The White Rose

Despair of the Painted Sky

2012-01-13T17:25:00.000-08:00

I

My youth. My youth. My long forsaken youth,
When fantasies made up my summer days
And life had naught a word to say to truth.
My youth! When e’er my sun broke through its rays
The clouds became a carousel of things.
Forever swirling round and round the sky
I saw a great giraffe with pluming wings,
And too a snail that somehow learned to fly.
These concrete clouds beneath a perfect blue,
Were no abstracted play things of a boy,
But hardened facts as any man could view;
As real as stones or as my favorite toy.
In happiness I spent the wage of life,
And youthful wonders never seemed to fade.
Until my Brutus brought his gilded knife,
And youth was by the demon Time betrayed.

II

Our parting paid in wretched pains untold,
As moments passed beneath that silver throne.
What liar said, ‘There’s good in growing old’?
Did he not know that clouds are clouds alone?
The grayness, dull and dreadful, hurts the most,
For any soul would have that dire thirst-
A need to see a monster or a ghost.
A life without those visions is the worst
Of any fate to fall upon a man.
My melancholy spirit runs the show-
A madness since majority began.
This base recurrence drives my anguish low
Beyond the depths of sunshine and the sea,
Beyond the powers pushing me to dive
And break the clouds in waves of wat’ry glee.
Alas I live, unwilling to survive.

III

As fledgling days are passed and laid to rest
A new affliction bears its foaming teeth.
I bow my head in fearful trembling, lest
The wraiths above are worse than those beneath.
And when at last, surrendering, I look,
I see not clouds but paintings in the air,
As if I gazed upon a picture book,
With mighty Nimbus locked before my stare.
The thunder claps inside my brimming head
Are no more real than Cirrus nigh the stars.
And as the twilight burns the evening red
I see a canvass ceiling flushed with scars.
O sweet repose! O victory of night,
When, through my bedroom window, eyes relax
Upon a scene of dancing faerie light.
For myth, in all its wonder, has the facts.

IV

The black deceit has worn my soul away
Into an inky powder of the Earth.
I do not hear the consolations gay,
But only pray that death will hail new birth.
How can a simple human soul press on
When everything is just a great façade;
Concealing nothing more than figures drawn
By that wayfaring, mad, mechanic, god.
The lion is a statue made of rock,
And mountains are but sketchings of his pen.
A rainbow is a smear upon his smock,
And he composed the songs of finch and wren.
I may not trust myself nor think again,
Without the dreadful knowledge that my soul
Belongs to him, who paints the evening rain,
And reads my will upon his gilded scroll.

Art:
Seaside Sunset, Franz von Stuck
Clytie, Fredrick Lord Leighton
Pack Clouds Away and Welcome Day, Edward Robert Hughes

Madonna in the City

2012-01-01T20:48:00.000-08:00

I saw her bare feet in the fresh virgin snow,
As red as the coals in my furnace aglow.
She shivered as ice crystals hung from her hair:
Another poor wretch in this city ‘most bare.
I’ll never know why in these bleak city rows
My gaze fell upon her, the lowest of lows.
Her eyes were like diamonds; but deadened with fear,
Like beauty in hiding from danger grown near.

I froze in surprise when I saw her move quick.
She brought to her side a small boy who was sick.
The infant was crying in pain from the cold,
And mother, though trembling, did tighten her hold.
His ears and his feet and his pink chubby hands
Were all cut and bleeding without any bands.
For winter is vicious and nature unkind,
The seasons move on without heart or a mind.

His cry grew unceasing. She wept pure and soft.
But both of them shone like the stars hung aloft.
Their pain was as glory is to a man vain.
Though weeping, I saw their misfortune a gain.
A shadow, cast o’er the sad couple in black,
Seemed only to herald a future attack.
A pain worse than poverty lay in the mist,
A prophecy harder than Rome’s iron fist.

The day’s pain and sorrow are days gold and bright
The hardships of winter are nothing but light.
Together they walked through the twilight of life
Awaiting a midnight. Awaiting the knife.
Awaiting a daybreak. Awaiting the sun.
Awaiting a moment to know that it’s done.
But gently she held him, with no thought of death,
With no thought of when he would take his last breath.

My heart of stone softened, I wanted to aid,
But as I did, mother and infant did fade.
O’ was it the mist, or the fast growing night,
That quickly did veil them and hide them from sight?
I fell to my knees as the two disappeared,
And though it was freezing, I felt I was seared
By grace indescribable, beauty so rare,
A mother and infant, alone, crying there.

Art Work:
Madonna and Child
Sassoferrato

Resolutions

2012-01-01T07:03:00.000-08:00

I will get back to reviewing last year, sorry about the delay in the second half of the year, holidays....you know.

Anyway, I thought seeing as it was New Years Day, I would give you a few resolutions for my writing. I want to have a publishable manuscript ready by March or April. I want to get at least half way through my epic poem by the end of the year. And I want to somehow find a way to write full time instead of only managing to work at night after the paying job.

Well there you go. My resolutions for 2012......I just hope I am better at keeping resolutions than Congress.

The Poems of 2011: Keats

2011-12-24T09:38:00.000-08:00

Almost immediately after deciding to become a poet, I bought the complete works of John Keats. This began an infatuation with the Romantics that has formed me as poet. All of his poetry, and especially his great odes revolutionized my entire poetic philosophy. Ode on an Oak Tree was one of many imitation pieces in Keats' form of ode.
Ode on an Oak Tree

August 30

I

O Knotted Oak thy shade is mine, to rest
And write these lines against thy ancient bark.
To greatness thine: thy root, thy limb, thy nest,
I’ll testify with rhyme as legal mark.
Thou grizzled and unyielding trunk of life,
Thy majesty, enthroned forevermore,
Is shining in the mist of sacred dawn.
Repeal nocturnal strife
And be that giant known in faerie lore;
Eternal, ‘mid thy sea of splendid lawn.

II

Thy fingers boring deep below the earth
Will travel far from thy green-leaféd head.
What magic do they seek with floral mirth,
What treasure buried low near River’s bed?
A hunt for life- the game they know so well-
Like toddling children playing hide and seek.
Thy tentacles of life are old indeed.
What stories will they tell
Of times I never knew? Those bloody, bleak
And solemn days, when first they rent thy seed.

III

Thy solid tower stepping for the sky,
Is like a scepter ruling o’er the land.
With mercy tempered justice let a sigh,
And satisfy creation from thy hand.
What dewy leaf has never stolen light
To cool the earth and fauna down below?
What bird or bat has been refused a limb
To rest throughout the night?
Now see thy angeled backbone softly grow
With humbled wisdom through eternal dim.

IV

Thy forkéd agents in this merry game
Go round and round in search of faerie maids.
No ordinary fays with local fame,
But captive sunbeams floating to the glades.
What joy within thy servants- in the brown
And green of serpents? Twisting in the air
For fun, and growing great in life and art.
I do not blame thy frown
Of age. For long the canvas has been bare;
And rare as pleasure in thy beating heart.

V

When setting suns are dying in the west
They act as priest- an arb’rous sacrament.
The dying light completes the mighty quest.
Surreal, vivacious- truly heaven sent-
I see thy mighty crest erupt, ablaze
With scattered faerie beams. Thy green is gold,
And life is there in full. Then Angels come,
As in a mystic daze,
To swiftly fill the golden chalice mould
And catch the drips of thy viaticum.

The Poems of 2011: The Poet

2011-12-24T08:42:00.000-08:00

"The End of the World" is an interesting poem on a couple of points. Firstly it was the first poem I wrote free hand instead of typing, (I had no choice seeing as I was at a monastery with no computer of any kind.) Ever since I have written almost everything free hand. I think it increases the sense of art while I am work, almost like I am painting. Also I wrote this piece after I decided to become a poet, so really it is my first amateur-professional piece. It still has all of the trappings of a poet who does not really know what he is doing, but it is still a nice little poem.

The End of the World
August 7
The end of the world lies westward
On the last coast of Rome,
Where mountains fail and rivers end,
And no man makes a home.

The world is flat and perilous,
But wise men call it round.
And though a land lies westward still,
It is on eastern ground.

The end of the world lies westward
Where waters meet the sand.
But the edge of the world is hidden,
Concealed by God’s own hand.

For sailors do not perish when
Their ship sails to the East.
They do not see the chasm depths,
And they are spared the beast.

For a sleep of peace come o’er them
When they draw near the edge.
A host of angels lift them up,
While God’s proclaims his pledge.

When wayward westward travelers
Are taken to the sky,
The voice of God sings to them all.
And even pirates cry.

“Though death be at your bow and aft,
And Satan on your mast,
I will not let my sailors fall-
Not now, nor ever past.

“Though in your pride you seek to know
The secrets past this gate,
I will not let you enter here
To see that pit of hate.

“Where devils, and much worse things lurk,
Forever in their tears.
Where sin is born, and death conceived.
The truth in all your fears.

“The gates of Hell lie westwardly
Where Sol dies every night.
Now look for love in eastern skies,
When dawn breaks in with lights.

“But woe to you dear mariner,
The day I stay My hand.
For you shall sail to death and war,
From your Pacific sand.

“When angels do not lift you up
And you fall not asleep,
Then you shall see the Gates of Hell
That stand atop the deep.

“And you shall be most glorious,
Though surely you will die.
And Hell shall be victorious,
O I will look and cry.

“When captains and their flags of war
Sink down upon their ships,
I shall send Rome to save the world,
With vengeance on their lips.

“The last crusade I sanction here
Will break upon the wall;
And crush the head of Satan’s hoard,
Now see the rebel fall.”

So silently and suddenly
The boat comes back to foam.
And men and boys arise and think
Of war and sad strange Rome.

Thus is the word proclaimed to them
Who dare approach the gate-
The end of East and Western worlds,
Dividing love and hate.

2000

2011-12-24T08:25:00.000-08:00

I just reached 2000 hits, thank you all for your support. I hope you will continue reading this blog, and sharing this blog for years to come. Merry Christmas to you all.

The Poems of 2011: Monks

2011-12-24T07:09:00.000-08:00

At the beginning of July I agreed to go on a vocation trip to the Brigittine Monastery in Oregon. I had long felt a desire to give my life to God and it this monastery seemed to be exactly what I was looking for. Still, I had doubt and 'Behind the Wall' was exploratory of that doubt. This poem was also the last I wrote before I decided to become a poet full time. It is also the first poem I wrote that had a definite, predetermined form. (Even thought I botched the form)

Behind the Wall

July 17

I see it rise from o’er the ground, a mist behind the wall.
I live in shadows and in fog. Is light behind the wall?

God kill me now. God take my heart. I have no life below.
My only love and only thought, is lost behind the wall.

A shout from all the world comes clear, “Come live with us and live.”
She whispers low behind it all, “Come die behind the wall.”

The minstrel sings of joy on earth, of women and of lust.
The hooded men sing songs of pain and love behind the wall.

Pax Domini Pax Christi, and with your spirit too.
Pax Domini Pax Christi, true peace behind the wall.

One Hundred Hands shall hold me down- demolishing my soul.
O I will never see my love, my God, behind the wall.

The Poems of 2011: King Alfred

2011-12-24T06:43:00.000-08:00

As June turned into July I had not yet decided to be a poet for the rest of my life. In fact at this time I was considering eschewing writing all together in order to join a monastery. However, my monastery journey is a different subject. This poem mark the height of my Chesterton obsession, and was written as a tribute to him. I had long considered Chesterton the greatest writer in the English language; and though my poetic tastes have changed he is still my first literary love, and holds the highest place in many genres of literature.

King Alfred Comes Again

July 2

The seven rods of seven sins upheld a fallen land.
But this ancient modern culture, was built upon the sand.
Decrepit west- dark joy of men- your pagan idols fell.
Your gods of Lust and Death and Pride descended into Hell.
You abandoned God for madness; and reason for your Lust.
Like Persian, Greek and Roman men your power turned to dust.

The Barb’rous Beast has come again. Consuming men in fright.
The end has come unto the West. It is a thrice black night.
The Barb’rous Beast out of the east has come in sin and rage.
He breathes sad fire and angry death, but dresses like a sage.
The Barb’rous Beast out of the east no longer bares his teeth.
He wields a pen and kills with ink out of his lair beneath.

Armies of Sin and Death and Night have come to stake their claim.
They wash the world in blood and lust- a storm that none will tame.
We men of God abandoned God in place and time gone by.
We men of God abandoned God; will God now let us die?
Though we forsook our God, our God, we turn to him again.
We beg the Lord, Almighty still, to save us in our pain.

And perhaps the Lord has listened, perhaps He heard our plea.
Perhaps He even sends him now, our lord and king to be.
As Alfred saved his merry land, in England’s Roman night,
From Danish prince and Viking ships-again he comes to fight.
For God does not fight Satan’s hoard, He won’t descend so low,
It falls to men to fight the fight and strike the final blow.

I see the hero coming forth. Yea Alfred rides again.
He does not bear a pike or sword, as when he fought the Dane.
No axe or bow or spear to wield, as when great Guthrum fell,
He fights instead with pen and ink, they send ideas to Hell.
The Brab’rous Beast comes from the east, and tells enchanting lies,
Of men who know no sin at all, because they are so wise.

But Alfred knows of many sins, committing more than one.
His soul is not immaculate; he is not God the Son.
He prays to one Immaculate, Immaculate in Heart,
For fortitude in exile, while they are still apart.
He wars on sin and Satan though death is but assured,
For death is not the end of things, because God’s Blood was poured.

King Alfred fights heroically for what he knows is true,
And has one banner, proudly flown, a lady dressed in Blue.
A stander flown above his ships, when he breaks war on Sin.
When Alfred holds this banner high, He knows that he shall win.
The sign is known from coast to coast, at home and foreign land.
Some seven swords do pierce Her Heart, and one is in Her hand.

The dogs of Death and Lust and Hate shall fall into the sea.
When Alfred comes again to men, our lord and king to be.
O Death where is your sting for us. Hark! Dawn will break anew.
Until us fickle men again abandon what is true.
This was the truth, and is truth still, though darkness may preside:
The world has ended many times, but Man has never died.

The Poems of 2011: Clouds

2011-12-24T06:28:00.000-08:00

I must jump in my reflections to May. After my first flirtation with poetry, I spent almost all of my time writing essays and stories. I was still in this mindset in May, but I thought I would post this poem because it was the very first manifestation of a fascination with the sky that would lead to an obsession that resulted in my first submission to "Poetry." You can see a slight increase of skill, but since I was still a very green poet, it is quite raw.

Visions in the Sky

May 1

The clouds held shapes, both fair and bad.
Now they are grey and pale and sad.
The nimbus giants of the sky
Once fought great wars- now only cry.

I stare and long for things that left
Alas the thief. Alas the theft.
I stare and hope the shapes may climb
As they once did, upon a time.

What is this pain I feel at time?
I shed no tear when it is rhyme
That hides its face from me its lord.
But death to me from youths accord,

That swore a joy beyond all joy
If I but gave my life as boy,
And took a life as man instead.
Hark! now my funeral card is read,

For I cant live with out the shapes
That babes point at with shouts and gapes.
My life is naught without that love,
My God set higher than the dove.

O' I have one last hope within,
That seems less likely than the pin
And camel told by Christ the True.
I may just find shapes in the blue.

Perhaps the clouds now form a frame,
To show that blue, Immaculate Dame.
Perhaps I'll live "Man" differently,
If I see gods in God's high sea.

The Poems of 2011

2011-12-24T05:54:00.000-08:00

As the year draws to an end, I have taken a been on something of a hiatus from any serious work. 2012 promises to hold many great things for me as an artist, but I feel like now would be a good time for a little reflection; so without further ado, I give you the first of a short sampling of my Poems of 2011.

January 13
When I began this blog in January I had only just decided that I desired to write for the rest of my life. I enjoyed poetry, but considered myself more of an essayist. Therefore, my first poems had little to do with experimenting with form or style, let alone a literary philosophy. I used classic themes and traditional forms to write, what I considered, rather nice poetry. 'A Tear Washed Sea' certainly falls into this category. It was a nice piece, but it is definitely in what Keats would call, "The Realm of Maiden Thought.'

A Tear Washed Sea

A rain-washed coast sees rain again.
A mourning girl sits down in pain.
A morning mist is blown away.
And all this happened yesterday.

Poseidon claimed him long ago.
She pleaded with him not to go.
Alas the ocean calls its own,
But why is something never known.

The woman sits alone and sad,
She thinks of all the joys they had
Before the rain fell from her eyes.
Now every day, with him, she dies.

She dies each dawn without him here,
At evening tide from doubt and fear,
And in between the whole day long.
Three years her soul has missed the song.

Was it Thee

2011-12-19T19:01:00.000-08:00

The storms of Passion blind my feeble sight,
And Pain distorts the memory of time.
So here am I, within this bleeding rhyme,
To beg an answer for that starless night.
No other rescuers approach. Thou must
Dissuade these hurricanes of ceaseless doubt
From tearing up an old bud’s rip’ning sprout.
Confess the truth to save me from a gust
Of horror, hurling petals past the sea-
Side. Say who walked away with spiteful jeers
Of villainy. Who whispered to our rose the fears
Of loneliness untempered? Was it thee?
Or did my fickle feet make haste to run
Before our rose could ripen in the sun?

Apparition in the forest
Moritz Ludwig von Schwind

The Star upon the Right

2011-12-11T16:15:00.000-08:00

This fated wall betwixt our parchéd lips
May stay our loves surrender for a time.
Just think this stone the sea; and we two ships,
That navigate by northern starry shine.

I pray thee watch when bright Polaris glows,
But not at him; I’d rather on his right.
I would protect this bud of passion’s rose
From all who sow their evil weeds at night.

My queen deserves a starlit crown her own,
Not one polluted by his pomp and name.
How many wretched ‘sweethearts’ vow and moan
To that cruel monarch: sure upon his fame?

I know our nameless star outshines them all:
For us a refuge twixt this fated wall.

Painting: "Night" by Edward Robert Hughes

When Posey drains the last unspoken verse...

2011-12-11T08:49:00.000-08:00

When Posey drains the last unspoken verse,
And sepulchers of brother sleep are made,
These earthen visions gray and seem to fade;
As if the gods at last removed their curse.

I wonder if I close my eyes awake,
And open them upon these fearful dreams:
A veil of tears with muffled, broken screams,
A scrim of shadows: pale and nigh opaque.

I live life’s repetitions all in vain,
But slumber is a novelty broke through;
Forever hailing worlds forever new-
Where virtues gold, and greed is turned to pain.

Then pondering within my pillowed head,
I see that death is morning for the dead.

My Lady's Breath- A Sonnet

2011-12-10T18:07:00.000-08:00

The great usurper Life doth tear my face,
And silver pains drop on thy soothing breast.
But suddenly cruel Life seems naught but jest;
As we two swim together in thy grace.

The whispered sound of thy gay spirits flight
Doth please my soul as music did before.
I feel those swelling lungs that I adore,
Exhale in flames of love forever bright.

Say not a word. Do not disturb my love’s
Sweet melody. Eternal is that sound,
And though ‘tis soft, it never will be drowned.
‘Tis sacred as the wing-beats of the doves.

Our solitude is guarded by the sun,
Each other’s strength, a slumber: just begun.

Saint Nicholas Day Poem

2011-12-05T18:42:00.000-08:00

I dedicate this poem to Nick van Lieshout,

Saint Nicholas: A Blow For Christ

The evil soul of Arius
Arose to make his claim.
That Christ was not our God on High
And wasn’t flame from flame.

But some spoke out against the man,
Yes some who knew the truth.
‘Thanasius spoke with eloquence
And Nick punched out his tooth.

In Nicea: at the council
The heretic did stand.
But Santa, my dear Santa Claus,
He beat him with his hand.

The goodly Fathers in the crowd
They threw him into jail.
But Nick knew if he didn’t strike
He’d gnash his teeth and wail.

Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,
Came visiting next day.
And gave good Nick his Book again
Because our Saint would pray.

In Nicea: at the council
The heretic did stand.
But Santa, my dear Santa Claus,
He beat him with his hand.

So just remember boys and girls
If ever you hear tell,
Of Jesus being ridiculed
Then knock ‘em all the Hell.

For Nicholas, He was a man
Who held Christ in his hand.
And when our Jesus needed him
He stood and made a stand.

In Nicea: at the council
The heretic did stand.
But Santa, my dear Santa Claus,
He beat him with his hand.

This is actually a true story. Not many people know that Santa Clause attacked Arius at the Council of Nicea. Nicholas was actually removed as a Bishop and thrown into jail, but Christ came to him in a vision, and asked Nick why he did it, "Out of love for you Lord," was his response. So this is a fun little poem in Honor of Saint Nick the Ninja Bishop.

Magazine Submissions and News

2011-11-20T20:20:00.001-08:00

I will shortly be submitting my new work to a prestigious poetry magazine. So naturally, my time has been spent working on that. I am also hard at work on my epic poem Mirror of Elysium. But do not be discouraged (do you hear the words dripping with overbearing conceit) do not fret yourself, over the prospect of getting to read my poetry on this blog again. I will spent this week in a flurry of activity, including writing Triolets, and Sonnets for my adoring (its dripping again) fans.

In the mean time I will leave you with the opening lines from a speech I am writing for Mirror of Elysium. This is from the Goddess Muse Aoide

She said, “Return the fulsome days gone by

And see mestretch and sail for open sky.

I’ll takewith me a lyre and a pen,

So downbelow, on bloody field and fen,

The historywill stay as much a part

Of simplepeople as their wooden cart.

Our friendlyhelper shows me shapes serene,

Of battleswaging o’er a lesser queen,

Her favor ismore precious than the gods,

And to herthrone men send their bleeding lauds.

“A hero, from the rubble of a town,

Arises to thescepter and the crown.

His valorfrightens Hades well away-

Immortal justby keeping death at bay

Have a good night, and God bless you.

Pop the Dandy

2011-11-13T19:14:00.000-08:00

Triolet II

Go pop the dandy. Pop its head.
Remove that gay and laughing crown.
The lion grins but I have said,
Go pop the dandy. Pop its head.

You see it smile for the dead,
The floral murder on the down.
Go pop the dandy. Pop its head,
Remove that gay and laughing crown.

Waiting for My Queen

2011-11-13T17:43:00.000-08:00

I sit, and one most solitary light

Hangs o’er my head. I know not where

Nor why I sit alone. Is it the Knight?

Alas I do not know- I do not care.

What was the silly lass to me. I look

But no one is around, no friend to fly

Me out of here as freely as a rook.

My queen is dead and left me here to die.

I was too happy long ago, now fate

Has come to claim me as her own beloved.

She was my pure, fair, sweet eternal mate.

But now as graying men are shoved

To make the way for stately miters ‘loft,

So my poor bride was taken from our home

By that mad god, who says so low and soft

That we must act as once they did in Rome.

To march like pawns, to kill and to be killed-

Whatever pleases our dread king. Alone

I sit, and want, as oft times I have willed,

To change the law and animate your bone.

Alas the book is writ on how to run

This world, the rule is black and white. But know,

My fleeting dear, I shall not be outdone,

I’ll wait ‘till mate for you to come and go.

Mother May I

2011-11-10T22:06:00.000-08:00

It has been a while since I have last posted, and for that I apologize. I have been hard at work on a few longer pieces that keep me busy most of my time. However, I was able to break away from the slow path to do up a little something for my audience. A triolet is and eight lined poem, written in iabic tetrameter with a rhyme scheme of ABaAabAB. It was very fun to learn, and I thought I would share with you my first triolet ever.

Mother May I
DGC

O mother may I play the game,
The game we play each day, each day?
Though sickness strikes the old man lame,
O mother may I play the game?
The little houses look the same,
They look the same in every way.
O mother may I play the game,
The game we play each day, each day?

My Journal

2011-10-20T19:07:00.000-07:00

I have a journal in which I write down thoughts and ideas for my writing. Right now they are almost entirely concerned with my work in progress named Wavering Libations. I think this would be a great place to post some of the more potent pieces from the journal.

By way of background not in the journals. Wavering Libations (W.L.) is a poem that looks at twenty different scenes. Ten look at the vices of the world through the eyes of ten Greek gods from ancient mythology. The other ten look at ten scenes depicting the virtues of the world through the corresponding Roman gods, by which I mean that Ares will have a corresponding Mars, and Zeus will have Jupiter.

I hope to draw a portrait of the world this way. I have not been working on it too long, so it is probably months from completion.

The Journal
10-16-11

I have finished the first part of W.L. I do not know if I like it. I do not know if I can like it. What have I done? The rhythm is dodgy at best and the story is weak. But it is my best, let it stand or Fall. I was always the fool.

The Fool

In haunted basements, safely kept,
I hide away from all the world.
I dip a foolish pen, inept,
Not questioning the words I hurl.

A sloppy creature stares at me
From wasted paper, stained with ink.
I wish to throw it in the sea.
And watch it slowly, slowly sink.
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10-17-11
I am done with Dionysus. I must say that I am glad for it. He was far to much for me. My thoughts now turn to Aphrodite, she is closer to my speed. The story of her eyes us already materializing, ever so tragically, before my eyes.

The technical meter of this part should still be loose, but more of a refined looseness- And suddenly my mind wanders- to........something else.
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Same Day

W.L. is a puzzle. A puzzle only works because it the pieces are total opposites. My task is very great, for these differences much lie in more than just differences in form and meter. The subjects must be complimentary, not just opposites.

Dionysus has a section on drunkenness and the degradation of women. Bacchus cannot simply be about drinking temperately and treating women respectfully. This course makes virtue seem as nothing more than the mediocrity of vice. The Roman virtues must be just as headstrong and impassioned as the Greek vices.

Journal Verses

2011-10-16T14:37:00.000-07:00

This is a poem I wrote in my journal. I am currently hard at work on a manuscript, it is a book of verses on the mythical gods, and most of my journal entries are thoughts and verses about the work. Here is one:

The battle for the soul of men
Is fought with my ambrosian pen.
The golden ink of better days
Has fearsome glints of warring blaze.

I stand for all the human race
Against the proud celestial face.
What creatures of Olympian rock
Can stand so staunchly 'gainst the clock.

But they shall hear a lion roar-
A lion who is drenched in gore
From many battles lately won,
And evil wars that now are done.

Do sculpted ears know pleas or prayers,
Do any think of human cares,
Or wonder why we stand apart
From solid stone and frozen heart.

Voices revisited

2011-10-07T18:03:00.000-07:00

I promised a glimpse of my new poem in two voices.

Here is the beginning. It shows you the idea between the various voices, but doesn't give away the ending of my poem, which you will have to wait to read.

M-

Adieu my opal faerie Queen.

Adieu my summer star.

For angels died where we have been,

Depart we must- and far.

We slept those happy months away,

A time of pleasant dreams.

But now we wake at break of day,

With nothing as it seems.

A lily hand is on my knee-

But whose I cannot tell.

A silvery eye shines knowingly-

But I have thoughts of Hell.

Are you a stranger by my side,

Or do I love you dear?

Have all my human senses lied

To freeze me in my fear?

G-

I am no faerie Queen, Alas

No opal shining bright.

I am a wand’ring gypsy lass

Betaken by your light.

An age ago you took me nigh-

Or was it just today-

The path of fate that led us by

The music soon to play.

A step or two we walked along,

Believing Shadow’s tale.

Believing there was nothing wrong

And no one in the pale.

That happy hour, shortly spent,

Saw flowers budding gold.

And so we sat and softly bent,

Their beauty to behold.

Angelic petals praised the sun

In worship of its life,

As men will turn and praise the Son

Despite their daily strife.

M-

Hold now your speech and memory,

For I have quarrel here.

I do recall the devilry

That brought the magic near.

But I saw not the flowers’ God,

Or mystic scenes of praise.

We stepped a pace upon the sod

But in a moonlit haze....

Alas, you must wait for the rest.

Two Voices

2011-10-02T17:41:00.000-07:00

Tonight I embarked on a journey into the great unknown and untried. My new poem called... well it is called my new poem right now... is being written in two different voices. This poses a challenge on a couple of fronts. First of all, it is always difficult to keep two different people straight in my head. Both have different need, and desires, and both try to affect the change the want in different ways.

This is hard enough when it is merely prose, but in poetry has the additional challenge arises of needing to maintain some manner of unity within the piece. I cannot change metaphorical style between voices, because that was confuse the reader. If the red stands for passion in one voice, but in the second voice red stands for the blood of sinners, well then people will get confused.

I will probably post an excerpt from... "as yet unnamed" sometime this week just to give you all a better idea of what I mean about the dialogue.

Going To Bed When You Are Told

2011-10-01T21:56:00.001-07:00

The pattering tiptoes of secrets untold,
Of childhood battles unknown to the old,
Of struggles for kisses and doorknobs and beds,
Of dizzying mem’ries that twirl in their heads,

For these little children that cry in the night,
Who sneak out of bedrooms and cause such a plight
Who cry out for water and tissues galore,
Who find any reason to stay up some more,

To these naughty children I’ll talk about doom,
About evil beasties that hide in their room,
About Ghouls and Goblins and slimy Galumphs,
About Heathen Harrows that hit them with “Humphs”

I’ll mention the phantoms that lurk in the dark,
That haunt them and scare them that growl and bark,
That see them with eyes of a frightful decay,
That dart between shadows and creep where they lay.

Or settle us down as the night closes in,
No talk of the monsters, or closets wherein
No murmuring meeting of murdering men
Could upset the slumber of nice little Ben.

DGC

The Lighted Window

2011-09-28T21:58:00.000-07:00

This type of poem I call a sketch. Just as an artist may have a doodle pad, I have evenings where I work on poems that I have no intention of making masterpieces. Quite often the image I am sketching is so burned into my head that I cannot manage my normal work without writing the sketch.

This particular piece is a sketching based on the house across my street. Every night one window on the top floor would be left on all night. I do not know anything about the people in this house, but my imagination immediately took over and this poem of longing and suffering was born out of it.

What silk and sacred modesties of lace
Conceal thy image from this wav’ring eye?
Embowered high amid thy loving grace,
Thou temptest me with shadows ever nigh.
A lover’s form, a sketching never filled
Is cast in black, too white for any shade,
Too black as well, a living thing concealed-
A contradiction- such I never willed.
But through these actions more and more revealed
In all the darkness human grime hath made.

My agony is painted for them all
To see, in many colors bright and bold.
Why doth thou hide within thy bower tall?
And why are all my tears bespecked with gold?
Exposed and quaking in the mud I kneel
With envy at the scornful passerby,
For he enjoys the ignorance of bliss.
He mocks the everlasting death I feel,
And scoffs at me whene’er I make to kiss
These basesest stones betwixt my home and thy.

A doubled pain, a knowledged mystery.
Behind the veil a seraphim doth sleep,
But I was broken- Satan’s mastery.
Condemned forever in this vale to weep?
If only blesséd death would break the spell
Of mystic dreams- that great angelic sword:
Then I with open heart would call him near,
To guide me out of this unholy Hell.
I’d quench Hellfire with a single tear
Of joy, at reaching my still veiled reward.

This prison wall with drapery as stone,
Withholds from sunken eyes a parting look,
‘Fore judgments fall from His Almighty throne,
And names are penned in His unquestioned book.
But should He quicken everlasting pain,
Then see a body broken ‘neath thy sill.
These eyes that search for beauty still unseen
Could never love the masquerade again.
Forgetest now what e’er thou once had been
For now thy only purpose: save or kill.

A New Blog, a Great Artist.

2011-09-28T19:39:00.000-07:00

Art and Adventure is the blog of the wonderfully skilled artist, Ben Hatke. He greatest creation, Zita the Spacegirl is a graphic novel illustrated and written by Ben. Head on over to his blog, at http://letflythecannons.blogspot.com/ and also take a look at his books here at Amazon. I just received my copy of Zita the Spacegirl in the mail and it is spectacular.

We should try support good Catholic artists, (like me) who are trying to live their faith and also make a living with their art. Ben's blog is not only filled with great art, it is also filled with heartfelt and picturesque peeks into Ben's life, his wife and many daughters.

So head on over to Art and Adventure, boost Ben's hits, and buy a copy of Zita the Spacegirl. It is a great book for young children, but the art is so amazing, that it is a great comic for all ages. I will defiantly review the whole book more closely once I finished it, but do not wait for me. Head on over to Art and Adventure, visit Ben Hatke.

TWITTER

2011-09-27T21:26:00.001-07:00

Follow me on twitter. @DGCollinsPoet

News and a Thought

2011-09-27T21:12:00.000-07:00

Hello all,

I have been busy writing for the last month, but have shamefully failed to actually post anything in that time. While I have been working, I have been thinking about what it is I exactly want this blog to be. It is of course a wonderful way of exposing my work, but I would like it to be more than that.

The Subtitle of the Blog is, "Life as a Catholic and Writer," I intend to add more of the "Life" into the blog, as well as my thoughts on literature, poetic theory, the catholic literary world, and the Catholic world in general. Please tell your friends about this blog. I am desperately trying to make my way as a writer, and owning a semi popular blog would be a very nice step toward being noticed by the right people.

Finally, in the spirit of giving more glimpses into the "Life" aspect of my work, I am happy to announce that I have cleared out my own little corner to work in my home. This is quite a feat because I share this home with seven brothers and sisters, a dog, a rabbit, and two parents.

God Love You

The Oak Tree

2011-08-30T17:42:00.000-07:00

I

O Knotted Oak thy shade is mine, to rest
And write these lines against thy ancient bark.
To greatness thine: thy root, thy limb, thy nest,
I’ll testify with rhyme as legal mark.
Thou grizzled and unyielding trunk of life,
Thy majesty, enthroned forevermore,
Is shining in the mist of sacred dawn.
Repeal nocturnal strife
And be that giant known in faerie lore;
Eternal, ‘mid thy sea of splendid lawn.

II

Thy fingers boring deep below the earth
Will travel far from thy green-leaféd head.
What magic do they seek with floral mirth,
What treasure buried low near River’s bed?
A hunt for life- the game they know so well-
Like toddling children playing hide and seek.
Thy tentacles of life are old indeed.
What stories will they tell
Of times I never knew? Those bloody, bleak
And solemn days, when first they rent thy seed.

III

Thy solid tower stepping for the sky,
Is like a scepter ruling o’er the land.
With mercy tempered justice let a sigh,
And satisfy creation from thy hand.
What dewy leaf has never stolen light
To cool the earth and fauna down below?
What bird or bat has been refused a limb
To rest throughout the night?
Now see thy angeled backbone softly grow
With humbled wisdom through eternal dim.

IV

Thy forkéd agents in this merry game
Go round and round in search of faerie maids.
No ordinary fays with local fame,
But captive sunbeams floating to the glades.
What joy within thy servants- in the brown
And green of serpents? Twisting in the air
For fun, and growing great in life and art.
I do not blame thy frown
Of age. For long the canvas has been bare;
And rare as pleasure in thy beating heart.

V

When setting suns are dying in the west
They act as priest- an arb’rous sacrament.
The dying light completes the mighty quest.
Surreal, vivacious- truly heaven sent-
I see thy mighty crest erupt, ablaze
With scattered faerie beams. Thy green is gold,
And life is there in full. Then Angels come,
As in a mystic daze,
To swiftly fill the golden chalice mould
And catch the drips of thy viaticum.

The Dawn of Romance

2011-08-19T07:05:00.000-07:00

I

The specter in the night doth fade away.
And soon eclipsed, are shadows in the dark.
Perforce returning, gloried sunlit day-
Thou givest hope. We trust in thee to mark
Our lives, and banish all the rotting ghosts
Which hide beneath the moon. Thou grey-broke dawn,
What secrets, seen and told of midnight sin,
Without the shameless boasts
Of evil men, now plainly- Luna gone
And Sol alive again- thy lips unpin.

II

The untrimmed lamp has lost its flame and light.
And wearied feet, without a bearing fall
Into the farfetched monsters of the night.
With battle cries we set upon them all,
Though in the pitch, we slay not beast but friend,
And through the mist the horrors comes again.
So speak pure dawn, and show the battle scar.
Take counsel ‘fore thou rend
Thy blessed garments- anguishing in pain,
Take heed, and save us ‘neath thy final star.

III

Resplendent in thy supernatural song
Again thou seest man spend Adam’s wage.
Now truly for Apollo, thrice we long;
Nocturnally we waste inside our cage,
And hope for dawn with oriental looks.
With crooked will, and simple minds to act
We fallen bones fall hard against the morn-
With death inside our books
And blankness in our art. The only fact
For life today is man must be forlorn.

IV

To Death- the only friend of Luna’s time-
He taketh what he wills in grey-black reigns;
And groweth great in friendliness, as Rhyme
And Rhythm die. The portraits drawn with pains
And skill, while night upholds its garrisons,
Consists of goblins drawn for heads, and blood
As nettle wine. O Dawn arise and guard,
For we remain your sons.
Recall, despite our love for filth and mud,
Our equal love for beauty and the bard.

V

I sit atop the cliff to watch the sun,
In hope that I might see the muddle clear
And bowing down in worship hear the Son.
I sit and wait- a week- a month- a year.
Refresh the landscape of the earthen land,
With blazing fire sear the webs of grime.
Then God returns His beauty to the earth.
The buildings on the sand
Will fall, and new will rise in blesséd time.
The night is o’er, and Daybreak hails new birth.

Sonnet on Not Committing Suicide.

2011-08-12T21:39:00.000-07:00

I wonder why my soul must fade away.
Just eighteen years and nearly in my grave.
Pretenders to the throne of God will say,
“We have the power for your soul to save.”

Now Puck, with all his flowers to attend,
Has passed me by while I was still at bed.
So I have no crossed lovers to contend,
Nor do I have a flame to burn blood red.

I tried to drink the opiate of sleep.
I failed to get the joy you find in peace.
Forgive me, for I know that you will weep,
And by my grave your sorrow will increase.

But wait, fair night; I think I hear a sound.
O Could it be that joy is all around?

Morning Magic

2011-08-12T07:55:00.000-07:00

The sparrow shrieks and swallow songs

Proclaim the daylight’s resurrection.

And faerie lords and wooded elves

Give magic to the morn’s conception.

When Paschal light breaks through the fog,

And rises past the last horizon

The fair gay nymphs leap from the pond,

And wash away nocturnal wizen.

Apollo and his many steeds

Illuminate the earthen painting,

And Hermes with his flying feet

Doth steal my things- a daybreak tainting.

Then Aries takes his sword in hand

To fight the battle of the Zeus-lings,

And God above looks on and laughs

At mortal men and faerie changelings.

The wars of gods turn roses red,

And faerie tears enact the dewfall.

The morning mists of mourning shades

Reveal the magic through their grey pall.

For beauty is not found in sight,

But in the secret we discover,

In the mystery of nature,

And in the veiling of the lover.

The End of the World

2011-08-07T21:23:00.000-07:00

The end of the world lies westward
On the last coast of Rome,
Where mountains fail and rivers end,
And no man makes a home.

The world is flat and perilous,
But wise men call it round.
And though a land lies westward still,
It is on eastern ground.

The end of the world lies westward
Where waters meet the sand.
But the edge of the world is hidden,
Concealed by God’s own hand.

For sailors do not perish when
Their ship sails to the East.
They do not see the chasm depths,
And they are spared the beast.

For a sleep of peace come o’er them
When they draw near the edge.
A host of angels lift them up,
While God’s proclaims his pledge.

When wayward westward travelers
Are taken to the sky,
The voice of God sings to them all.
And even pirates cry.

