love,
oh so deeply in love
with Our Lady,
so with strength
and with courage
as a knight of Christ,
you cavalierly show us
the short way,
the easy way,
to the Queen of All Hearts;
as we follow the illustrious example
of John Paul the Great
and mild Mother Teresa,
you very confidently lead us
to the Blessed Virgin
so that she might
graciously guide us to
the Babe of Bethlehem;
the jealous Jansenists,
irked by your missionary success,
perniciously plot against you,
and you are banished --
but the flames of divine love,
like tongues of fire,
sweetly sweep throughout France
in the strong driving wind
of the serene Spirit;
even now in the new millenium
our lives continue to be
refreshed and renewed
by this burning blaze
as we make our consecration
to Jesus through Mary:
totus tuus.
Born in the breathtaking majesty of the Alps,
you became the Bishop of Geneva most brave;
You fought bloodless battles against the Calvinists,
and your gentle eloquence many souls did save.
Others preached with a barrel full of vinegar,
and for their listeners this wasn’t at all funny;
But you had the sense to sweeten your sermons
with the most delightful and delicious honey.
In your classic book you show us, the laity,
how to make our ordinary lives a success;
Teaching us to find God in the present moment,
our worried minds are relieved of great stress.