Hail, Holy Queen

Hail, Holy Queen

Hail, Holy Queen, of mercy’s longed-for sweetness mother,
Hail to the living hope that soothes us like no other.

To thee we bring our anguish, as our fallen temple sighs,
To thee we open careworn hearts and focus bloodshot eyes.

Turn then, Blessed Mother, through your graceful intercession,
The eyes of mercy toward us as we offer this confession

To the One Who knew our fall and rise before the world was new,
The living God of Abraham Who came to life in you.

O clemens, O pia,
O dulcis Virgo Maria.

Amen

On the Feast of Saint John

On the Feast of Saint John

If ever kindly voice or act
Hath helped a stinging pain subtract,
And love to flower in its place,
Then know, I pray, its Source was grace.

The gnarled, hardened roots of pride
Have halted men of hopeful stride
Who dared to labor and to love,
But gazed inside and not above.

Oh! What suffering may cease
The day I say "I must decrease."
Oh! What springs erupt of peace
The day I say, "He must increase."

Grace of Gratefulness

Thank You God,

For the days when the bright sky’s light shines clarity into our senses, when the tangled tips of the trees cut bold outlines against the luminous dome, massaging our eyes with deep royal hues.

Thank You God,

For the days when the rustling of a coat, the keyboard’s clickety-clack, and the unseen footsteps of a fellow traveler soothe our ears like the sweetest music.

Thank You God,

For the days when creation brightens, happiness meets us—or perhaps we are given the freshness to recognize the abundance You offer us, day, after day, after day, after day, after day, after day, after day.

Love,

Joe

Thoughts from January

If you've ever seen a dream
Move from mind to real thing,
You know the great illusion, then,
That empty dreams can bring.

If you focus on your own,
Then the show gets dull, and fast.
But sing a chorus role for once—
By God, your peace will last.

Wicked Winter's dreary heart
Threatens cold and icy days;
But humble acts and gratitude
Will summon warmer rays.

A Sonnett to Pizza, lovingly entitled: "Pizza Mia."

I wrote this sonnett in a Renaissance Poetry class, and though my memory now fails me as to the details, yet I do remember something about a pizza-filled review session which I would not be able to attend. Regardless, it was evidently inspired by the throes of a passionate hunger for pizza. Enjoy!

~

PIZZA MIA.

Away with all this talk of studied verse,
For each new word reminds me of my curse:
I see the pepperoni, never mine;
And cheese, possessed of such a flavor fine—
my splendid, absent mozzarella wine—
O Pizza dear, for you alone I pine!

Some blessed day this May I may consume you
And in my darkened labyrinth entomb you.
But 'til the sun ariseth on that morn,
I rub my vacant cavity, forlorn.
This longing wills that I had ne'er been born,
But here, I think, I am, and I am torn.
If given minutes, months, or million years,
Pizza—you would quench my hungry tears.

Footed Flowers

Now I know why I’ve been told that things flower—
in joy is their beauty,
their strength is their duty—
All goodness united to show forth God’s power.

Beings of harmony shine like a flower—
the splendor they carry
remains secondary—
Rejuvenation foundations this tower.

Monuments these, like all things here, sour;
But You Who transform us,
Please water and warm us,
And nurture the radiance of Your every flower.

The Record of Rhyme

Cleaning out your backpack at the end of the schoolyear is like excavating relics at an archaeological dig. Here we encounter the record of a year past, artifacts that clue us into a way of life now extinct, lost forever to the sands of time. Here we see the notes that remind us that, yes, we were just as human then as we are now. And here we discover fragments of that really cool pen that got destroyed by the crushing weight of textbooks.

But what I unearthed today was actually quite a find, at least for me: fragments of poetry that were written at various points throughout the year. I reproduce them here, merely so that I don’t have to preserve a bunch of wrinkled scraps of paper. Enjoy!