“Though death be at your bow and aft,
And Satan on your mast,
I will not let my sailors fall-
Not now, nor ever past.

“Though in your pride you seek to know
The secrets past this gate,
I will not let you enter here
To see that pit of hate.

“Where devils, and much worse things lurk,
Forever in their tears.
Where sin is born, and death conceived.
The truth in all your fears.

“The gates of Hell lie westwardly
Where Sol dies every night.
Now look for love in eastern skies,
When dawn breaks in with lights.

“But woe to you dear mariner,
The day I stay My hand.
For you shall sail to death and war,
From your Pacific sand.

“When angels do not lift you up
And you fall not asleep,
Then you shall see the Gates of Hell
That stand atop the deep.

“And you shall be most glorious,
Though surely you will die.
And Hell shall be victorious,
O I will look and cry.

“When captains and their flags of war
Sink down upon their ships,
I shall send Rome to save the world,
With vengeance on their lips.

“The last crusade I sanction here
Will break upon the wall;
And crush the head of Satan’s hoard,
Now see the rebel fall.”

So silently and suddenly
The boat comes back to foam.
And men and boys arise and think
Of war and sad strange Rome.

Thus is the word proclaimed to them
Who dare approach the gate-
The end of East and Western worlds,
Dividing love and hate.

Behind the Wall

2011-07-17T09:44:00.001-07:00

I see it rise from o’er the ground, a mist behind the wall.
I live in shadows and in fog. Is light behind the wall?

God kill me now. God take my heart. I have no life below.
My only love and only thought, is lost behind the wall.

A shout from all the world comes clear, “Come live with us and live.”
She whispers low behind it all, “Come die behind the wall.”

The minstrel sings of joy on earth, of women and of lust.
The hooded men sing songs of pain and love behind the wall.

Pax Domini Pax Christi, and with your spirit too.
Pax Domini Pax Christi, true peace behind the wall.

One Hundred Hands shall hold me down- demolishing my soul.
O I will never see my love, my God, behind the wall.

The Womb or the Home

2011-07-10T14:29:00.000-07:00

There has been a great deal of anger at the outcome of the Casey Anthony murder trial. This anger may be justifiable, but the point of this essay is not to discuss the guilt of Casey Anthony. This essay has the singular purpose of condemning the whole world and defending Casey. I cannot say that I support the murder of one’s child to enjoy life’s pleasures. I am, after all, an ardent Catholic and the sort of man who thinks that the “good life” consists of a house filled with ten kids and a dog. That being said, I must say that I am surprised at the world. Scores upon scores of news reporters are outraged that there is no justice for Caylee Anthony. Even the “man on the street” has shown utter disgust at the jury’s verdict; but it seems to me that murdering a child to be free is precisely what the modern world enjoys.

Millions and millions of women have made the same choice that Casey Anthony was accused of making. Millions and millions of mothers have chosen to murder their own child in order to enjoy “Bella Vita.” Moreover, billions of people have purposefully prevented life from existing at all, in the name of freedom. The abortive and contraceptive lifestyle of the West has claimed more Caylee’s than my readers can possibly imagine. Why should Casey be condemned by this world for merely taking its own philosophy to a logical conclusion? It seems to me that someone should defend Casey; she is merely ahead of her times. Is it Casey’s fault that she has a personal conscience more advanced than the backward and medieval taboos of modern culture? Is it Casey’s fault that she is being crucified in the press because she has dared to take the next step in the long road toward personal freedom?

Now, I would personally condemn the murder of children, however, I can see no difference in the murder of children in the womb and the murder of children in the home. An innocent, defenseless child is dead in both cases. Casey Anthony has been called insane and sociopathic, and this may be a very accurate diagnosis, but I am at a loss to explain why she is not praised by the feminists who speak so firmly for female freedom. Why has there been no announcement of solidarity by Planned Parenthood? Why didn’t President Obama guarantee a full pardon in case of conviction? Why didn’t Nancy Pelosi offer Casey the best Lawyers free of charge? Where are the signs of community in the progressive camp? Where, pray tell, are the progressives progressing to, if not to the wholesale murder of children in the name of public good?

I wonder if Casey is crazy at all. She seems entirely logical to me. In fact, if she did indeed murder poor Caylee, she should be praised for her courage. She was willing to take a philosophy to its ultimate conclusion; the fact that it was a demonic philosophy is not her fault. If I did not personally believe that the murder of children is a crime that cries out to God for vengeance, I would personally congratulate Casey for having the nerve to be truly progressive. As for her actions after the death of poor Caylee, consider the number of abortions; is it probable that none of these women ever went to a tattoo parlor immediately after killing their own flesh and blood? Is it probable that none of these murderers went out and partied the same night? What is the difference between Casey Anthony and the millions of abortion doctors and nurses? What is the difference between the womb and the home? How dare the world condemn Casey, when the world is guilty of the massacre of an entire generation? How DARE the world call for Casey’s execution, when the very same world gives millions of dollars to Planned Parenthood? How DARE these hypocrites tell Casey she is not allowed to remove an inconvenienced to her party life? Our world is in Hell, we have only now thought to condemn the devils.

King Alfred Comes Again

2011-07-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

The seven rods of seven sins upheld a fallen land.

But this ancient modern culture, was built upon the sand.

Decrepit west- dark joy of men- your pagan idols fell.

Your gods of Lust and Death and Pride descended into Hell.

You abandoned God for madness; and reason for your Lust.

Like Persian, Greek and Roman men their power turned to dust.

The Barb’rous Beast has come again. Consuming men in fright.

The end has come unto the West. It is a thrice black night.

The Barb’rous Beast out of the east has come in sin and rage.

He breathes sad fire and angry death, but dresses like a sage.

The Barb’rous Beast out of the east no longer bares his teeth.

He wields a pen and kills with ink out of his lair beneath.

Armies of Sin and Death and Night have come to stake their claim.

They wash the world in blood and lust- a storm that none will tame.

We men of God abandoned God in place and time gone by.

We men of God abandoned God; will God now let us die?

Though we forsook our God, our God, we turn to him again.

We beg the Lord, Almighty still, to save us in our pain.

And perhaps the Lord has listened, perhaps He heard our plea.

Perhaps He even sends him now, our lord and king to be.

As Alfred saved his merry land, in England’s Roman night,

From Danish prince and Viking ships-again he comes to fight.

For God does not fight Satan’s hoard, He won’t descend so low,

It falls to men to fight the fight and strike the final blow.

I see the hero coming forth. Yea Alfred rides again.

He does not bear a pike or sword, as when he fought the Dane.

No axe or bow or spear to wield, as when great Guthrum fell,

He fights instead with pen and ink, they send ideas to Hell.

The Brab’rous Beast comes from the east, and tells enchanting lies,

Of men who know no sin at all, because they are so wise.

But Alfred knows of many sins, committing more than one.

His soul is not immaculate; he is not God the Son.

He prays to one Immaculate, Immaculate in Heart,

For fortitude in exile, while they are still apart.

He wars on sin and Satan though death is but assured,

For death is not the end of things, because God’s Blood was poured.

King Alfred fights heroically for what he knows is true,

And has one banner, proudly flown, a lady dressed in Blue.

A stander flown above his ships, when he breaks war on Sin.

When Alfred holds this banner high, He knows that he shall win.

The sign is known from coast to coast, at home and foreign land.

Some seven swords do pierce Her Heart, and one is in Her hand.

The dogs of Death and Lust and Hate shall fall into the sea.

When Alfred comes again to men, our lord and king to be.

O Death where is your sting for us. Hark! Dawn will break anew.

Until us fickle men again abandon what is true.

This was the truth, and is truth still, though darkness may preside:

The world has ended many times, but Man has never died.

1000 views

2011-06-09T19:02:00.000-07:00

I have now reached 1000 views on my page. It is not much, but I am proud of it. Thank you all for taking time to read my work. God Bless you all !!!!!!!!

The Wisdom of Saint John of the Cross

2011-06-09T13:30:00.001-07:00

Strength in Darkness - Wisdom from John of the Cross is a wonderful book. The book is not any one of John’s writings, but an anthology of some great segments. The editor pieced together bits from Saint John’s many spiritual writings in order to get at the heart of his message. The reader walks away from this book understanding his own soul, and the journey it must take to God.

The one issue I had reading the book also was a great benefit. I read the book, but I needed more after it. The segments are wonderful, but they do not feature the in depth explanations found in complete editions of John’s own writing. This book, therefore, must be thought of as a introduction to Saint John of the Cross, or the reader will be disappointed in what he finds. Consider this book a doorway into future reading of Saint John, it is not a great thing standing alone.

This review was written as part of the Catholic book reviewer program from The Catholic Company. Visit The Catholic Company to find more information on Strength in Darkness - Wisdom from John of the Cro. They are also a great source for a Catechism of the Catholic Church or a Catholic Bible.

The Letter of a Soul in Darkness

2011-05-15T23:40:00.000-07:00

The darkness consumes me. I feel nothing, nothing but pain and fear. Why should I rejoice in my God, why should I give Him praise? He has drawn away from His servant, His child, and when I needed Him most. Where is His light to guide me, or his hand to guide my path. I cry out to the Lord, but He is silent, why has he abandoned me so?

His hand is upon me, He is the pain that I feel. He is the anger inside me, he is the darkness. What do I fear but His displeasure, what do I hate but his absence, He has drawn away from me, so Let me rejoice in my sorrow. In this bitter sweetness let me take refuge.

Was I there when the wold was made, when God separated the light from the darkness? Perhaps he separated me from the light at the beginning of the world. Can I complain? Can I rebel against my God? He knows my every thought, He knew my anger while I still felt affection, He knew my sins while I was still in grace.

I rejoice in my suffering, for it has been touched by God. Like a young love's handkerchief: forgotten by the one and cherished by the other. The scraps of the feast are my lot, but I am glad, for they are scraps from my Master's table. I am tempted to hate my God, and that fire makes me love Him the more.

A sinner, your Brother, God's forgotten love,
KSJ

My Queen

2011-05-07T21:24:00.001-07:00

To my Mother:

The Angels look upon a soul,
From o'er the clouds and past the sky.
The Angels look upon a soul
With grace so fair it makes them cry.

I cannot look through heaven's gate,
To see this queen arrayed in gold.
I cannot look through heaven's gate,
But better yet, her hand I hold.

Arrayed in Blue when e'er I gaze.
I thought it cloth, but I mistook.
Arrayed in Blue when e'er I gaze,
It is her self, her truth, her look.

Mirror of the Virgin Mary,
Your praise I sing from dawn to night.
Mirror of the Virgin Mary,
Guide my way; your soul is light

I leap for joy when I can hear
The chord of your sweet melody.
I leap for joy when I can hear
Your foot falls (voices harmony.)

The Queen on High sets little queens
To be her maids and love her Son.
The Queen on high sets little queens
And my poor heart this queen has won.

Fairer than angels, saints, or men:
Joann my Mom, Joann my friend.
Fairer than angels, saints, or men:
Joann my Queen, Joann my friend.

The Poetry of Reason

2011-05-07T21:06:00.000-07:00

Reason is a very exciting thing. The ability of the human mind to think is the most singular thing about us. There is no other creature that has the capacity for reason, not even the angels. Animals have no spirits, so they have no intellect. Angels have no bodies, so they have no experiences or any growth. Ah, but us humans, we are, to borrow the phrase, a mixture of the angel and the ape.

I write this essay for two purposes. In the primary place, I wish to write certain thoughts of mine, in the idiotic hope that I should illuminate to the world a truth it has neglected. Secondarily, I write this as a sort of manifesto, or better yet a battle cry. As is the case in any personal essay, there must be some amount of autobiography. The belief cannot be removed from the believer, nor can the reason be removed from the reasoner, so my philosophy cannot be removed from me or my experiences. I say that I am a part of my philosophy, but my philosophy is not mine. It is one that I have found discarded by the West. I gladly wear the royal robes of Aquinas, but if I must wear them as rags I shall not object, for rags are better than the emperor's new cloths of humanism, modernism and agnosticism. It is Aquinas' philosophy, but it is Augustine's too; it is Chesterton's philosophy, but he found it just as I have.

The question I wish to examine is very simple, but on it rests my whole life. Is God a mathematician or a poet? Before I begin to answer, I would like to make some abstract observations about math. I would like to, but I cannot. There is no such thing as abstract mathematics. Math is the most materialistic thing in the world. I often laugh when people tell me how amazed they are that the world is mathematical. What else should it be, we have created math to fit our world. 2+2=4 has no meaning at all in the abstract. It is not even true in the abstract. It is only true if 2 means two of something and 4 means four of something. When we add two apples to two apples and get four apples, it is not because two plus two equals four; rather, two plus two equals four because two apples and two apples is four apples.

What I have show in very simple mathematics is just as true in all mathematics. The Pythagorean Theorem is true because every right triangle with one side of three inches and another side of four inches will always have the hypotenuse be five inches. Mathematical laws describe the world, they do not dictate it. Math therefore, is not some law outside of physical reality, but a physical law just as much as gravity is. The law of gravity does not make objects fall to earth. The laws of motion and friction do not move objects. These laws and theories are descriptions not actions. They are storybooks for scientists and mathematicians, telling what happens in the world, but not actually doing it. All of this proves that God created a mathematical world. However, a mathematical creation does not have to follow from a strictly mathematical design. As I have said, the math of the universe is something that men created to describe what they saw; it does not say why the world is like it is, or how it came to be the way it is.

God might have created a world for completely poetic reasons, but in such a way that it happens to follow certain rules. A better way to state my original question then is: Did God create certain rules and lay physical creation upon it, or did He create a physical universe that we men have fit into certain rules? I do not have the answer to this question. I am a poet, so I cannot help see the poetical in the universe. However, I cannot prove that they are not merely my projection on the universe, as mathematical laws are the projection of the mathematician. We do not yet have an answer, but we have a way to find out.

It is here that this essay must digress into a short autobiography. There were two moments in my life that brought me to where I am philosophically. Firstly, was the day I lost an argument. I do not mean that I was out debated, or that I succumbed to superior rhetoric. I mean that I was unable to answer the simplest objections to what I believed. I knew that what I believed was true, but I only had my blind faith to support me. It crushed me totally to loose this argument, and I nearly lost my soul because of it. The second event saved my soul, and began my journey to God. I was saved by Gilbert Keith Chesterton. I could go on forever about the late Mr. Chesterton's attributes as a writer and philosopher, but it was a single line that saved my soul and my reason. He was writing about Aquinas when said that Thomas believed if men had an infinite amount of time, we could grasp God with our reason.

Whether Chesterton was right about Thomas, or whether Thomas was right about God makes no difference. The door was open to me, and I finally realized that "reason" was my friend. I had always been taught that God was not unreasonable, and that so called "rational" thinkers could not pull down God's throne. It was not until I read Chesterton that I realized that reason can be a tool, and a weapon against ignorance. I realized what I wanted to do with my life. My call is to destroy faith. It is a perfect call, because it is impossible, and so I will be busy at it all my life. I want to take faith and prove it reasonably; I believe it can be done eventually, so I will try.

It may be noticed to people who think me foolish, that I am being illogical in my desires. I believe that I can dispel with Faith. I am using the very thing that I wish to destroy to motivate me to destroy it. I can only answer that anyone who says I am being illogical in my defense of logic, is totally correct. I embrace it; I would not be human if my life followed totally rational and logical laws. I quite like the thought of blindly leaping of a bridge to avoid blindly leaping of bridges. It has some of the irrational tendencies of falling in love or becoming a Franciscan.

Now let us return to the question, the one about God being mathematician or poetic. If God was primarily concerned with creating a world in which mathematical and physical laws were followed, there would be no room for miracles. God would not make rules just to break them. He would not create a universal system just so He can ignore it in the future. God cannot change His mind, nor can he make exceptions to His decrees. He is perfectly just when ever it comes to sin, even to the point of sacrificing His own son to make proper reparation. He never interferes with Free Will, not even to stop Hitler or Stalin. If a God so firm in his laws that he would allow Hitler to do what ever he wanted, made the universe based off of decreed physical and mathematical laws, he would never break them. There would be no miracles.

Therefore, to reasonably show that Creation was not a work of math, we must prove the existence of at least one miracle. This is not as hard as it might seem at first. The world denies miracles not because of a lack of evidence for them, but because it refuses to accept the plethora of evidence available. Atheistic Scientists refuse to accept the resurrection because of the lack of evidence for it. Then, they are handed a Bible, and refuse it on the grounds that it is "bad" evidence. Padre Pio heals the sick, but whenever the evidence is given, it is refused. The problem is not that the evidence is faulty, rather the people looking at the evidence have already decided that there are no miracles, therefore, there can be no evidence. This dishonesty aside, we have evidence. The miracles found in the Gospels should be enough to prove my point, without getting into the very tedious discussion about the authority and accuracy of the Scriptures.

One of the most common logical blunders is to use ambiguous terms, so I would like to explain what I mean by 'decree'. Obviously, God created the forces of gravity, and all of the physical laws. What I mean by decree, is something ordained irreversibly in the Will of God. For example, God has decreed that Marriage is between one man and one woman. This is a decree and can never be altered or changed, because God's Will is immutable. We do not find this type of necessary unchanging character in the laws of physics. We are left with this logical system. God does not break the laws he decrees. God breaks the physical laws of the universe. Therefore, God did not decree the physical laws of universe.

We shall leave that to stand or fall as it is. I am sure it will have to stand scrutiny, but I do not have to space to address every possible flaw right now. Let us discuss the possibility of the world being a poetical design. First, we must state clearly what we mean by poetic. I am using the term poetic to mean, "A state in which objects can be more than what they appear to be, different in their very nature." This is clear enough as a definition within a poem. Metaphor is used to portray something as different as what it appears to be. For example, a running river might be a metaphor for time. If this poetical nature is present in the nature of God's creation, then he must be a poetic creator.

In the real world we must use a different term than metaphor. The words here are "substance" and "accidents." Substance is defined as what something really is. Accidents are the physical characteristic manifesting themselves in time and space. A chair is a chair in substance, outside of the fact that it is wooden object in the shape of a chair. The wooden thing is merely the accidents of a chair. So, to show that God has created in a poetic way, we must show something he created that was different in accidents than it was in essence.

Most Catholic minds will immediately jump to the Blessed Sacrament. The Substance of Jesus Christ is found under the accidents of Bread and Wine. This is a great example of the poetic in real life, but this is transubstantiation, a change, not a creation. To show that God actively created in a poetic way, we must find something that is from its first moments, different in accidents and in substance. I propose that the Catholic Church itself fits the needed description. The Church has the outward appearance of an organization, but in substance, it is an organism. A church, that is actually the Body of Christ, seems to me to be a very big poetic move. And the church appeared to be a organization from its founding, and it has always been the Mystical Body of Christ. This shows that in an act of creation God made something poetical. It was not after the fact, or in time, God's method of creation, at least once was poetical.

This is not enough to prove that all of creation is poetical, but it is enough to spark the imagination of the reasonable poets. We can all be blissfully happy in the thought that we do not live in a world of numbers, but a world of poems. No equation could prove that a peasant girl from Nazareth was the perfect woman. The outward appearance and evidence denied it, but the poet can rejoice in Mary, for it is the joy of the poet in a poem of love. No physical law can explain how a virgin became pregnant, but the poet knows how to write about love, and he can grasp the reality of the world, by looking behind the accidentals, and finding the substance.

Let us move one last time, into the name of this essay. “The Poetry of Reason.” That gift which is given to the human monster. We alone can gradually build knowledge of God. We alone can dive into the ocean of the Divine and sink deeper forever. I said that my hope of destroying faith was the best job, because it will never be finished. It will never be complete, because to accept God totally is to accept even that part of Him that we cannot yet understand.

