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Acknowledgments
This is a sampling of my work. Its contents are of rhyme and reason, but they are not arranged under that same notion. All of the work is inspired by Catholic reading. As usual, my poems are seasoned with dashes of G.K. Chesterton and hints of St. Francis of Assisi. This particular work also has some Gerard Manley Hopkins, to taste. As always, I do hope you enjoy this collection! God bless!
This text is entirely dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Ave Maria!
The cover image is of G.K. Chesterton. In his book Orthodoxy, he writes: “The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits.�
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Table of Contents “Go, glorifying the Lord by your life”…………………………………………………….4 River Reflection…………………………………………………………………………...5 Ice Giants………………………………………………………………………………….6 It is the falling of winter…………………………………………………………………...7 To the cave the hermit goes……………………………………………………………….8 Not Even Solomon………………………………………………………………………...9 A Familiar Cry…………………………………………………………………………...10 Hubris…………………………………………………………………………………….11 Sanely Losing our Heads………………………………………………………………...12 Blind Poets……………………………………………………………………………….13 Common Crown………………………………………………………………………….14 A Friendly Crossing at the Crossroads…………………………………………………..15
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“Go, glorifying the Lord by your life� Go, glorifying the Lord by your life. Young and old flower from sinner to saint; Hope, hope amidst the darkness of the strife. While wise men hear the song of the Faith-fife They chant their charming words without restraint: Go, glorifying the Lord by your life. Good men, the first into the fray, run rife With joy among jeering without complaint. Hope, hope amidst the darkness of the strife. Wild men aflame by the Son gladly writhe And speak, so soon, their tongues in tasteful taint: Go, glorifying the Lord by your life. Grave men go to their graves with spirit-blithe Happy to see Sister Death, well acquaint’. Hope, hope amidst the darkness of the strife. And You, my Father, there in firm belief, Bless me, I pray, as my feeling goes faint: Go, glorifying the Lord by your life. Hope, hope amidst the darkness of the strife.
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River Reflection Look and see that current, patient and true: It rends and bends and breaks both root and route, Carrying out land and shaping it anew. Changing plane and valley without a doubt. It constantly bears its invisible load Of submerged sediments we fail to see. Despite burdens, the river always flowed Working its sunken secret silently. Steady and strong, yet willing and able These rivers face many a twist and turn. What is it, from this river-run fable, That we can plainly hear and speak and learn? The river persists and does not grumble; It does its work well and is quite humble.
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Ice Giants They march on at a slow and steady pace Using ice sharpened swords as ploughshares. The froze phalanx wins the day, not the race, And wears and tears some arable land-squares. They are movers and makers of mountains; This faithful force turns the plains up and down, Forging new rivers and streams and fountains. Some places flourish and some places drown. Time is but a trinket to these towers. These giant smiths toil for years without fail, Working the anvil of the world by hours, Carving out plateau, hill, mountain, and vale. One can learn much from the mighty glacier: Go slow, go steady, and do not waver.
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It is the falling of winter and the coming of spring. A gentle breeze rustles my wind-hair and crowns me a king. Cool winds kiss the remnants of cool snow While the sun urges new stream-rivers flow. Those whispering waters glisten by day, like rolling gems, Yet few see the value of the murky emerald-gray. (I see them!) Sapphire-silver skies dance with diamond wind-gales I join this passive frenzy and escape the materialist jail. Leaves of Grass at my feet Forgotten among the lilies—oh so sweet! And there is Nothing.
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To the cave the hermit goes Away from the world to pray. How he survives, no one knows. (The monk takes things day by day.) Fasting every single hour On a crag-like floor he lay. Depending on divine pow'r The monk takes things day by day. Night pray'r whispered by candle And all else seen by morn's ray Surely!--more he can't handle! Yet he takes things day by day. Demons try this weary man With all the tricks that they may The monk always foils their plan Still taking things day by day. In this dark he see the Light. In silence, he hears Him say "My son, join me at my right-Be in Paradise today."
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Not Even Solomon Haggard beggars made pale by ceaseless scourge, Hard-pressed by winter winds every which way, Forgotten amidst a merciless purge, Await the life-giving warmth of the day. The sun gives gold alms to the dormant poor While sweet winds sweep away ruin and rot. Skeletal limbs dance like never before With color unlike color ever thought. Lively cadavers rise with newfound spring, Graced with Eden’s riches beyond compare And bejeweled with forest-em’rald rings— No numb fingers forgotten or left bare. Nature’s kings embrace this humility: Oh! — one can learn much from the silent tree!
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A Familiar Cry A call to arms when the call to minds fails, When Eastern thought tramples Western Reason, Bold knights march on once-familiar shores Away from home, season after season. When philosophies clash, swords soon follow. Those Cross-blades fend off silver-steel Crescents And speak on behalf of the beheaded. Kings and peasants ride to save the pleasant. When your relics and God are defiled, When your land is taken and peoples slain, Do you go into that bloodstained desert? Or in dark apathy do you remain?
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Hubris The world is a wonderland. But it is much forgotten As much as Peter and Pan! Like Oedipus with brooch-pin, And so sin moves us to blind Ourselves; we do so with haste! A proud race of the tomb-minds Where no one even placed. The ancients knew of magic, And of fairies and of elves! We place them in the attic, And we forget about ourselves. Give the preacher his hemlock, Drag him off like Socrates! For we hate the solid Rock And praying on our knees! We do forget the reason (And we truly hate the rhyme.) We commit Judas-treason And turn against The Sublime. Selling both body and soul For silver coins—all for naught! Buying! Trying to console The body that will soon rot! The materialist jail Will gnash head and tooth and nail!
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Sanely Losing our Heads On St. Valentine’s Day, what do we see? Red hearts might recall the martyr’s maroon And Valentine’s sacrifice to be free. Why abandon the day’s namesake so soon? For dear Valentine was persecuted! Claudius wished him to deny Christ; Yet the saint denied Claudius instead! Like St. John the Baptist, a neck was sliced. We look to the legend and see the man, Literally in love head over heels! Valentine finished the race he began, Refusing to comply with evil deals. We are much like St. Valentine today, For we lose our heads in love the same way.
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Blind Poets Think for a moment of some poetry, Of those stirring caricatures of old. The pauper, the old, the dying: you see? These poor souls are in every story told! Men with eyes know the charm of being blind. The rich know the romance of being poor. The healthy praise those bedside-resigned. And the living marvel at death’s grandeur. Yet the blind are not rapt in their blindness! The poor do not find their station so quaint! The sick do not think kindly of sickness! And the dying do not think death so great! But what of the poet beset by these? He will turn the world upside down with ease!
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Common Crown Roses are a three-fold symbol Made of green leaves, thorns, and petals. It is a crown of every man Woven not with gems or metals. It is the crown of every man, For every man has the flower In form of leaf, thorn, and petal Flourishing every single hour. The man can curb the common crown, The man can shave those savage thorns, The man can pluck those itchy leaves, And have nothing to hide his horns. For the true man wears his whole lot, And the true man lives every day. He wears his rose with scarlet red, And not a single moment dread.
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A Friendly Crossing at the Crossroads I know of two men of mendicant blood Who are strangely unlike in make and mold: St. Francis, beggar through valley and mud Next to St. Dominic, the preacher-bold! St. Dominic might say in good humor That St. Francis follows too rash a rule! He would advise the poor man to read more And perhaps to take some lessons in school! St. Francis might say in loving reply That St. Dominic is much too tight! He would preach on Brother Dog to imply That not all Domini canes bite! Yet both men are right in their chosen path Home, For both trodden roads lead the way to Rome.
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