Meditations on a Fake Spring Day
How humble is a tree?
It sits making shade,
not asking what time it might
come to our aid.
…
How patient is a tree?
Not worried to find
a tree like itself,
whose colors can bind,
and jointly in vistas
show glory from God—
How patient is a tree?
More patient than me.
…
Lord, grant me the wisdom
implanted of old,
in the vein of each leaf,
the bark’s every fold.

Why we dream
Dreams will make on weak—
Salvation’s earned through life, not mind—
But if I know not what I seek,
How can I truly find?

7 Sacraments (still a work in progress)
I.
Guided by a Hand unknown,
Water made a path from strife;
Always caring for Your own,
Now you lead us to Your Life.
II.
Food made from the fruit of Cain,
Humble, now exalted, saves:
Feed us Love no man can feign,
Making heroes out of knaves.
III.
Catalogues of human vices
Plague our souls in human state;
Your Self-emptied sacrifices
Prove no sin can be too great.

Battle Plans

I set out here to gain the world
And pleasure that it brings,
And I became a boyish man,
Doing boyish things.

I longed for lofty destiny,
Ambitions fit for kings,
And I was humbled as a fool,
Forced to ponder things.

I swore to Heaven then and there
I'd strive to earn my wings,
To sing with joy the song within
That true to this day rings.

I sent my forces out to fight,
Endured ensuing stings,
And then discovered how it felt
To live for higher things.

I strove for vict'ry not for Man,
But God, for Whom Man sings,
And I became a little boy,
Doing manly things.

Certain Glitters

“Aim at Heaven and you will get Earth thrown in. Aim at Earth and you get neither.”
—C.S. Lewis

The patient Father
Of this dust,
You’ve told the Truth
Since times of old;
And still I need
Your help to trust,
And lay down tin
In search of Gold.

One Sent

Along the road to Somewhere Past, I saw a shiny coin and paused,
Then took what I had almost passed—but knowing not what this had caused:
The habit of a watchful eye—a tool of the life well-spent.
And having since reaped bounties, I am thankful for that single cent.

To The Honest Seminarian

Greater admiration I reserve for very few,
For few it is who will to offer sacrifice like you.
Thanks to God, Who in His mercy gave you love so true,
To reap the harvest, save the lost, and help make all things new.

The LONER.

The LONER

I am The LONER: my solemn crusade
Relies on the valor of one man alone—
MYSELF!—and solely to me is it known;
I fight my battles with no ally’s aid.

I am the Loner, my problems unique—
It’s doubtful that anyone now or whenever
Could grasp the import of my current endeavor—
Thus, I am silent (my comfort is bleak).

I am the Loner—locked up from inside,
I certainly don’t want a listening ear,
A comforting comment, or sympathy’s tear…
Though I grow tired of this liar’s hide!

I am a Loner, but don’t you see why?
Too scared to reveal what I feel in my heart,
With care I conceal it through misleading art.
Pardon my cowardice; pardon my lie.

I am the Loner, but you say you, too,
Bear burdens concealed from every man’s seeing,
And somehow my burdens bear less on my being,
Knowing that similar worries haunt you.

I am the Loner: if absent, not missed—
Yet with my humanity thusly uncovered—
Surprised and elated with what I’ve discovered:
Since all souls are Loners, I do not exist.

Gratia Vitae

Gratia Vitae

When consequence is shirked again,

the future is ignored,

adversity sets in and then

temptation sends its horde.

Life and death are set before us—

choices clearly riven—

and here in culture’s vacuum lies

the gift of Life, ungiven.

Death does not become a land

so chivalrous and free,

so give us love and understanding:

as Thou art, so we.

And spare us, Lord, the tragic pain

of mother and child riven,

and will that nevermore we hold

the gift of Life ungiven.

to those whom culture sold its lie,

direct our hands and heart;

and to the souls whose choice is nigh,

Your wisdom please impart.

And spare Us, Lord, the tragic pain

of Mother and child riven,

and welcome us into Your heart,

where gifts of Life are given.