The accidental form of reasonable thinking is to take certain premises and apply them to reality and to take reality and apply it to certain premises. These are induction and deduction, and are only the beginning of the form of Philosophy. This accidental form is concealing something that seems almost sinister. It seems sinister because it is a paradox. It is the paradox of Original Sin. Our intellects have fallen so much that it is impossible to understand the truth reasonably without an act of the will, which is Faith. Faith is not only a willful decision but also an intellectual acceptance of certain truths regardless of their reasonableness. This paradox runs parallel to the words of Christ. "Who ever would loose their life shall save it." Ours goes like this, "Who ever would save their reason will loose it, and who ever would loose their reason will save it." We can only come to the reasonable truth by believing in it first. This is the mystery, the poem that surrounds all of Christian thought.

Visions In The Sky

2011-05-01T23:13:00.001-07:00

The clouds held shapes, both fair and bad.
Now they are grey and pale and sad.
The nimbus giants of the sky.
Once fought great wars- now only cry.

I stare and long for things that left
Alas the thief. Alas the theft.
I stare and hope the shapes may climb
As they once did, upon a time.

What is this pain I feel at time?
I shed no tear when it is rhyme
That hides its face from me its lord.
But death to me from youths accord,

That swore a joy beyond all joy
If I but gave my life as boy,
And took a life as man instead.
Hark now my funeral card is read,

For I cant live with out the shapes
That babes point at with shouts and gapes.
My life is naught without that love,
My God set higher than the dove.

Oh I have one last hope within,
That seems less likely than the pin
And camel told by Christ the True.
I may just find shapes in the blue.

Perhaps the clouds now form a frame,
To show that blue, Immaculate Dame.
Perhaps I'll live "Man" differently,
If I see gods in God's high sea.

Liturgical Music

2011-04-25T19:16:00.000-07:00

I wish to pose a statement. It is, as far as I know, the first time that this idea has been proposed, though I am not rash enough to assume that I am the first to think it. The idea can be stated thusly: The music that is played in mainstream Catholic Churches would fit better into the Extraordinary Form than the Ordinary. I can hear the clamors and shouts of indignation coming from all sides already, and I admit I stated the idea in such a way to rouse attention. My reasoning, however, can be stated backward just as well. The music that is played in “Traditional” Churches would fit better into the New Mass than the Old Form. I shall explain the issue from both ends.

My whole argument rests on the structural differences between the Forms. In the Old Form, the Ordinary is recited by the priest underneath the prayers being sung by the choir. In fact, quite often, the songs overlap other parts of the Mass. In this Form, the purpose of the song is to facilitate the people in their participation; it is not the prayer of the Mass itself. In the New Order, when the ordinary is sung, it takes the place of the actual recitation. The Gloria is never stated and then sung, or spoken in an undertone while the song is going on. The purpose here is to actually sing the prayer of the Church. It is more that facilitation; it is an actual part of the mass.

The whole thing can be easily understood by the old proverb, offered by every choir director in existence, “When you sing, you pray twice.” In the EF, you pray twice, once in the song and once on the Altar. In the OF, you only pray once, and the song is the prayer. This poses the question that I answered at the beginning. If we have to put the various Sung Masses into one form or the other: where should we put them?

First, let us consider a newer Mass, without naming any particularly. Consider the Gloria; Let us imagine that we are singing a Gloria with words rearranged to help with the music, or even with a refrain that we return to. Where should this song be placed, in the New Mass? I should think not, It is dreadfully irreverent, to change the words of a prayer to God. Remember, In the Old Mass the songs are sung to help the congregation as well as giving Glory to God. In the New Mass the songs are directly to God, and have only a secondary purpose for the Faithful. So does this new Gloria fit into the Old Form? Well, I would say that that question is completely pastoral. If it is felt that this Gloria would help the people to join the Priest in his prayer to God, than I say go for it; if not, it should be scrapped. Since the song is not the actual prayer to God, the fact that words are not all right is acceptable, and at least not irreverent.

Now let us consider one of the Masses written by Byrd, or even a plain chant. These have all of the words in their correct order, and are not an alteration of the prayer of the church. So where do these fit best. In the Pauline Mass, this fits very well; it is the prayer to God as the Church has written it. Our focus is on God, and the Chants and Polyphonies fit well into the new set up of the Mass. As for the EF, well once again the choice of music should be based on assisting the people pray. If Byrd’s Mass for Five Voices is thought to help the faithful pray, then I say, “Go for it.”

We must always remember where our focus lies when we are at Mass. The whole Mass is a prayer to the Father, and when we pray to Him, we should keep in mind who HE is. Songs in the new Mass should go far beyond the music that was written for the old Mass. Byrd was writing to give glory to God, but also to help the people foster a pious attitude and spirit while the priest bears our pleads and glories to the Father for us and with us. The new Form has given this awesome responsibility to us. We must bring our own prayers to the Father, and when these prayers are in the form of a song, that majesty of that song should try that much harder to match the majesty of the Person we are singing to.

Prayer for Holy Week

2011-04-19T18:21:00.001-07:00

Alone in silence I hear You O my God; In holy prayer You speak to me; In sacred work I imitate Your Son; In humble obedience I give to You the only thing of mine you do not already have. My will, O’ God is mine but I give it to You, to please You in imitation of the Blessed Virgin who gave You her will, and was completely lost in You. Hear Your humble servant Lord, know my love for You, let me suffer for the world as You did. Let not Your wrath strike Your people, let it strike me instead, the least of them.

Mary my Mother, ask your Son not to punish the world, ask Him to let loose all the vengeance of God on me. I deserve it my Mother, for I was given much from God, but have time after time ungratefully abandoned Him. Let me, my Lady, suffer for all those people who are blind and cannot see, I could see but did not look. Therefore, Blessed Virgin, tell your Son that I offer myself as a sacrifice for as many of my brothers as my pitiful life is able to help. Tell Him, mother, that this shall be my life long penance, for neglecting Him in His Sacrament and for my sins of pride that led me to search for happiness where He is not.

I ask all this through Christ my Lord only Son of the Father Who lives and reigns in union with the Holy Spirit one God forever an ever. Amen.

Infirmum Est Dei

2011-03-21T22:52:00.000-07:00

"For the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men."
"Quia quod stultum est Dei, sapientius est hominibus: et quod infirmum est Dei, fortius est hominibus." - 1 Corinthians 1:25

The fiery desert air cut easily through Peter’s rags. His tormentors had sliced open the soles of his feet and each step tortured him. The men in black masks took him down to the Valley of Judgment- that’s what they called it- three miles outside of town. Peter was scared, but he would not give his captors the satisfaction of his weakness. He began to sing the Te Deum, softly at first, but he grew louder as he got closer.

Just before the decline, he tripped and fell into the valley. The sand that gave such pain to his feet now burned his arms and face. After an eternity of rolling, Peter finally hit something hard. He looked up at a stone platform. Three men were seated in thrones. The one on the left wore a black hood that hid his face. The one on the right had a European complexion, but he was distinctly Mediterranean. The one sitting in the center was death itself. His face could not be described because it could not be looked at. Peter could see the green of his eyes, but the green was so evil that he dared not gaze at anything else. On his second glance, Peter saw the black hair; the very hue spoke of the eternal darkness predestined for this man, but the black was so wrong; he could not bring himself to look at the whole face. The third glance revealed a mouth so thin that it could slice open the air around it, leaving an empty vacuum of hate: this man’s soul. The horror of each feature was so frightening, that it drove the rest of the face away. The result was that Peter could not think of a face; he had to think only of eye or mouth or hair.

The first voice came from the man on the left. “That is right. Kneel before us. Worship us, for we are greater than your God.” His voice rang out with good-natured jocularity. Peter felt sure that his face was covered to hide a visage totally out of place in this den of evil men.

Peter rose to his feet as he responded, “Every generation has claimed to be greater than my God. They have all died, but my God remains.”

The man on the right took a turn to laugh. He was not good-natured at all; his voice was high pitched and grated the mind like nails on a chalkboard. “You say that your God remains, I say that the only things that remain are idiots who doubt the wisdom of modern man.”

“It is written, ‘Quod stultum est Dei, sapientius est hominibus’”

“You see, he even speaks dead languages, let us kill him now.”

The one in the middle spoke harshly, “You are a fool Michael. You are not grounded in the past. He will hear the questions, as is our custom, and you will not interrupt.” The man’s voice was not jolly like the first, nor was it unbearable like the latter; rather it was smooth and low. The first man was the paradox, the second was the fanatic, but the third- he had a calculated evil, emotionless, the gray of despair.

He settled back in his chair and began to speak in an official tone. “Peter Minaret, you are here because you are a Christian. We will question, and then judge you. I am Simon, I will be the only person to talk to you, and the only person you should respond to. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Are you a practicing Christian?”
“I am.”

“Are you willing to renounce your belief?”

“No.”

“You have spoken no? Very well, I will ask you this question thrice more in the course of my questioning. If you answer “no” thrice, you will die upon this spot. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“I am curious about you Peter. I remember you very well from the city. You had money, power, prestige, why did you give that up, just because you believe in Christ?”

“’Sell all that you have, give it to the poor, then come follow me.’”

“Ah, the scripture. You know, I have read your book. I must say I was not impressed. Your God seems a mere copy of earlier gods, Caesar too was the ‘Son of God,’ and as for Mary, every third myth involves a god getting virgin girls pregnant.”

Peter paused before he rebutted. He recalled the day in the desert when everything changed. He must have hit a bird; although he managed to get the plane down safely, but he was stuck in the middle of the desert. He wandered aimlessly for a full day. At first, he thought he was going east, but by nightfall he gave up completely. It was just after dawn when he saw a couple coming over a hill. Peter rushed toward them, hoping that they knew where he could go for water. The man leading the woman on a donkey was solid and silent; but the woman spoke kindly as peter drew near.

“What do you seek?”

“Water.”

“My son has water for you.”

“Who is your son?”

“My son is Jesus Christ. He gives water to all who ask, and more than water too, he gives his whole self.” Peter knew at once that he wished the waters of Jesus Christ; he saw the utter truth in the beautiful eyes of the woman.

Despite his immediate conversion, the woman gave him a sign. Perhaps she knew what passion Christ had planned for him. The man and the donkey vanished. The woman rose above his head and gave off a spectacular light. The golden sand about his feet became royal blue in the glow, and Peter thought that if the sand was truly gold it could never be as fair as that blue. The woman rose higher and higher, just before she vanished she made the Sign of the Cross and a voice, like a whisper in his ear said, “Remember me at the end.”

“Dog!” It was Simon. Peter snapped back to the task at hand. “Do you wish us to kill you now? It would save us all a lot of time.”

“I do not care when you kill me. It is my pleasure to die the death of my Master.”

“So you believe it then, you really believe it all?”

“I do.”

“I wonder how brave you would be if all of your pleasure was gone? It is easy for the fanatic to sacrifice himself in the heat of the movement. I have yet to see the martyr who was on the brink of despair through the end. There is a serious lack of Christians crying, ‘My God, My God, why have you forsaken me.’ Enough! I ask you again, will you denounce Christ?”

“No.”

“Then let it be done with. Judges, what do you rule? Michael?

“Death.”

“Matthew?”

“Death.”

“I say death as well. You shall die! Once more, will you renounce the Faith of Jesus.”

“The chalice which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?”

“Then let it be so. Michael, make your last statement.”

Michael’s pitch was raised even higher by the excitement. “You are a dog, a medieval imbecile who does not know when to quit. I welcome your death; it is the only way to make the human race perfect. The strong must be raised above the weak.”

“Ah, so it is this court that would raise the strong up above the weak.” Peter responded, “I know another race that felt like you. Rome wished to raise the strong above the weak, but if I remember correctly, all they succeeded in doing was raising the criminals on trees, and falling themselves.”

Matthew the Jolly was next to make a remark. “You will be raised up, make no mistake, but you shall rise by our hand and not by your weak God. We are the powerful on earth, we have killed your God, and we will kill you.”

“It is true, you have killed my God, but remember he did not stay dead for long. You see, you think my God is weak, but how much stronger than you he must be, for he can lay down his life, and he can pick it up again. So shall he do it for me. I lay my life down for him, and he will it to life-eternal.”

Finally Simon spoke. He gave no speech, there were no derisive words. His green eyes seem poised to drown the whole world in despair, and his hair seemed ready to damn the whole world to Hell. He did not move from his chair, but his voice came like a whisper in Peter’s ear, exactly as the woman’s had. “It is all for naught. God is a lie.”

Peter fell to the ground; his whole body was stricken with a coldness that went far beyond his body. His very soul seemed frozen. His warm delight at being a martyr for God was gone; it was replaced by a terror of the dark void beyond death. The whole idea of God became foreign to his intellect, and his will cried out for escape. Simon saw all of this and smiled, his mouth grew tighter and tighter as if getting ready to welcome Peter in Hell. He spoke aloud, “Peter, I ask you for the final time, will you deny Jesus Christ?”

The moment seemed to drag on forever. Peter was experiencing pain far beyond anything he felt on the walk to the valley. He half formed the word “yes” when he remembered the vision of the woman. He could almost see her rising slowly toward the clouds. He looked at ground trying to buy himself time before answering. The emptiness inside him was winning, the “yes” once again climbed up his throat, when out of nowhere, the ground began to glow blue. It looked exactly as it did when the woman departed him. The others did not see it; it was for Peter’s eyes alone. He stammered, “No, I shall drink the chalice my Father gives me.”

“So be it. Kill him.”

A man came slowly toward Peter with a revolver and told Peter to get on his knees. Peter collapsed and began to say the Ave Maria. He was still empty inside, he still half believed that he was about to enter the void of nonexistence, and for nothing but a stupid fable. He reached the words, “Sancta Maria Mater Dei,” when he heard a shot go off. There was no pain, all he saw was the woman, stretching her hands out in greeting, and he heard a whisper in his ear as he fell to the ground. “Quod infirmum est Dei, fortius est hominibus.”

REVIEW; LINKING YOUR BEADS

2011-03-21T15:42:00.000-07:00

“Linking Your Beads” is a little book that packs a large punch. P.A. Kasten is a Catholic newspaper woman and she has shown the mastery of her art in her book on, “The rosaries history, mysteries, and prayers.” This book is more of a collection of expertly written articles than a book, but this is probably the greatest strength in Kasten’s writing. I sat down to read the first chapter and found that afterward I was completely satisfied and would have been willing to set the book down with a sigh of satisfaction. You can guess how excited I was to see that there were many more chapter-articles to quench my thirst.

I have done a lot of reading in my time, and I fancy that I know a lot about the rosary, but this book was packed full of things I had never even heard of. This is not just about the rosary; it is also about the Creed and the Our Father and the Hail Mary. I have learned things about prayer itself. In it we do not only learn about the rosary, it deals with the very idea of the veneration of saints. My favorite part of the book is when P.A. Kasten deals with each mystery individually. The sections are so short and jam packed this could easily be used as devotional book. I would recommend this book to everyone, from a cradle catholic who has said a decade everyday, to the ignorant enquirer who wants a beginner’s book of the Rosary.

This review was written as part of the Catholic book reviewer program from The Catholic Company. Visit The Catholic Company to find more information on Linking Your Beads:The Rosary's History, Mysteries. They are also a great source for serenity prayer and baptism gifts.

Lenten Sacrifice

2011-03-04T18:51:00.000-08:00

Ash Wednesday is fast approaching. Please take some time to consider the vastly important issue of sacrifice in the life of the Catholic.

The act of self-sacrifice is an extremely touchy subject for many Catholics. We live in a world that constantly preaches self indulgence and self satisfaction; it has begun to convert us when we are supposed to be converting it. We need our pleasure immediately and we have no conception of working toward a greater pleasure in the future. The world has so affected us that the idea of voluntary suffering, especially without any temporal benefits, is ridiculous. Abstinence from meat on Friday’s is widely considered to be a thing of the past, Advent is just a time to put up Christmas decorations, and Lent is little better.

We, as a Church, must remember our place. We are the soldiers in the Communion of Saints; we are literally the Church Militant. What is the war we are fighting? It is a war against our own self. The armor of faith that Paul speaks of, is to defend us from the World and the Devil but we must use the sword on our very self, Christ said that we must pick up our cross and follow Him. We are obliged to fast twice a year, once on Ash Wednesday and on Good Friday. That obligation is very much like the obligation we have to receive our Blessed Lord in the Eucharist once a year during the Easter Season. The Eucharist is our sustenance as Catholics, we would be mad to only receive once a year, it would be like eating once a year. Why then, should we fast only twice a year? That is like an athlete only working-out twice a year.

We should be making reparation for our sins and for the sins of the world all the time, but Lent is a special time for us to make a concerted effort to bring this habit of sacrifice into our lives. Quite often Ash Wednesday is accompanied with a sermon about sacrifices and good deeds that we can do during lent. This is very good and commendable; these sermons are always helpful to me as a pep talk and are an informative beginning to my self sacrifices. I often hear at the end of the sermons that we should be careful not to try to take on more than we can chew. I call this the “Safe Lent” Philosophy. The thought is that, if we try to give too much up, or try to do too much extra, we might fail, and that feeling of failure might ruin the whole Lent. This is a very wise thing to say, but we should make sure that we do not misunderstand it. Having a “safe Lent” should not mean giving up something so trivial that we won’t even notice it is gone. Suffering has to hurt in order to do its job. I think it is advisable to give up one or two things that really hurt, but makes sure that you feel it.

It is the inability to say “no” that has sent our society down the gutter. Couples are unable to say “no,” so they have pre-marital sex. Married couples are unable to say “no” to their sexual desires, when they are not ready for children, so the use contraception. Parents are not able to say “no” to the freedom of childlessness, so they have an abortion. Women are unable to say “no” to the vanity and pride of beauty, so they wear immodest clothing. Men are unable to say “no” to the beastly lust in their hearts, so they immerse themselves in pornography. These five sins are the corner stones of this new society, and the wreaking ball for the old society of Christendom. We will never have a noble society without respect for the family, and we will never have a respectable family without respect for life, and we will never have a respect for life unless we have respect for sex, and we will never have respect for sex until we have mastered ourselves and our passions, through the acts of self-sacrifice that we will practice during Lent and throughout the whole year.

So let us all take this Lent, and really try to make it one that will make a lasting change in our very being. By Easter we should not be the same person we were before; we should be much, much smaller so that Christ can be much, much larger within us.

GILBERT MAGAZINE

2011-03-04T07:14:00.000-08:00

I have heard some very promising news in regards to some essays I sent into Gilbert Magazine. Please say a prayer for me to Our Lady. Hopefully this will be the perfect spring board into wider circle of readers. I have new work coming soon, do not despair.

April Rain

2011-02-28T16:07:00.000-08:00

April sun and April Rains

Cleanse the Earth from deaths dark grip.

Easter Morning of the World,

Comes as frozen spearheads drip.

New born chicks are serious,

Solemn daisies break the ground.

Joy is seen in ancient things,

Tall gay oaks with mirth resound.

Winds that shook in days of old

Bent their wood but could not break.

Leaves give shade on sunlit days,

Service for a comforts sake.

Give no thought to winter friend,

Spring is here and comes again.

Life to trees is joy itself.

Joyful life and April rain.

Free Will

2011-02-27T16:07:00.000-08:00

A forkéd path-
A balance hung-

A righteous wrath-
A forkéd tongue-

A land of hate-
A prideful haze-

A pearly gate-
A mother’s gaze-

A life of love-
A life of grace-

A world above-
A softer pace-

A world below-
A fruitless wake-

A seed to sow-
A choice to make-

A lightless sun-
A blood stained tree-

A lifeless Son-
A choice for me-

The King The Scribe and The Jester

2011-02-17T22:36:00.000-08:00

My boyhood dreams and wonders
Have vanished from my eyes.
My Irish heart is failing,
For freedom it does cry.
The road before me takes a turn.
A mile up ahead
I’m searching for three little boys,
I pray that they’re not dead.

The King, The Scribe, and The Jester
Fellowmen in War.
A war against the old school books.
In those happy days of yore.
The three ran off together
They always moved as one.
Never a man did see their kind
Since the Father, the Ghost, and the Son

The Power Might and Glory
You knew in all your days,
Was strong to slay a dragon,
And wise to trick the faes.
You led me through such stories
I never would think true,
Except that I had lived them
With the Jester, the Scribe and you.

The three ran off together
They always moved as one.
Never a man did see their kind
Since the Father, the Ghost, and the Son

The knowledge that you gave me
In all your books and tales,
Has brought me through my passion tide,
Through the screaming and the wails.
I know that Good shall triumph
In all that it shall do.
I know, for you have told me,
The King the Jester and you.

The three ran off together
They always moved as one.
Never a man did see their kind
Since the Father, the Ghost, and the Son

When all the sky was cloudy
And the monster came to kill.
I knew that you’d be helping
To make the nighttime still.
Your jokes and all your laughter
Would make the black sky blue.
You saved me from the darkness,
The Scribe, the King, and You

The King The Scribe and The Jester,
Though the road to you is long.
I hope that I can find you
And sing this merry song.
The three ran off together
They always moved as one.
Never a man did see their kind
Since the Father, the Ghost, and the Son.

The King, The Scribe, and The Jester.

I wrote this on the spur of the moment tonight as I was working on another project. This came out in about half an hour and will be taking some serious revisions, but I thought you might like to see some new stuff since I have been a little while since posting new stuff. I will be adding music presently as well, which will also change content some.

Roman Earth

2011-02-10T20:06:00.000-08:00

Chesterton wrote, “'Lift not my head from bloody ground/, Bear not my body home/, For all the earth is Roman earth/ And I shall die in Rome.'” He wrote this for a character of Roman descent after the fall of the Empire. Rome had pulled out of the British Isles before the time of “The Ballad of the White Horse.” The land was Alfred’s, not Rome’s. What can we make of this quote then? Obviously the speaker of this line felt that Rome was eternal; that Rome could never be overcome in its essence. Chesterton’s readers are left wondering, is there anything other than pure patriotism guiding this Roman? Gilbert was using the wider passage to give truths about various types of men. Each of the four companions made public provisions in case of their death. Alfred numbered his sins and showed the Catholic need of repentance and forgiveness at the doorstep of eternity. Eldred was a farmer who wanted to be borne back to his farm. He showed us the vulgar need for the community that always goes along with common men. That bond holding men together when they feel like brothers in arms, rather than competitors in the sophisticated world. Colan gives us the truth of the Gaels, requesting burial among the pagan trees. He tells the reader that Ireland must be pagan, even in its Catholicism. To the Gaelic heart, fays are as real as angels because they are the same thing. The Gaels are not pagan because of a pagan creed; they are pagan because of their hearts, even under Christ’s creed. However, what Explains the Roman Marcus? He seems to leave us so little to work with. His request is no more than two stanzas long.

It is this simplicity that hides the truth so well. When we read poetry we are always looking for the truth hiding just beneath the surface of the words, and occasionally we have to dig much deeper than that. This habit, I think, has made the deeper truth behind Marcus’ request difficult to find. We must take the line at face value. The words clearly state, “All the earth is Roman earth/ And I shall die in Rome.” This phrase is absolutely true. Rome set out to conquer the world, and it succeeded amazingly. Catholicism is the answer. Universal is what catholic means; catholic in time and in space. From Brooklyn to Bolivia, and from Santa Fe to Hong Kong, Rome has spread out and conquered the world. Latin is still spoken, over a thousand years after the apparent fall of the Empire. Even at a secular level, Europe speaks Romance languages, these then spread over to the west. Whole blocks of the world are being influenced by Marcus’ homeland.

This explanation is all very good, but where is the proof? We cannot know Chesterton meant this, can we? Now that we have taken the quote at face value, let us dig deeper. The words, ““Lift not my head from bloody ground/, Bear not my body home,” speak to me as a parallel to Christ. It has struck theologians for centuries that Mary and Jesus never made arrangements for His burial. They say that it is a sign of Mary’s trust in God. I agree, but I notice that Marcus similarly makes no arrangement; he assigns himself no place for his grave, anywhere is good enough for him. Remember that Christ was not borne home. Jerusalem was in Judea, Jesus lived in Galilee. Christ was placed in the closest spot available, without ceremony to boot. Not only that, but he technically was buried in Roman earth. The parallels made by Chesterton are quite significant.

Skeptics mighty say, “Well and good, but just because the Pope is seated in Rome, it does not mean that this Hebrew born Faith has anything else to do with Marcus and the Empire.” I would agree with the skeptics in saying this. The See of Rome is not what makes the faith Roman, Paul did that. We all know that Paul’s mission was to bring the faith to the Gentiles, but it is the nature of Catholicism to take on different forms in different cultures while maintaining the same creed. The Irishman lives the faith with a pagan ecstasy and sadness, the English maintain their signature dryness, even at the foot of the scaffold, and the French, such as Joan of Arc, love with the passion of the Eldest Daughter. This possibility of molding the faith into a culture was especially true at the beginning of the Church. The Faith was taken out of the exclusive circles of Jews and brought into the public. That public was under the command of Rome, and the faith took on the nature of Rome in all of those accidentals we hold up as the highest of traditions. Latin is obviously the most recognizable of Rome’s influence in the church. Another is the Roman Collar that is know everywhere as the sign of the clergy. That collar was worn by the Roman Soldier. Other clothes used in the liturgy also date their roots back to Roman Civilization. Most importantly, Roman culture affected the discipline and loyalty expected within the church. The strict fasts and penances, while coming from the tradition of the Jews, took on a flavor entirely Roman. The Roman honor in death was brought to life by countless martyrs during and after the reign of the Roman Emperors.

The See of Peter does help the claim of a Roman Earth. Is not the Pope of Rome the Emperor over a billion souls over the world? Even the Eastern Catholic Rites, who lack a Roman style to their creed, submit to the Roman Pope as their leader. One is reminded of Egyptian tribute brought before the Roman Throne. All the earth is Roman Earth, and we will all die in Rome.

Why Have They Killed Their King

2011-02-09T18:55:00.000-08:00

Dear reader of this poem true,
There’s much that I must say to you.
But first I must confess this fact,
Without regard for airs or tact,
I would have killed my king.

I do not speak of royalty
As one who cares for majesty.
I speak as one who knows the cost
Of thinking that your freedom’s lost,
The madness it will bring.

The kings of old were wise and just.
Their law could withstand any gust
Brought on the winds of fickle men
That Adam’s fall blows now and then.
Men they were, though more.

They were a father to their land,
From field and farm, to beach and sand.
Like Alfred at the English sea,
Or like the saintly King Louis.
God’s lion as they roar.

A whisper told a happy lie,
Of a peace beyond the sky,
The whisper then became a yell
Of men, while all the castles fell.
Revolutionary.

The men now try to rule them self,
The good is placed upon a shelf.
While politicians keep the beat,
The people die upon the street.
It is very scary.

The King of all looks down and frowns
At all his kings who have no crowns.
He wonders why the packs of rats
Have killed their lord and donned red hats.
What madness do they sing?

I kneel before my King and God
Though I am naught but dirty sod.
My tear soaked eyes begin to cry
For all the men that went to die.
Why have they killed their king?

This is a poem I wrote thinking about something else. I have noticed I do that a lot with my poetry. I write my poetry in between other projects, and use the poem as filler so that my mind can formulate why I am going to say in my next essay or story with having to make a conscience effort. I hope you enjoy this poem.

Apologizes and a Song

2011-02-07T22:22:00.000-08:00

I apologize for my recent absence. I am currently working on a paper in defense of Orthodoxy. I wrote this song while in a rut, it is a bit slapdash, but enjoyable I hope.

The whiskey in my jar
Ain’t goin’ very far
Toward making these lassies look like you.
I’d beg ya to come home
But I heard ya went to roam.
And nobody has heard a thing from you.

A year ago we had a plan,
To become a wife and man.
And live out our dreams forevermore.
But then you stabbed me through the heart
And tore all of our dreams apart
And left me- alone forevermore.

The road to you grows longer yet.
Despite all of the girls I met
Nobody has eyes as bright as yours.
From County Cork all across the world
I tried in vain to find the girl
That sang with a voice as sweet as yours.

The whiskey in my jar
Ain’t goin’ very far
Toward making these lassies look like you.
I’d beg ya to come home
But I heard ya went to roam.
And nobody has heard a thing from you.

I saw you in the photo book,
It hurt me but I had to look,
At how your hair did shine like jewels and gold.
Now all that’s left for me to do,
Is to numb myself with all these boos,
These moments are worth my weight in gold.

The whiskey in my jar
Ain’t goin’ very far
Toward making these lassies look like you.
I’d beg ya to come home
But I heard ya went to roam.
And nobody has heard a thing from you.

The clouds are coming, sweeping in
Rain is pouring like the gin.
The bar man says I sure look like hell.
That storm of loss is hard to kill,
God I wish I had the will,
To get me out of this eternal hell

Too La Roo La Too La Roo La.
Da Di Da Di Do Di De
Too La Roo La Too La Roo La
My darling has gone away from me.

The whiskey in my jar
Ain’t goin’ very far
Toward making these lassies look like you.
I’d beg ya to come home
But I heard ya went to roam.
And nobody has heard a thing from you.

To Be or Not To Be

2011-01-31T16:45:00.000-08:00

When writing, as in acting, verbs are essential. Of course, any sentence needs a verb to qualify as such, but I am referring to the need for something to happen. Whether it is in a story, or a poem, or even an essay, the work must travel from one place to another to be considered “good” writing. In acting, the quintessential verb is “need.” To move a play along the players must always have a desperate need to be on stage. It must be life or death almost all of the time, or the play flops. In writing, the most important thing is what happens. The actions of the ink men must be enormously strong to keep the audience reading.

The difference in question is the difference between, “Kevin took the cup,” and, “Kevin leapt forward, and grasped the cup.” The job of the actor is to show this, and so he brings life into the performance by having a very strong reason for doing it. The writer has to show the same intensity, but must choose the right words in order to do it. One of the biggest mistakes a writer can make, is to put “was” into his writing too much. The literary world considers “was” to be a very weak verb. “Kevin was leaping forward to take the cup.” The issue is that the verb is “was” and not the action verbs that condition it. Readers grow tired of seeing "was" throughout a piece.

It came as a shock to me when I was told this by an experienced author. I cannot think of a stronger action that “to be”. My only conclusion is that, like so many other things in life, it is the truly amazing and miraculous things that go unnoticed. Ask you self right now, did you think of how spectacularly blue the sky was today, or if the sky was covered, did you try to comprehend the enormous size of the lumbering clouds, so big that they can fill all of the sky? Did you get lost in ecstasy at the mechanical genius that went into making your car? Did you look at your spouse, or father, or brother, or friend, and wonder at the intricate wonders that the human body contains?

It is these huge miracles that we pass by everyday. That is why we need the small ones to remind us of God. In reality, healing one man of blindness is not nearly as unbelievable as having an entire race of people that can see. We have simply been looking for so long that we forget, we don’t really know why. What is true for these large matters, is even truer for the largest of matters. There is nothing in the world more unimaginable than existing, but when is the last time you considered it. Mathematically existing is the most unlikely thing to occur. There are only a finite number of things that exist, while there are an infinite number of things that don’t exist. A miracle is the only thing that can explain why humans are not in the same “nonexistent” category as unicorns and socialist utopias.

To say, “Kevin was tall,” or, “Kevin was walking,” or, “Kevin was kicking the rock,” has so much more strength behind it than anything else, because they all begin with, “Kevin was.” The literary world says that a writer has to use powerful verbs to keep the readers attention. In reality, writers need to use weak verbs like slice, leap, or soar. The smaller and particular verbs keep the readers interest, because it is only the small particular things that they care about. “To be” is all encompassing and, like God, omnipotent. Modern intellectuals do not like things being more powerful than they are, so they quiet the common man and reject miracles, especially the miracle of existing.

Snow Monster Murder

2011-01-30T20:29:00.000-08:00

Jeremiah Palm walked through a blizzard. The falling snow possessed only one blemish, a set of footprints leading toward a pub at the end of the street. Jeremiah followed these to their end, the Wanderer’s Rest. The proprietor of the shop, one James Seymour, called Jeremiah to the shop only minutes before. James seemed very upset on the upset and asked his old friend for protection. Jeremiah retired from the police force about a year before and was only too happy to help.

He opened the door of the bar and immediately scanned the scene. His friend sat in a chair with his back toward Jeremiah. He saw the head, tilted as if James was sleeping. Jerry rushed over, the eyes were wide open, and a single bullet left a hole in his forehead. He heard a shout from the kitchen and hastened to investigate. Sally, James’ wife, pointed a gun at another friend of Jerry’s. Luke Peterson cowered in the corner trying to shield his face with his hands. Sally saw Jerry and began to point the gun at him.

“Sally calm down. What is going on?” asked the calm, even voice, mastered by every cop.

“Jerry, thank God you are here. She shot James.” answered Luke’s much more frightened voice. He called me over a few hours ago to discuss a business deal. We had a few drinks and then Sally comes-”

“Liar!” Sally began to swing the gun back and forth between the two. Making sure neither moved toward her. “This monster murdered my James, he killed him.”

“James called me five minutes ago and told me he needed my protection. So I am going to ask again, and I want the truth. Luke, tell me what happened.”

“Ok,” Luke’s voice was shaking with fear, “Like I said, she comes downstairs yelling that James was unfaithful, and was having an affair with another woman. Then she said she was going to kill him, and went back upstairs. She did not even give James a chance to deny it. James was worried so I suggested he call you. When I saw her coming down with the gun I tried to run, but she shot James, and then cornered me right when you walked in.”

“Liar! You dirty pig.” Sally’s eyes were flashing red, darting back and forth from the door to the two men, trying to find a way out. She had a clear voice with no sign of fear. “I heard a shot. I did not even know Luke was over. I came down and saw James dead. He left the gun on the table, so I picked it up and came in here. He was trying to unbolt the back door when I stopped him. He dived into the corner right when you walked in.”

Jeremiah gazed at both of them for a while. Sally continued to swing the gun between the two men, unsure of who posed a bigger threat. Luke kept shielding his face with his hands and shaking madly. He shouted, “Jerry, please, save me, the woman’s crazy.” Jerry locked eyes with his friend and waited. At Luke’s plea, Sally brought him back into her sights. As she moved the gun, Jerry made his move. Lurching forward he snatched the gun away from the widow and brought her to the ground.

Luke stood up relieved. “Thank you so much Jerry. I will go call the police.” He turned his back on the group and made for the telephone.

“Actually, I think Sally better make the call,” said the retired police officer, raising his gun at Luke’s back. “Seeing as you killed James.”

Luke turned sharply. “What do you mean, she was about to kill me right as you walked in. Her whole story made no sense. Why would I leave the gun? Why would I walk out the back door? She even looks like she wants to kill someone.”

“That is precisely why I know she did not kill James.” Jeremiah had a twinkle in his eye. He seemed to enjoy being in the cop game again. “No woman who just got revenge on her husband would hate you so fiercely. She would not be seeking revenge now.

“You, on the other hand, show no signs of being a murderer. You are scared, you made sloppy mistakes, and you told foolish lies. I do not know why you killed James, but you I know you did not want to. You told me that you had been talking with James for hours before Sally disturbed you. However, there was a set of footprints leading to this pub. The snow is very strong out there. Any track would have been covered in half-an-hour, let alone a two or three. Why did you do it Luke?”

Luke’s head drooped in defeat. He tried to look up at Sally, but the guilt rose up and he could not manage it. “He told me he would sell me the bar. He promised, and then he reneged. I called him and we started arguing. I sold everything I had planning on buying this bar. I just wanted to scare him with the gun. I waved it around at him trying to get him to make the deal. It went off. I must have pulled the trigger.” He could not manage anymore. Tears began to form in his eyes.

“I hate you! You monster! How could you have killed him?” Sally was beginning to loose it again. She rushed at Jerry and tried to wrestle the gun away. Jeremiah was able to hold her off.

“Go call the police Sally, it is all over. It’s ok, we got him.” The practiced tone began to have an effect. Sally broke down on the floor; all of the fight was out of her. She fell to the floor and began to sob for her husband.

“Ok,” said Jerry, “I guess I will call the cops.”

Gatsby: Green Light, or Man.

2011-01-27T19:45:00.000-08:00

Aristotle, in his work “Poetics,” brought to light a way of looking at storytelling that was radical in his day, and seems almost as radical now. He was dealing with the ideas of character and plot. Which one is more important, which one is necessary above all else for the storyteller? Aristotle’s answer was simple. Character is plot. Plot is, in the end, what drives everything else. He wrote his treatise to the storyteller, he wanted it to be a template for the writer. I submit his “Poetics” also gives us a guide at how an audience should analyze and read literature.

I, like almost all of my audience, went through at least six primary years of education and six secondary years. The first six years were spent teaching the child the actual mechanics of reading and comprehending. By tenth grade, at the latest, these skills we assumed by the teachers. It was then that the subject at hand became critical reading skills, and deductive reasoning. High school essays were expected to be more than just a simple compare and contrast of certain elements in a given work. The expectation was that students were old enough to find symbols, and once found, be able to make comments on the characters based on these symbols.

I think the most well know of these symbols was the green deck light in The Great Gatsby, by Fitzgerald. Every student in American Literature is told that the green light is one of the most important things in the book. It represents the love and the prosperity that Gatsby longs for. The very first time it is mentioned, Gatsby is see starching out toward it, shaking slightly. The English teachers of the world stop there and begin a discussion. It would seem that the green light has importance in and of itself. We are told that what the green light represents gives us insight to the mind of Gatsby.

The question then becomes, now that we have this slice of knowledge about Gatsby, what good does it do us as readers. If we were to stop reading at this point, would we be satisfied as analyzers, or even as reader? Even if we did not have a natural curiosity about whether our deductions were right, would we know what it was we were looking for when we began to read? Obviously, the answer is no. Gatsby’s character is not something that can be ascertained by knowledge of the mind. The whole thing comes down to what a human person is, and what the academic world thinks it is.

The modern intellectual feeling is determinist in nature, and psychological in practice. We are inundated everyday by news stories about crimes and tragedies. Always, the news stories try to find the symbols in the life of the culprit. They are constantly searching for why something was done. When they find a “why”, that knowledge almost gets substituted for the action itself. For example, a broken home and addiction to drugs are brought forth to the public eye when discussing the arrest of a murderer. This natural desire we humans have for reasons, eventually overshadows the horror, as if people believed that the motive actually pulled the trigger, and not a man. This thinking has melted into analyzing and reading literature. We get so caught up in the mind of the characters that we somehow miss the plot itself. We stop and judge what kind of man Gatsby is, based of what we know he longs for.

We have mistaken what a man is. A human is both a mind and a will. We can think and we can choose. The two are distinct form each other and neither can force the other to anything. The academia of today’s society thinks that the mind controls the will. It believes that what we have stored up within ourselves determines what we will do. Books, family, music, and other stimuli around a person are thought to actually cause actions. This is simply not true. The will acts independently from any factor; that is why it is called free. It should also be remembered that God himself judges men based on their wills. We do not get sent to Hell for reading violent literature. We get sent to Hell for being violent against our neighbor. We may get sent to Hell for reading literature that we know puts us in a frame of mind susceptible to violence, but that is an act of the will as well.

So where does that leave Gatsby? We know that he longs for that dock and everything that it stands for. But this knowledge does not let us judge his character, we must ask, what will he do next. That is the key to judging any man and to determine any character. Will he jump into the water and drown himself? Will he lock himself in his room and drink? Will he swim across and profess his never dying love for Daisy? Each of these would tell us something different about Gatsby and would bring to light an entirely different character.