Someday peace will march through town

to songs of drum and fife…

and joyful shall the call ring out:

Give thanks to God for Life!

A Well of Verse

First off, take a gander at that picture. Isn’t it wonderful? It appears to be a robot that just might be the Iron Giant, putting together a snowman. That, my friends, is what Christmas is all about. Okay, not really…but it’s still a cool picture!

Now, on to the main event:

These little guys came to me while learning and studying Anthropology. They are not particularly Anthropology-related, but Anthropology nonetheless helped cause them to be written—that is to say, I was so bored with Anthropology that I passed the time by writing poetry! I hope you enjoy them.

Three Observations
Branching out
to do Your Will
induces doubt
in me until
I realize
that You know best
and will advise
me on my quest.

Self-addiction
doesn’t ease
the deep affliction
and disease
of heart and mind
that fills the earth
and robs of kind
and guiltless mirth.

Since You dared
to count on me,
I haven’t fared
amazingly,
but since Your Love
came without strings,
We’ll rise above
on eagle’s wings.

Easy As [James] 1 2 3
I’ve always liked the windy days best,
the ones that hit you hard,
and tear through like a pest,
and blow the garbage cans across the yard.

Those days force the lazy into action.
Whether chasing trash cans
or true satisfaction,
their choices must be quick, like the brash man’s.

There’s something beneficial in these days,
blowing hard against us,
forcing us through the maze
and over walls that formerly fenced us.

So if the breeze is stronger than you’d like,
don’t cower from the fight!
Just grin and love the hike—
your yoke will get easy, your burden light.

God Bless, and enjoy December,
Joezilla

The Conversions

The Christian booted up his mind
for an epic mental duel,
surrounded by three thinkers, blind
to the wisdom of the fool.

The first he was a rationalist,
in logic did he trust.
But his metaphoric rational fist
left the Christian’s hair unmussed.

The crusader brought up five deductions
penned in the Middle Ages.
Thus logic found its long-lost functions—
arming faithful sages.

“All things are caused, and all things cause,”
he stated without pausing,
“but if existence bears out logic’s laws,
Someone must have caused the causing!”

With one foe silenced, deep in thought,
the second now stepped in:
a psychologist, her affect taut,
her brain engaged to win.

“Religion has been made by man
to ease the pain of being;
so knowing, I say ‘yes we can’
to humanism—freeing!”

“Is science not all man-made, too?”
Our Christian missed no beat.
“If I’ve been fooled, then how ‘bout you?
The ground shakes ‘neath your feet.”

The second, silenced by the claim
that one cannot claim truth,
submitted to the third, who aimed
to outmode the Christian youth.

Relativism was his game,
and he played it rather well.
He did away with sin and blame,
was skeptical of Hell.

“Your God’s for you, and that’s okay,
as far as you’re concerned.
But me and he and her can stay
our course and not be spurned.”

“Spurn I won’t, but teach I must.”
—the disciple would not fall.
“If truth has not a trademark thrust,
then there’s no truth at all!”

And as the three sat thinking
The Supernatural did occur.
A flash that left them blinking
at a brilliant, man-shaped blur.

And at that moment the worldview
of the doubters broke like clay.
In front of them, and unfurled new,
was their Life, and Truth, and Way.

“Like Thomas come before you,
you believe now, for you see.
Now the world may deplore you,
but no matter—Follow Me.”

The Christian sat, self-satisfied;
a smile crept o’er his lips.
On his own he’d turned the tide,
retrieved three wayward ships!

Our Lord, Who looked I know not how,
said then, in teaching voice:
“You think you caused all this just now?
Their salvation was your choice?

“You defended me quite bravely, child,
and for that you are commended.
But since your ego now runs wild;
it so must be suspended:

“Where were you when I lit the sun,
set clouds afloat the air?
If you know more than anyone,
please tell me—weren’t you there?

“My dear son, you’ve neglected
the essential truth to bide:
All ignorance collected’s
venial compared to pride.