So don’t get hung up on symbols. They are in the story to quench the natural desire for reason behind actions, or to give insight into the type of world the people find themselves in. They should not be made into more than what they are. When you find a symbol buried within, it should be like a twenty dollar bill you find in a gutter. It is a wonderful surprise, but it was not the reason you were taking the journey. Plot builds character for the author and for the reader. The light on Daisy’s dock does not matter, the act of Gatsby’s love, and the story it tells, is primary to discovering his character.

Wanderlust at Night

2011-01-24T21:59:00.000-08:00

It was autumn and all of the roses were dying. Louis White was walking through his garden, trying to enjoy the last vestiges of beauty and growth, before the never ending cycle of the seasons took its course again. The twilight hit the red leaves of his old oak, and a slight breeze rustled, but did not remove them. The drooping heads of the roses matched the head of Louis as he made his way out into the world. Something was wrong; his whole body said so. His hazel eyes were swimming in a pool of red from rubbing out tears, and his brown hair was unkempt from ringing his hands through it. His finger nails were bitten unevenly, and, to complete the ensemble, his shirt was inside out.

Louis walked around haphazardly and finally ended up in town. He passed a few people he knew, but even when Jimmy Sanders called out, “Hey!” he did not notice. He went like this until the sun had settled down in the west completely. Then he made his way to a bar he knew on West Street. The bar was called The Wanderlust Hotel. He made his way to the counter still keeping his head down. It was only when the bartender came to take his order that Louis risked looking up at the world. The bartender was a friend of his, Patrick Connelly. “Hey Lou,” came his gruff voice, “what do you want to drink.”

“Jack and Coke.”

“Jack and Coke coming up. What are you doing here any way? I thought you and Abby had a date tonight at that classy place in the city.” Patrick had his back to Louis when he said this so he waited a moment for an answer. When it did not come he turned around and saw the look in his friend’s eyes. Trying to gloss over the question he handed the drink to Lou and made toward another costumer.

He only got a step away when Louis blurted out, “I saw her.”

“Saw who where?” The question came hesitantly; Pat feared he knew the answer already.

“I saw Abby with Fletcher. They were making out in café on Elm.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Don’t you think I could recognize Abby when I see her? I was walking to the florist shop next door, to pick up a bouquet for tonight. As I passed the window I sa- I saw them. She even looked up and stared me straight in the face, then went back to him- with me in the window.”

This re-telling was too much for Louis. He tried to take a sip from his drink, but his hands were shaking so much that the glass spilled all over the counter. He pulled some cash out of his pocket and flung it into the puddle of liquor and soda, and then he stormed out of the bar with red hot tears flooding his eyes.

He was walking again. He left a trail of tear drops all the way from the bar to the park bench where he finally stopped. He was not really looking around; he just saw a bench a little ahead of him, and decided it was a good place to decide what to do next. Once he sat down he looked up at the world. A knife cut into his heart. Just across the street was the bookshop where he had met Abby.

He was looking through the classics, perusing Poe, Dickens, Tolstoy, Shakespeare, and other giants of the literary world. Just as he opened Manalive he saw her. She was working at the cash register. She must have been new because Louis went in there almost every day. She wore her hair down; it was black and went past her shoulders. She wore eye glasses. These were on the end of her nose, like a schoolmistress’ looking down on her students. Louis thought this was strange, but a second later she pushed them back up with her pointer finger. Funny, it was this little tick that Louis loved most about Abby. More than her deep brown eyes, or the long flowing skirts she always had on, he love those glasses more than anything.

He almost smiled to himself when he thought of how bold he had been. The moment he saw her he picked up the first book of poetry he found. He flipped through it and found the perfect one. He walked up to the counter and before doing anything else he read Shakespeare’s Seventeenth Sonnet.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

The moment he started he regretted it. The look on her face was of shock, and then it moved to one of amusement bordering on patronization. That was almost too much for Louis. As he said, “'This poet lies: Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces,'” his heart almost gave out from with a deadly mixture of passion and humiliation. Somehow he carried on until the end. He had tears welling in his eyes, and he bolted out of the door without so much as paying for the books he was holding.

The tears were flowing freely now as he stood up from the bench. It was too painful to sit just outside where his heart had been stolen. He was walking again. He walked a little way out of the town, but he had no care. He saw tonight as a prelude to the rest of his life. He would always be wandering aimlessly now; he did not care where he went, or how long it took him to get back, he did not care about anything.

Well, that was not totally true. He cared about the place he ended up, just outside of town. It was an old hay barn. It had been abandoned about five years before, and now hurt Louis more than anything else that night. This barn was everything to him and Abby. It was there that they met after the disastrous encounter at the bookshop.

Louis was walking back to his home which lay on the other side of town. He had been helping his parents mend their roof. It had been a long afternoon and his mother had repaid his services in a large cherry pie for him to take home. He was walking along the road whistling the last song that had been on the radio. He rounded the corner when he saw her.

He knew it was her in an instant, he could never forget her midnight black hair flowing freely about her shoulders. It was only then that he realized that he had not thought about her all day. It had been the first day this happened since he made such a fool of himself in front of her. He was just about to turn back around the corner, and wait fifteen minutes, when she turned. “What was that song you were whistling just no- Oh it’s you. Excuse me.” She flushed red and turned to keep walking.

Louis wanted to let her simply walk out of his life, but something made him call back. “Please don’t go. Walk with me a little; I have pie.” I have pie. Here stood the most beautiful woman in the world and the only thing he could think to offer in exchange for her company was pie. Louis turned dejected back toward his parents’ house. He had made a fool of himself twice in front of this girl; there was no way he could recover from that.

He took a few step in the other direction, when suddenly, miraculously, her voice called over her shoulder. “Ok then.” Louis was on cloud nine, but he still walked behind her and not by her side. The shame he felt was too strong to allow that. They walked along a little farther and then Abby turned around and faced him. “Well, if we are going to keep meeting I should at least know your name.”

“Um, I am Louis. Louis White.”

“Well Louis White, I am Abby Summerset.” She grinned mischievously and looked over at the barn across the road. “Let’s go inside here, it’s been empty for four years, and I want to take you up on your pie offer.”

So they did. The spent three full hours in there, eating pie and talking about their lives. They got onto the subject of literature eventually and started discussing who the best writer was. Abby began moving closer to Louis on the wooden plank they were sitting on as the subject moved to Shakespeare. Abby slid her glasses back up her nose as she said, “I think the greatest thing about Shakespeare is the way he conveys such passion through his characters. Everybody feels so strongly, whether it be Demetrius, Romeo, or Othello. The blood flows free in his plays.” It was then that it happened. They both leaned into each other and kissed. Louis’ head nearly spun from joy and ecstasy. He knew then that the passion he felt reading the poem was shared by Abby the whole time.

It had all been a lie. She never loved him. How could she? No one who loves with the passion Louis felt in that kiss could ever abandon their lover. He had been played with. She had been patronizing him the entire time, toying with his heart like a cat does its prey.

He was walking again. He went back toward the town; he did not want to end up at his parents’ house. His head was bent down again as he thought of all the memories they had shared. He thought of the day they did the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet in the empty bookshop; and the day they had a picnic on the roof of his house. Each memory cut him deeper than before. Every time he had thought their love was growing, it was really just Abby going deeper and deeper into her charade.

He reached town again and kept walking. He passed Jimmy Sanders on his way back from wherever he had been going the first time. Jimmy tried to hail Louis with his patent “Hey,” but Louis was oblivious again. He had run out of tears, He was in sheer shock now. When his eyes were completely dry he looked around him. It was the florist shop he had been to the day before, and next door was the café.

A single rose had fallen from one of the displays outside the shop. Louis picked it up and made his way toward that fated window that had crushed his soul forever. He stared into the black empty room for a full hour. He never spoke nor stirred the whole time. He was watching the scene over and over. Every time he willed with his whole soul that she looked differently, or that they were only cousins meeting again after long years apart, but every time she kissed the man she was with, over and over and over. She would look up at Louis, and then turn right back to her true love.

Louis’ hand went to his pocket. He dug inside it for a second before he pulled out a small box. He opened the box and gazed silently at the ring. He was going to propose tonight. His whole life had been building up to this one moment, when he would ask the woman of his dreams to spend the rest of his life with him. Now he realized his life had been building up to this day. Every moment Abby spent with him pushed her farther and farther away. Maybe she had felt something in the barn, but it was gone now. Louis had been alone for months, he just never knew it.

He had to think of something to do now. He had to decide if life without Abby was worth living. He thought back on all of the places his feet had brought him, and he thought of so many more places that were so important to him. It did not matter that they were really nothing more than set pieces in a giant act. He loved Abby. That must have counted for something in all of this. He came to his decision while looking at the rose. It reminded him of his garden at home. He and Abby had spent countless hours of bliss among his flowers. He would strive on, and when the pain became too much to bear, he would spend a night like this one. He would let his feet carry him to all of the places that meant so much to him. Maybe, after a while, they would mean less and less, and then finally, he would be able to move on.

He tore the ring out of its box. Clutching it tightly he recited Shakespeare’s Seventeenth Sonnet. He had memorized it and was planning on reciting it for Abby that night at dinner. He gave his last salute of love, and the tears began to flow again. As he ended the last line he threw the ring down the road as hard as he could. Then he laid the single rose outside of the café window, as one places one on a coffin.

The funeral of their love was over. Louis walked along the road with his head up high. He reached The Wanderlust Hotel and entered. Pat saw him as he came in and looked worried. Louis approached the bar and called for a Jack and Coke.

“Hey Lou, are you gonna be Ok?” asked Pat

“Yeah Pat, I’m gonna be just fine.”

Introduction

2011-01-23T20:52:00.000-08:00

This post will be the first in a series of papers I am writing on the Roman Catholic Church. This is an introduction and apology for the whole. I may write things in this introdcution that strike a wrong note to some, but I shall do my best to clarify all of my positions in the following papers. Even then I suppose I will be striking a raw nerve, but that is the way life goes.

We live in a scientific world, a world that only accepts something as real if it is first accepted by science. This mentality has already wreaked havoc upon the world and the Church. It is the tool used by the enemies of Catholicism to erode the dogmas of the Faith. They say that Jesus Christ could not have multiplied loaves and fishes because it is not scientifically possible. Similarly, Christ could not have walked on water because it is an empirically demonstrable fact that humans sink when they step onto the sea. Of course, these are merely preludes to the climax of their argument. Once the idea of miracles has been destroyed in general, the modern world pulls back the curtain and claims, quite logically, that the miracle of the Resurrection has been destroyed in particular. Without that miracle our faith is in vain.

These papers, however, are not meant to deal with that fallacy. I will be discussing its offspring. It too has led to an eroding of the faith, but it can operate more subtly within the Church. The scientific world has taken one step past saying that things may only be believed if the sciences can demonstrate them. It also claims that once something has been demonstrated by science, and realized by the senses, then it can only ever be what it has been demonstrated to be. This idea states that once a chair is shown to be a chair it can never be anything other than a chair.

People who think this way have been prominent in the church for a long time, and that is why I write these papers. I disagree with the notion that things can only be what the senses say they are. I am a simple kind of man who still believes in fairytales, not because they are obviously true, but because they are really true despite that they are obviously false. A child knows that fairies are real, even if he later learns that he meant Angel when he said fairy, virtue when he said fairy dust, devil when he said goblin, and Satan when he said dragon. A child would never say that a chair, so clearly defined by the scientist, was merely a chair, he would see a spaceship ready to sail into the heavens, beyond the moon to the stars. Whether or not the child does indeed go to the stars is beside the point. The point is that the child has an ability that surpasses all but mystics and poets; he can define any object as more than what is evident to the senses. This is why one must be like a child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. It is not merely necessary to have the innocence of a child, it is also imperative to have the wisdom one. An adult who thinks like an adult will never, really, understand what the Church is. He is just like the Jews waiting expectantly for a warrior savior who would strike out vengeance to the nations and lead a war of salvation from Rome. It was not a foolish thing for them to think, all of the psalms prophesied it, and the prophets proclaimed it. It was, however, wrong. They could not see what the words actually meant, so when the Savior was among them they did not recognize Him. Just so, those who do not understand what the Church is will not recognize her.

The Church has always been peopled with sinners and fools. Now it seems she is being peopled by men who are nearly insane. Men in mental-wards always accept everything just how it appears to be. A man is the center of his universe. He is the only absolute, and the only thing he can know about with certainty. Based on his senses the universe is centered on him, so he makes the natural assumption that it is objectively centered on him. Due to this logic, the man who looked at him in the street was assuredly plotting his demise, and the caller who misdialed his phone was unquestioningly calling him on purpose, trying to glean secret information from him. Sane men call this paranoia but it is really the logical conclusion of accepting our senses absolutely. Another mental patient may be completely convinced that a statue of George Washington is his dead aunt, and has lengthy conversations with her. His senses comply with him and nothing said by a doctor will get him to break the connection between the proof of the senses and his version of reality. The only thing that will cure these men is imagination. If the first patient could make up a fairy tale about the man who called his house. About his lost love Robin, who was kidnapped by an evil ogre, and will only be released after her love has misdialed three telephone numbers; then he need not worry that the man is out to steal his identity, because he knows that he has one of his own. If the second man can imagine even a little of the wonder and joy his aunt is experience in Heaven, he need not resurrect her in stone. Or if he could imagine the stone as the real George Washington, floating across the Delaware River to do battle, then he would find it silly to think of his respectable old aunt doing anything as crass as that. Once a man sees something differently than what his eyes tell him, he will finally be able to see it for what it truly is.

It is one of those strange paradoxes of the modern world that people who do not see things as they really are, but as they appear through their senses are called mad; while the mystic who claims to see things as they really are, despite what their senses say, are also called mad. It also puts poets in a hard spot. The world thinks that poets are mad, and not rationalists, because the strict logician is in a hospital and the great poets write poems in the public eye. That is where the world has gone wrong. The real difference between the man who believes in his senses and the poet, is that the poet accepts the proof of the scientific conclusions, at least on a superficial level. The poet recognizes that the statue Washington is simply a stone sculpture representing a dead, former President. He then proceeds to see it as a symbol of power or an idol of republicanism; the mad man does not even get this far. He skips the first step in the logic of the world, and believes in his senses with total disregard for the science. The poet accepts the science, he simply sees beyond it, just like the child flying in his chair cockpit. The child sees the chair as a flying ship, but he knows he has to mime the controls. The madman who sees a chair as a cockpit does not think he is miming anything, because to his eyes everything is there before him. The poet and the child have grasped a great truth about sanity that has been missed by the world: It is perfectly sane to think a tree is a stairway to heaven as long you do not try to count the steps.

Specifically these papers will deal with two different applications of this type of insanity. Firstly, it will deal with the more widespread application known as Modernism. This idea usually is accompanied with the first of the modern world’s scientific philosophies. They deny most miracles as unlikely or as superstitious, but still say that God can work around science if he wants to. It obviously does not contain the heresy in full, because the necessary conclusion of the philosophy is the ideological destruction of Catholicism. (There are people who call themselves Catholic, but believe in science with a greater faith than the saints have in God. They have so diluted the faith that the name Catholic does not apply however.) The Modernists see that the Church has changed, so they assume that it is evolutionary. Therefore, everything that is modern is right, until the next change comes along. The very sad thing is that this disdain for tradition extends as far as the incidentals, such as music and art; I will discuss this misfortune in length later.

The second group is much more subtle in its practice but even more entrapping when fallen into. Traditionalists are basically the same as Modernists in their lack of imagination and faith in their senses. They do differ in two main ways. Firstly, Traditionalists do not hold to the need of scientific proof to claim certainty in religious things. They are perfectly content to believe in miracles throughout history, and even hope in them for the present. Their problem with the senses is not so much that they overtly emphasize them, and claim their proof as definte, they believe in the true presence of Christ in the Eucharist, despite their senses telling them different for example. (I should mention that the camp of modernists of whom I refer believe in this too or at least profess it.) The real issue is that they do not live their whole lives as poets, so they slip into a habit of believing their eyes that subtly diminishes certain parts of the faith without going against the teaching of the church. The result is an attitude that manifests itself in such a way that the Traditionalist is not even aware that his views do not come from what he believes, but from what he sees. The other difference between Traditionalists and Modernists is that Traditionalism is extremely romantic. Guarding tradition from an onslaught of besiegers is just as romantic as defending the honor of a woman. Both protect something precious, and fight for something worth fighting for. Modernism is never romantic because it is always changing. A man cannot love what he does not know, and modernism is evolutionary by design. One cannot love change, nor fight for it, because no one knows if change is worth fighting for until after it happens. By the time it becomes worth fighting for, it has become a tradition.

This romanticism is really the great draw for people to get sucked into Traditionalism, because the defense of tradition is the primary goal of its proponents, and is the message proclaimed to many lost Modernists looking for a way out of the quagmire of new ideas. What many, traveling from their first folly to their second, do not know is that they passed a third camp on the way. They happened to miss Sanity, or its better known name, Orthodoxy, on their mad rush to escape novelty. It is sad that they missed it, but not surprising. In fact, it is not a bit surprising, because Orthodoxy is a very common thing and common things are always looked over, just like the poor common people who are the main subscribers to it. Very few sophisticated people are orthodox because Orthodoxy is vulgar and crude. It is too simple to be understood by the educated and too strong to be accepted by the powerful. We are blessed with an orthodox Pope, but even he is peasant stock. Orthodoxy cannot reach those men who believe in their senses, because Orthodoxy is poetic. It is so much more than what it appears to be, and it takes a mystic to see it as something worth believing. Orthodoxy is much more romantic than defending tradition, or defending a woman, because it is both. When the orthodox man defends his Mother the Church from the degradation of evolution, he is a more romantic warrior than any chivalrous knight or Greek hero, because he combines both Saint Thomas Aquinas and King Arthur.

Wooden Swords

2011-01-23T19:44:00.000-08:00

I have noticed something singular about wooden swords: it is only children born of common men who play with them. Intellectual and Socially elite children do not play with wooden swords. To those families it is seen as unhealthy, either mentally or socially. These poor children are the types who spend all day in bedrooms learning their multiplication facts and the state capitols. They lead very hygienic, pleasant childhoods, and go to universities like Princeton or Harvard. They become lawyers and politicians and end up ruling the nation. Personally, I am not a supporter of any person ruling a nation who never tried to slay his best friend with a bit of elm tree.

The common child is allowed to play with wooden swords because the trivial mindset of violence, that a duel might put a child in, is far outweighed by the serious truths that it teaches. In fact, I would hesitate to say that the crossing of wooden blades put a child in a violent mindset at all. To say that a murderer is a violent person because he played at fighting with swords, is the same as saying that a bank robber is a thief because he stole buns from the pantry as a child. It may be true that the robber did steal buns from the pantry, but I submit that the veritable plethora of law abiding citizens who also stole buns from the pantry should certainly debunk this theory of determinism.

At any rate, even if a wooden sword would make a child more likely to use a steel one, I would not hesitate to let him play with it. Children playing war do more to bring peace to a society than all of the pacifist elitests put together. Boys playing with sticks learn that sticks hurt. They come to realize that it takes courage to win a fight, but it takes cunning to avoid one. The greatest diplomat is the boy with two black eyes trying to talk himself out of a fight without being seen as a coward. It is that sort of boy who I want dealing with foreign countries. I do not want a blood thirsty man who wants to pick a fight everywhere he can, nor do I want someone who recoils at the first sign of trouble, apologizing for his countries failures and weaknesses as he excuses himself from foreign affairs. We need a person who can stand up straight and look countries full in the face; talk huge and threaten wildly, all the while trying to keep from war, and all the while prepared to fight one if necessary.

The next truth children with sticks learn is that pain is going to be a part of life. Children of the elite class do not know of such pain as a hard rap to the side with a tree branch. Common children live all summer with bruises and cuts. They walk through thorn bushes on their way to the berry patch and fall into rocks while sparring with their brothers. Common children dislike pain as much as anyone, but pain becomes as real to them as sunlight and fresh air. When grown, they do not give up at the first trial that comes their way. They fight back the blows of the world as once they did the blows of their brother. Dealing with pain is no different than anything else in life. The longer you go without having to do it, the harder it is when it finally comes, just like learning a second language.

There is a third truth that children learn while playing with wooden swords. This truth I left for last because, in a way, it is a combination of the first two truths. This truth cannot be written down in a handy formula like the other two. This one is only a seed, an understanding buried deep within the child. It is the understanding of the Cross. Common children are constantly aware of suffering, and the pain of the stick teaches them that it is mistakes that cause it. When a boy mistimes his thrust, and gets thwacked on the ribs for the blunder, he comes to realize that mistakes hurt. So it makes perfect sense when they learn that, while in his mercy God wanted man redeemed from its sins, justice demanded suffering for the blunders of man. Pampered, safe, children grow into adults who ridicule a Savior who would allow himself to be nailed to a tree when he had omnipotent power. It is only a child who got poked with a tree that can understand why Christ got nailed to one.

One Week

2011-01-21T20:50:00.000-08:00

My body will be crushed with weight from
Waiting for a week.

The autumn glow of fading light does
Glisten off your cheek.

Your hair that shone so beautifully is
Falling to the floor.

My wrinkled eyes weep at the thought of
Your soul’s will to soar.

A man in white has sent you home to
Jesus Christ on high.

He said a week, so I ask this, please
Wave you hand goodbye.

In one short week when this is through, and
When you meet the Lord.

Please beg the Lamb to show my soul that
Saving blood was poured.

I need this sacred passion sight, or
At the church I’ll die.

I cannot live without my love, but
With His help I’ll try.

But that sad day has not arrived, so
I will keep you near.

I only hope this final week can
Last about a year.

My Fair Lady - Why Can't The English?

2011-01-18T05:15:00.000-08:00

RSC : Biography of William Shakespeare

2011-01-18T05:10:00.000-08:00

Respite

2011-01-18T05:02:00.000-08:00

I probably will not be posting much for a while. I have an idea for a short story that will occupying my next few weeks to formulate and execute. I may post a new poem, if I get writers block and need something to do, but do not hold your breath, So i leave you for now with two videos to ease this parting blow. :P

The Olympian

2011-01-14T22:31:00.000-08:00

A massive white van lumbered down the road. It passed farms and fields mostly, for in Central New York there is little else. Inside the van were two parents and seven children. The children we named Joe, Anne, Rob, Marie, Lizzie, James. The mathematically inclined members of my audience will note that I have only mentioned six children. That is not because the seventh child is extraordinary or deserves any special treatment within this list, but because this story will follow him specifically.

The seventh child was the fourth child born to Joseph and Marie Palm and his name was Damien Grey. His full name was Damien Grey Palm, but he decided at the age of six that he would much rather be known by a color than a plant. Especially if the color was something vague and mysterious like “grey”. By the age of thirteen he had reverted back to the family name, but at the time of this adventure he refused to respond to such degradation as being called a tree. Such is the mind of an eight year old.

The home of this family was located in a small village called Wampsville. It is one of a thousand small villages and towns that dot that area of New York; but to Damien Grey there was no place greater, except perhaps Syracuse. Of course, Syracuse was such a large city, and so far away, that it was almost mythical. Saying Syracuse was better than Wampsville is similar to saying Camelot was better than London.

The family van was just entering the beloved town when Joseph Palm Sr. began his traditional briefing. There is a small hill that marks the beginning of the village, and when the family reached that point Joseph Sr. would begin telling his children their various duties. Occasionally this ritual was replaced with a reminder of punishments, but, thankfully, this was rare.

“Joseph,” began the deep strong voice, “when we get home I want you to get right to the table and finish up you homework. Robert hop right into the shower, I want you clean before we sit down for dinner. Damien, quick run outside and clean the back yard, it never got done yesterday.” With these fateful words the van pulled into the driveway.

Damien was sitting in the back row of seats, so he used the delay of waiting for his other siblings to get out, to stare out of the window. He was angry, and was even fighting back tears at the injustice done. Robert had been told to clean the back yard the day before, but managed to weasel out of it somehow. Now Damien was stuck with the job, it was almost too horrible for words. Robert gets rewarded with a hot shower, and he had to stay out in the nippy fall weather for at least another five minutes.

The van cleared out and the family walked, ran, or were carried inside the warm inviting house. Damien climbed out and waited patiently until the final body had vanished behind the kitchen door. Then he slammed the door with all of his might. He walked defeated into the yard and surveyed the area. There were a dozen or so toys and balls scattered around the leaf strewn play area. Damien walked over to the closest one, picked it up, and threw it unfeelingly into the sand box. He turned around preparing to repeat the mind numbing task when he noticed the jacket he was wearing.

It is one of the advantages of being a child that no bad feeling lasts any longer than someone is willing to sympathize with it. This advantage is most useful when the only sympathizer is the child himself. It took a mere glance at his jacket to sweep the injustice of his current position from his mind. He saw five interlocking circles on his breast pocket. All at once his back yard became an Olympic event. It was a new event, but no less real in the mind of the child. He crouched down preparing to spring into the race. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Go!

Damien leapt out of his stance and made for the first toy. Halfway there he came to the realization that a simple timed clean was not a fit task for the Olympics. He decided to detour away from the sandbox before putting the toy away. He made for the swing set, and preformed some very intricate acrobatics on the bars and ropes before placing the baton into its chosen receptacle. Next, he decided to perform his trick before picking up the toy, so he sprinted over to the family climbing tree. He had been climbing this tree for as long as he could remember, and it was a merely a matter of seconds before he reached his personal summit, about eight feet off the ground. He decided that the judges would love to see a jump. So he slid himself out onto a limb and let go.It is always hailed as a great tragedy when a young Olympic athlete is hurt in an event, especially if the injury removes him from competition. Inexplicably, the injury of Damien Grey was noticeably less lamented for in the national media.

Damien’s feet did not land properly in his otherwise perfectly executed jump. The two otherwise faithful companions were tired of always being landed on. So they decided to turn the tables on Damien’s hands. His left hand hit the ground and, unfamiliar with the proper protocol of being landed on, made an unfortunate mistake. The hand let all the force pass through his arm to his elbow. The elbow was not prepared for this and was not able to make any decision as to what to do. This indecision left the elbow in a very awkward position, that is, dislocated. It also meant that the force that was cueing up to pass through the elbow was stuck in the forearm. Therefore, needing to go somewhere, it broke Damien’s arm and escaped.

Obviously this left Damien Grey in an extremely painful position. This situation was not helped by the fact that the boy was eight and had very little practice holding in emotions. “OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW!” He screamed loud enough to permeate his own home, along with all of the houses within three hundred yards. Despite the volume of this exclamation it took a full minute of sustained screaming before either parent came outside. In fairness to the parents,this delay was not cause by a lack of concern on their part, but by the nature of the boy and his scream. This particular scream sounded very much like a poor imitation of a Indian; and this particular boy was the type of boy who was very likely to make poor imitations of Indians while outside.

The first parent that came out was Marie. Once she verified that the exclamations were ones of pain she rushed over to Damien.

“What’s wrong Damien?” This was stock question, repeated about twenty times each day with various names interposed.

“I think my arm is broken.” This was stock answer, repeated about fifteen times a day with various appendages interposed. Again my mathematically adept audience is up in arms, so in an attempt to forestall any objection to my book keeping, let me say the other five instances of Marie’s question were either ignored, or the “wrong” in question was at such a small level that the child could not claim a break.

“Let me see your arm.” This command was immediately followed and regretted. When the former Olympic champion extended his arm the broken bone started pressing through the skin. Luckily the boy stopped in disgust before the skin ripped open. This exhibit did have the good affect of assuring Marie that Damien was not faking. She hurriedly called Joseph and the two got Damien into the van and soon they were off to the hospital.

In the van Damien went into shock and, by the time they reached the hospital, he was in minimal pain as long as he kept his arm still. They pulled into the parking lot in the great grey shadow of the building. This building stood for everything eight year old boys hate, pain, needles, and death. As they passed through the automatic sliding doors Damien had a sense of foreboding. The tone of his parent’s voices and the look on their faces, confirmed this premonition moments later. He went into triage and the worst thing that Damien could imagine happened. They cut off his brand new shirt. He tried to stop them, he begged them to spare it, but to no avail. In a few snips any chance of a close relationship between Damien and this new polo vanished.

Damien was filled with grief at the loss of his new friend; because of this,he failed to pay attention to what the adults were saying around him. It turns out they were discussing the first step in fixing his arm. This step was going to be a surgery. After it was decided that he was going to have a metal plate put into his arm, the adults decided to mention the idea to Damien. He was not sure what a surgery was, but was wise enough not to argue.

The doctor entered, and stuck a needle into his arm. This needle was connected to a large bag that sat next to Damien for the next few hours. Needles are one of the things eight year old boys tend to hate and Damien sincerely hoped that the surgery was over, and that no more needles would be used in any case. As it happens, the I.V. solution that heals broken arms had not been invented at the times of this narrative, so Damien was rolled into the operating room.

There laid the gold medal contender, in pain and hooked up to a tube. He lay at the end of his world class adventure. It was a time that called for reflection and comment, however, our hero was eight. Due to this fact, there was no reflection. Instead Damien spent the last few moments of our story thinking about the masks the doctors were wearing on their faces, and wondering if he could get one. Then one of these masked figures approached and placed a much larger mask on Damien. It was an oxygen mask, but he did not have time to revel in his luck. The masked figure told the retired Olympian to count backwards from one hundred. Only too glad to show off a bit, and prove his own mathematic abilities, he started. 100. 99. 98. 97. 9-

The Tear Washed Sea

2011-01-13T14:26:00.000-08:00

A rain-washed coast sees rain again.
A mourning girl sits down in pain.
A morning mist is blown away.
And all this happened yesterday.

Poseidon claimed him long ago.
She pleaded with him not to go.
Alas the ocean calls its own,
But why is something never known.

The woman sits alone and sad,
She thinks of all the joys they had
Before the rain fell from her eyes.
Now every day, with him, she dies.

She dies each dawn without him here,
At evening tide from doubt and fear,
And in between the whole day long.
Three years her soul is absent song.

The God of the Lighthouse

2011-01-12T20:38:00.000-08:00

Quietly in the night a man sat hunched over his desk. The soft sound of a scratching pen was all that could be herd in the silent room. The candle next to the antique writing desk was flickering and was close to running out. The moon was bright and shadows were creeping in like specters of the ruined lighthouse. The shadows had not quite reached the desk though, for it was placed in front of the window closest to the sea. The sea was calm and the woods behind were like a graveyard. Everything in the room had a quiet peace and complacency, that is, everything except the man at the desk. Three candle butts were flung on the floor, and at about three o’clock the fourth candle was also extinguished.
Just as it went out many things happened in quick succession. First, a storm blew in from the sea bringing with it harsh winds and hail. Because of this the moon was covered by the incoming front and the room was thrown into total darkness. The man leapt up out of his chair. He crawled frantically around the room searching blindly for candles so he could return to work. He was like a man possessed, or more accurately, like a man addicted. He muttered to himself and shook madly, searching every nook and cranny.
An hour later he gave up his futile search and felt his way back to the desk. As he sat back down he thought of the story he had just been writing. It was a love story between a young Irish man and a German girl who met when the two were studying in Paris. The Irish Boy was named Patrick, a classic Irish name for a classic Irishman. He first met Gabie in the mandatory French class. She was excellent at languages and soon she was tutoring him. Their relationship grew and finally, after pages of foreplay, Pat kissed her at the train station just as she was leaving for winter holiday. Here the story became an adventure. Gabie was arrested after it was learned she helped her uncle in a resistance movement against the Nazis. Over the next four chapters Patrick had snuck into Germany and was just about to learn the fate of Gabie when the light was extinguished.
In fact, the author was just about to kill Gabie off when he was stopped. He had planned it from the beginning. From the moment he described Gabie’s deep Arian blue eyes and her pure blond hair, he knew that he wanted nothing more than to rip out her heart. It was only fitting; he even justified it by having her sleep with a German General as an ultimate betrayal of Patrick’s love. He had been waiting for this moment all night, patiently writing, growing closer and closer to the climactic suicide of Patrick to escape the horrors of betrayal and loss.
He was growing more and more frantic, waiting for dawn. He stood up again and paced the circular room that looked out on the sea. He saw light out of the northern windows and gazed down at the town. It was because of this view that he had chosen here to write. To the south was a railway line cutting through the coastline. To the west was a forest, huge pines and oaks grew just one hundred feet from his door. To the east was the ocean, huge, blue, and unattainable. To the north was the town; he rented an apartment down there, but only used it when he wasn’t writing. He loved the town most. It was humans themselves. He looked down on their daily comings and goings, perched on his heavenly throne. He was like the Deist God, uninvolved yet omniscient and omnipotent. It was from these windows that he looked out at the world, and the world looked back on him.
He stared down at the town for an hour without moving and thought of why he became a writer. It was a God complex his family had told him. He loved controlling things so much, even as a child, and since he could never have total control in this world, he needed to create his own. At a level they were right, but they had such a shallow view of it. He had more than just a God complex that lusted after control. He was a god, all powerful and all knowing. It was more than just control; it was order, beauty, love. He loved his creatures, and was always just. Occasionally this justice seemed cruel, but that was a part of being God, his creation must be balanced.
The sun came in a clear blue sky. The storm had passed. He went back to his desk and picked up his pen to write. Finally he would exercise justice. Gabie would finally die.
…Patrick climbed the steep green hill to the camp. The gate loomed menacing before him, full of the might and power of the Nazi government. A guard was standing outside the stronghold smoking a cigarette. Pat couldn’t be sure that it was the guard he had been told about so he decided to approach delicately.
“Excuse me soldier, may I have a word?” said Patrick.
“If it’s a quick one, we don’t like filthy Irishman crowding our doorways.”
Patrick bit his tongue at the insult and asked, “Were you on duty here seven nights ago?”
“I might have been. It depends on why you want to know.”
“I want to know because a girl named Gabie tried to escape from this gate that night and I need to know what happened.”
“Ah, so you’re Patrick are you?” he exclaimed perking up. “Yeah I was here that night, or at least part of it. She thought the information she got from sleeping with that general was accurate, stupid girl. Well I’ll tell you what happened shall I.” He was dragging it out, clearly getting pleasure torturing Patrick. “I heard that a prisoner was planning to escape from this gate, expecting it unguarded. Well I couldn’t help myself. I hid in the shadows just over there. I even let her think she had done it. After about five steps I pulled my pistol. Oh, I can tell you some stories about killing, but this was incredible. I aimed at the back of her lovely head. I sque- The phone went off in the kitchen downstairs.
It was like a gun went off in the room. Leaping to his feet the apoplectic author bounded down the stairs. For goodness sake, he thought, couldn’t he just be left alone for five minutes? He reached the kitchen too late. The answering machine had picked up and he heard a soft voice he recognized only too well.
“Hey it is me.” She sounded sad and a crack in her voice revealed that she was fighting back tears. “I know I am the last person you want to hear from. I just-um- I-ugh- please, I am so sorry about what I did. Please call me back. I don’t know if you can forgive me, and I don’t blame you if you can’t. I made a huge mistake. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself. So I don’t know why I expect you to. But, I love you, and I thought I was loosing you; you spend so much time writing, I thought you fell in love with the women you wrote about, I thought you gave up on me. I don’t know if I was trying to get your attention, or if I was trying to get back at you, but I have spent the last year out of my mind, and I spent all night awake, and I don’t think I can survive without you.”
The room was silent after that. For a long time he sat there staring at the woods. Those tall majestic trees grew so straight and so pure. Why did God curse men so? He placed them higher than the trees, just so they could fall beneath one. What kind of God would let sin and pain, enter the world so easily. What fool would trust the backs of men to carry the load of free will. He forsook his wife for ink and she forsook him for flesh. Both of them sinned against the fool God, and now what? How could he make up for a year of hatred and infidelity?
He walked back up the stairway, bent over, defeated. He reached the top and looked at the desk, there was his masterpiece; undoubtedly the best novel he had ever written, and now it was ruined. Gabie had betrayed him much worse than she had Patrick. He could not kill her, not after hearing his wife’s apology. Still, he had to kill her, there was no other way. Justice demanded it. Blood was owed for her sins, and it was only fair that it should be her blood.
He sat down at the desk and picked up his pen. He gazed for a long time at the sea before he wrote the next words. The sea was pristine that morning, it held so much power, yet this morning it was at rest. He thought of the town. It was so much smaller than the sea. The sea could rise at any moment and simply sweep it away, but it did not, it rested. Finally it dawned on him why God allowed men to have wills, and even why he allowed evil.
-ezed the trigger at her. But a figure leapt from behind. He made my shot go high above the girl’s head. We wrestled for a moment, the gun went off again, and the stranger fell. He lived long enough to say a few words to me. He said, ‘My name is Phillip, I want you to tell Patrick: forgive Gabie. Tell him that he should love her as much as I do, I have died for her sins, and yours too.”
Satisfied he stood up, and went downstairs to the phone. He picked it up and dialed. It rang once and was answered. Then, with a crack in his voice form holding back tears he said, “It’s me, Phillip, will you forgive a stupid man, who is desperately in love with you.”

How an Actor Writes

2011-01-12T13:20:00.000-08:00

Every writer takes a different approach to the art. This obviously manifests itself in the medium chosen by the writer. Poets are different from novelists and short story writers. Though, a writer can do all three, just like Da Vinci could sculpt and paint. For instants Poe was just as good a story teller as poet, but that is not my point. Da Vinci considered himself a sculptor, not a painter, and he went about painting using the mind of a sculptor. I consider myself a poet, that is, I consider my best work is in writing poems and I see things in the world in a poetic way. A tree is more than a tree to me, it is a symbol of purpose and strength and growth. Snow falling outside my bedroom window is like all of the souls of the earth passing the window of heaven for mere seconds running into a few other souls but mainly just falling and leaving room for the souls that are to follow.

My brain works poetically, but in my writing there is another thing that has almost if not more an affect on my writing. I am an actor, as such, I care most about people. When I act in a show I spend days and days working on my character. His inner movements, and reactions and relationships with others around him. So that is how I go about my writing. I care more about the people, and the internal battles than external accidents. I spend more time considering the waitress in the diner than the what the diner looks like. Also I care more about the waitress' personality than her appearance. What the room or character looks like is mostly the readers job to decide. I care more that there is a room and that a person is inside it. If I can better explain the person I am telling a story about using a description of a room, or the person them selves, than I shall use those tools at my disposal, but I do not find that very important.

Well that is a peak into my mind.

The Phantom Symphony

2011-01-12T10:29:00.000-08:00

Adam was flying. It was very peaceful in the airplane; some Mozart was playing. As the sound of the strings rising and falling in his ears drowned out his mission, Adam found that he was really enjoying flying for the first time since the beginning of the war. The pure beauty of a time long forgotten, and a song never again to be played, wafted through the cockpit. Adam knew only one thing. He was flying, something that was no more than a dream for thousands of years.

As Wolfgang’s 16th Symphony” ended everything that led to Adam flying this plane flooded back to him. He remembered the dark room where a man in civvies told him the location of an old nuclear warhead. It was simple enough really, he would just drop it over the capitol and the following chain reaction would destroy everyone. Adam had been eager for the job. As he saw it, any world so corrupted that green kids could be sent off by the thousands to get slaughtered deserved to face nuclear Armageddon.

The music came back on, and all the memories were swept away. The music was once again all that existed. The melody spoke to him in a way that only true art can. He saw a remnant of beauty in the music, a beauty that the world had long progressed by. The notes came in and out of his mind, whispering to him of ancient glory and present decrepitude. He was in a trance, Mozart was all around him and inside him. The melodies and harmonies seemed more real than the earth he was flying over. It was like he had already dropped the bomb, and the world had vanished. He flew that way for hours, past mountains and plains, forests and deserts, cities and towns.

As the music quieted between movements he saw a kite flying so high that it almost brushed his plane. Doubtless some young boy got his hands on a lot of string and was having a moment of fun. Without warning he traveled down the string to the boy. His mother was in a wooden house across the field, cooking dinner for him and his brother. Their father was away in the war, and the mailman just brought a letter from him that they would read together after dinner. There was simplicity and joy permeating their whole life despite the suffering they were going through. Adam came back to the cockpit very shaken. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. It was more than a daydream or an outbreak of imagination. He saw everything so vividly; it was almost like he was standing next to the boy straining his eyes to see the kite up in the sky.

Then the hypnotic melodies returned, leading him to his stronghold, impervious to everything. This time, however, the music could not quite take him there. The kite, and the story it told, had opened a part of his soul that Mozart could no longer fill. All at once Adam understood what it meant to descend from his namesake, the firstborn, and the father of all mankind. Somewhere around him he thought he heard the words, "For the sake of ten, I will not destroy it." Adam did not recognize the words, but the left a strong impression on him. They brought memories to him. He saw a man giving food to a beggar, and a couple praying together outside a church. He saw these and many more, hundreds of people, all doing good things for the people around him. As these swam before him he was filled with an incredible urge to turn the plane around. He could not destroy the world, not knowing as he did that goodness was still present. He wanted to fight for goodness.

The impression on his heart was so strong that he was actually in the process of turning around when the music seemed to change. He heard the deep dark notes of the large, menacing strings drown out the lighter, more pleasant ones. It brought to his mind something the man in the dark room had told him. He had warned him not let his guard down and change his mind. For once he was in the airplane he would be killed on sight if he ever landed again.

Death, he had been thinking about it for hours now, but never in that time had he fully considered his own demise. The very idea of him dying seemed foreign. It was a black and menacing idea, like a monster always hiding in the closet, but choosing then to rear its ugly head. Luckily, the monster lasted a mere moment. Just as quickly as the music had recalled death and despair it moved again. This time, he heard the notes soar. It was speaking of everything good and beautiful in a perfect poetry of sound. He heard the usual tale of glory long ago, but this time it was a much older than what he was used to. Adam had always assumed that the music he loved was a product of its time. Now he understood the greatest truth of music. Music can only sound natural in paradise. Everywhere else it is but a mere lament of a lost Eden, or a prophecy of the New Jerusalem.

Everything was clear. His moment of weakness had passed, and the perfect blend of rational thought and honest sentiment had won the day. Of course, it is noble to fight evil, but it will always be fought in vain. The only way to destroy evil forever is to destroy the world it inhabits. Adam would be doing everyone a great favor by destroying the world. He would be rectifying the mistake of his predecessor; he would save the world from their sins by preventing them from committing anymore. He, Adam, would be the herald of paradise. And if he was wrong, if the music’s promise of paradise was not true, he could just wash his hands of the whole thing and chalk it up to good intentions.

Wash his hands. Wash his hands, why the idea of washing one’s hands of a situation was already familiar to him? The idea seemed just on the verge of his mind, taunting him as trivialities always tease the forgetful mind. Then, in the sudden ecstasy of remembering Pilate, he “whooped” and flailed his fist in a display of excitement people only feel comfortable showing in private. His fist struck something plastic next to him. It was his speakers, they smashed on the cockpit floor and were broken beyond repair; but the music never left him. The music wasn’t coming from the speakers. In fact could not even remember starting any music at all. He slowly began to realize that for hours no music had been playing at all.

As I say, he did remember the allusion. He remembered Pontius Pilate who once washed his hands of another man’s blood, but he did not dwell on Pilate long. The knowledge that he had been imagining music for hours had shaken him and he wanted to figure that out before he moved on to anything else. He racked his brain for an answer and slowly began to remember something. He saw a hospital bed and someone he knew but even as these things began to swim to the fore, the phantom music grew stronger trying to win back his soul.

Strings and horns blasted away. They were so loud that he couldn’t think of anything else, yet in his head they seemed lighter than sunlight. The music brought new images to his mind. He saw the whole of the universe, stretched out through billions of light years. He saw a single flower opening into a most beautiful rose. He saw the view from a mountain, valleys and hills, forests and plains; a virgin earth existing in human-less perfection. He saw Paradise, the one tree and one choice that defeated beauty and goodness forever, the one defeat that can only be destroyed by a greater defeat. Death was the only victory.

The music pushed too hard. It was so near to the victory over Adam, but was too hasty. The great Symphony thundered its story too far. As it blasted “Death,” the battle was finally over. The fateful word brought the memories Adam had been searching for.
His brother was dead. How could he have forgotten? He remembered two months ago seeing his brother brought back from the front. He was missing both legs and half of his face. Red blood was still stained on the skin not charred black. It was worse then bad. It was exactly the most horrific thing he had ever seen. As he began to recall his brother’s wake, he remembered one more thing. Mozart had been playing over the speaker when he had first seen his brother, and had been playing ever since. The moment he realized this, the phantom died and Adam was finally freed from the devils beauty.

The green light turned red. The final decision had to be made. Time seemed to stop as he looked down at the controls to drop the bomb. As he looked he noticed something on the floor next to him. It was two pieces of plastic that flew off the speaker. They fell, one on top of the other, in the shape of the cross. Adam looked at them as he fingered the drop button. He remembered church as a small child, and being told about a man, called the new Adam, who was willing to die for the rest of his race so that they might be saved. That same world had beat him, whipped him, hammered nails into his hands and his feet, tortured him beyond recognition, and left him to die in front of his mother and best friend, hung upon on a cross.

This second Adam had a very different idea than the third. He thought that life was so precious it was better to keep men suffering in life than happy in annihilation. He knew that one word from Him could make everybody eternally happy in paradise, but he did not say it. He knew that the life of the sickest, poorest, most miserable man is worth a hundred symphonies, and is fairer than any masterpiece. In short he knew the most sublime truth about humanity. It is not by dying but by living that we are a part of paradise.

As the red light turned back to green Adam said softly to himself, “I think I won’t destroy the world today,” and flew west into the slowly setting sun.

The Modern Lamp Post

2011-01-11T19:49:00.000-08:00

On the corner of Maple Street
And right outside my door,
There was lamppost, blue in hue,
That was a horrid bore.

It simply stood up straight and tall
And did all it was told.
In darkness it gave light all night,
In both the heat and cold.

There was a man named Sam Magee
That came into our town.
His hair was black and he lacked tack.
The law he would lay down.

On the corner of Maple Street
He dogmatized on high.
Evolution and Pollution
He’d shout up to the sky.

The problem for that Sam Magee,
Was that people thought
He looked a kook, just like his book,
And none of them were bought.

So Sam Magee left Maple Street
To try his luck elsewhere.
But fate would hate to let this date
Pass on without a care.

So as he left one book did fall
Upon the pavement street.
And the wind did leave it pinned
In the cold and heat.

The page was number thirty one.
It talked about this day.
And how we should see differently
Than in the former way.

It said that man and creed must change
From darkness to the light.
And things said by those men now dead
Are nothing but a blight.

No one on Maple Street would read
That book alone and sad,
Except the lamppost blue and true.
And that night it went mad.

It felt that brightening the road
Was such an ancient task,
That why some sly guy tried the thing
It’s time for men to ask.

He read the book in his own light
And felt the time was true.
To change the way thing had been done
In the town for so long.

He progressed from light to darkness
And thus came to the light.
He shut the light off for Maple Street
To see the glory of “new”.

He left the street in darkness
So the people would be free
To look with eyes a blaze
At the new better thing

The people all around the street
Were suddenly cast in dark
And stumbled into each other
Then hit the ground quite hard

A shout came from the corner of Maple Street
And called for order again
But the lamppost knew better
Than them

as night drew on the road got crowded
and the bodies piled high
for the lamp was sure
that he was right

Then a man named Kevin
Said aloud to the lamp
It’s true that we should change
Our ways as the chance should come

But only for improvement
And not the lack there of
But NO shouted the lamppost
For all change must be good

You’re a fool and we are too
Said Kevin in the street
O please O please let us see
Turn your light back on us

You say all things must progress,
And I do say the same.
All things must change a little
As girls do change their dress.

But make the change for better.
And better we shall be.
Make a change right now for us.
O please let these men see.”

And then the lamp he did it.
He turned his light back on.
He let the people see him.
And soon they all were gone.

Never did the lamp forget
The night he went quite mad.
He searches for perfection,
But is a little sad.

No for himself, it is not pride.
Himself, he is quite gay.
But sad in thinking of that cad,
And where Sam is today

I wrote this today. It needs tweaking, but I thought I put it up as a bit of a trite follow up to my post on rhyme and rhythm. Well enjoy.

The Love Letter

2011-01-09T15:41:00.000-08:00

Texting has destroyed the love letter. The love letter has been a staple part of the literary world for thousands of years, and the literary form that has been written by every type of person in every age. Now, however, we live in a world of texts, and facebook. There is constant contact between any people that feel even a slight desire to be together. There is no longer any longing, or separation between a couple in love that made the love letter worth writing. If a person can contact their lover in a few clicks of a cell phone or buttons on a key board, no one will take time writing pages of passion infused prose. It was the numberless hours of separation, and the feeling of isolation from ones love that created the letter. They are furtive hidden things written in the silent isolation of a empty room. Separation breeds romanticism, for time destroys all faults. Being apart, even for a evening before the next morning when the two starstruck lover will meet again is enough to build in the heart a store of love and a memory of the things about ones love that makes you love them. The love letter serves here, as a way to keep, in ink, all ones feeling and compliments to ones Beau. Constant exposure exposes faults that can only be forgotten by longing. The Missive also helps here by removing that longing. Writing the letter brings to mind the lover so much that it helps remove the longing for an imperfect person with a perfect idol of devotion. So here without further ado, is my love letter, to the woman of my dreams, even though I have not met her yet.

Dearest Seraph of the Heavens,

What can I say to express my feelings for you? I stand on this earth alone and waiting, waiting, waiting for the blow to come. I am naught but prey waiting to fall into a trap, or more likely, to be shot.

From where will that Olympian Arrow be released? My first fear is your eyes. Though mine are still blind in the darkness of your absence, my soul has been given your light already. It sees what merely human eyes cannot. I see two jewels more precious than emeralds and brighter than the multitude of stars. These keenest archers strike me as your greatest weapon against my heart. Should I but glance into those pools of beauty, deeper than the sea, I shall have a will no more; I shall be yours forever, and we will be together when I see my Lord in Majesty.

Though will you shoot from those windows in the tower of your being? Is that to likely of a shot, so that I, the fool, run the risk of looking into too many eyes, and blinded by the lack of light in those, loose yours forevermore. Is not another archer better suited to smiting me? What of your voice? Though the noise of the world has deafened my ears, I only wait for the sound for your song to revive them and give to them again the gift of music in speech and poetry in prose. Is not your melody of word the easiest way to break down the wall around my heart? I see this almost as a vision; if I should but hear the song of your heart in the song of you lips then I shall have a will no more; I shall be yours forever, and we shall be together when I hear the Word of my Lord in Majesty.

Again I fear. These two seem likelier than any, but what if the droning of the days deafens me beyond your preternatural power? Should not your shot be subtler so as to strike without warning or deflection from the quagmire of the culture? Your power over me is more subtle than mere beauty or song. I must find the deepest part of you. Something that is deeper than the pool of your eyes, and stronger than the purest forte of your voice, something wider than the seas and higher than the stars that you dim, something softer than your touch and stronger than the clutches of your heart. In the entire world there can be only one thing in a woman that cannot be mocked, or mimicked by those trying to keep us apart. Only one part of you is wholly apart from the world, which we merely happen to occupy.

It is your virtue that will take my soul. It is the mastery of faith, hope, and charity that will break through the barricade the world has made between us. It is your humility that will exalt you above all other persons, your modesty that will reveal your beauty perfectly to my eyes, and your purity that will give us a white sheet, to write the poetry of love on the heart we will share. All I can do is wait, wait for the day when the power of God in you brings me to yourself, and finally to Him. I say to you with out doubt. Should ever I see you kneeling with all piety, wielding the sword of the only woman more beautiful than you, I shall have a will no more; I shall be yours forever and you will be my queen, and we shall reign together with our Lord in Majesty.

I loved you before I saw you,
The fool who fell into your heart

Prayers

2011-01-09T12:27:00.000-08:00

Let us pray for the life of Gabrielle Giffords the Congress Woman from Az. and for the others hurt in the Attack. Also let us pray for the repose of the Souls of those who died in the shooting, and the shooter himself.

Sonnet to the Blessed Virgin

2011-01-08T18:44:00.000-08:00

What color is the fairest of them all?
O could it be that field of lion heads?
Perhaps the cool dark shade of night time’s fall?
Or else the mist when men are in their beds?

O say to me yon seraph in the sky,
Do your good eyes see sights that mine do not?
Is there a shine to souls that can now fly,
Up to those gates that holy men have sought?

Do speak to me O Virgin Mother pure.
Say secrets of your heart to mine own mind.
O fairest Queen exclaim to me so sure,
The secrets that your Soul so dear can find.

Said She “I know the fairest color hue,
It is the color of mine cloak so blue.”

This poem I actually wrote this afternoon. It is my first attempt at a Shakespearean sonnet and I am not sure that I have mastered the Iambic Pentameter, but one has to start somewhere. If anyone is good at Iambic Pentameter I would relish your opinion and advice.

Christian Faeries

2011-01-08T18:21:00.000-08:00

The trees speak to each other,
And the wind sings songs of joy.

I know that Fays do exist,
And the world is just my toy.

Solemn Priests say solemn words,
And the people dream and pray.

Bread is made into the Son,
And the Christ comes down to stay.

Faeries wait outside the church,
And the people are entranced.

Men pray like ancient Romans,
And the Fays perform their dance.

Faeries scoff at Latin Monks,
And the Monks call back quite gay,

“The Cross of Christ destroyed you.”
And the faeries dare to say,

"No more so than thee, dear friend.”

And the boy appeared that day.

The two thought he was crazy,
And the boy was very sad.

I was the boy, who met them,
And the two thought I was mad.

For I said, “Fays do exist,
And the world is just my toy.

Though I make the Roman Sign,
And the beads are my true Joy

I’m come to help the Christian
And the Faerie, join and tame.

Christ was born a humble Jew,
And the Mother just the same.

I am no Jew or Frenchman,
And the English are not me.

I do not pray with fashion,
And the Mass ends not with tea.

I fail in love to Hermes,
And the Aztecs have no son.

I am a Child of Eire,
And the God of truth, the one.

My God still has his secrets
And the Angels point their ears.

So I sing the pagan tunes,
And the Chants to Him I fear.

I pray with sadness in my soul
And the same is for my kin.

Worship with an Irish heart,
And the Lord shall hear within.”

Monk looked long at the Faerie
And the air was filled with mirth.

The Faerie beheld the Monk,
And the Faith had given birth

To a land where Roman Souls,
And the Pagan hearts are one.

The Greeks had an unnamed god
And the Christians gave the Son.

So the Boy took monk and myth,
And the truth he gave to both.

I am the boy, the boy is I
And the truth is this, I oath,

Truth eternal of the Christ,
And the truth of faerie Puck:

Fays and God go gaily on,
And the men can’t make a muck.

If the Faerie king is dead
And the spirits are not real,

Then my God has lifeless men,
And the faithful cannot kneel.

Passion in the myth, and life,
And the humdrum daily cares,

Are what make the love of Mass,
And the hate of Satan’s lairs.

So keep the Faerie woods and land,
And the tales both myth and true.

For without God men are damned,
And the Fays have naught to do.

And without Puck men are dead
And the God is very blue.

This poem is hard to explain, I do not like apologizing a poem before any questions are asked but I though I should on this one. This poem is really for the common man. The man who accepts his ignorance. Who knows that the world is full of mysteries he just can't understand. Also it speaks to the Catholicity of Catholicism. The fact that it is everywhere. The simple fact is that people are different everywhere. Catholicism is the religion that keep the same dogmas for both the Irishman and the Italian, but also allows them to experience that faith in different ways. The Irish man can love God in the sadness of the 700 years of oppression, and the Italian can love the same God with fierce Pride of a Roman Soldier. That is what I try to show in this poem.

Mother of a Dying God

2011-01-08T18:11:00.000-08:00

There she stood, at the foot of the tree,
A tree that upheld the God of me.

True, it is God whose life is 'most done.
Yes it is God, but also a son.

The son of a woman, who had seen
Tortures, there, where her son has just been.

When I took Man, the woman was there.
When I beat God, she alone could care.

As I crowned Him, and beat Him with reeds,
Just like her son, in silence she pleads.

I dragged my God on the dirty Way.
I hit Him, whipped Him, and made Him pay.

Now Man's 'most gone, she loves him the more.
For she knows that God opens a door.

I nailed his hands, He pulls out the key.
I nailed his feet, and they both love me.

Once, she gave me her beloved son,
I gave Him a Cross that weighed a ton.

My many sins caused him so much pain.
On the cross He thought of me again.

Failures horrid, and weaknesses great,
He saw all this, but He felt no hate.

The Queen was there when Man breathed his last,
The Mother was there when My God passed.

Now He's in splendor, His passion is done.
His cloak of glory shines like the sun,

His Mother's Queen of heaven and earth,
And through her Son she gives me new birth.

I Love you Jesus, with all my heart.
I pray you and I, shall never part.

This Poem is obviously more apt for Lent, but I did not want to have to sit on it that long. Never fear though, I will certainly have something new for the season of lent.

The Last Drop

2011-01-08T16:04:00.000-08:00

I take my post at the altar of God.
Though I am naught but dirty sod.
Serving the Priest through his holiest task.
In Christ’s power, through him, I bask.
I hold the wine that will soon be the Lord

That passion cup my sins once poured.
Wine I decant, but alas I must stop
The last few drips slide from the top.
Saddened I gaze at the drink that stays wine,
For wine does not heal souls that pine.

It will not change into Jesus Himself.
(Not in it’s look, but it’s true self.
No longer wine, but the blood of the lamb.
The blood of God with right to damn,
But will to save.) This change won’t be for you.

Not you my friend, alas not you.
You slide back down into the glass vessel.
Never a heart will you nestle.
Were you once proud, on your vine so tall?
Were you plumpest? God takes the small.

Just like the priest, he was too once transformed.
Not due to him, no task performed.
Christ wants the meek to be another Him.
To him, you grape, the bright are dim.
Down you will slide through a drain that is dank.
An almost God, no one will thank.

Wonder at him who Christ calls as a Priest.
What tools are his, bread without yeast,
Grapes from a vine, and the words of the Son.
With these few things wonders are done.
I pity you grape that will never be God.
Christ trades the small; Alter Christus for sod .

I wrote this poem, a while ago. It is came to me on the altar as I was serving.

What I am Reading

2011-01-08T15:40:00.001-08:00

I hope to make this a regular post. As a finish or read a book I'll post about it here, I'm on a classics binge right now, so get ready for some oldies. Well Yesterday I finished a book about my favorite masked superhero. The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orzcry. The book is not long nor is the style anything special or spectacular, but the story telling is excellent and the The Blakeney couple are such great characters. Armond St Just is, I think, the person most readers connect with. He is an ardent republican who is disillusioned by the horrors of the reign of terror and the Guillotine. I recommend this book to anyone who likes master of disguises and hero stories.

An Awsome Guy/Liquid Electricity

2011-01-08T11:34:00.000-08:00

As an artist, one cannot help but admire my fellows work, and the wonderful thing about art is the many mediums in which it comes in. Now I would like to pay tribute to an up and coming artist, who I know. his work is excellent and I am sure he will go places. Matt van Lieshout over at http://www.mattvanlieshout.blogspot.com/ is a friend of mine and so very gifted. I urge you to check out his blog if you never have.