May God be kind to captive fish Who dwell in little bowls and wish To swim, and can’t, and have no notion
The night before Our Lord was born Saint Joseph went about forlorn, Knocking at doors from left to right, Knocking at every door in sight,
My meager brightness must I dim: Curtail my scanty skill; My little well, below the brim,
Lest I should ever be mistaken for a mad Manichaean, Who am enamored of realities maybe not three-dimensioned enough, I hereby praise God loudly for all measurements and materials, Foliage, flesh, fabric and fiber, substance and stuff.
If in the sin you now confess There was one tithe of tenderness;
In crocus fashion, sunlight-wise, The Body of Our Lord Slipped through the stone-bound sepulchre, Streamed through the soldier’s sword. Though stripped and whipped and spat upon, Sundered with nail and spear, Thus did our dust in Him prevail At the … Continue reading
Practically every American has heard of the storied railroad engineer of the late 1800’s, Casey Jones, made famous throughout the years in song, story, and film. But it is generally not known that he was baptized a Catholic at the … Continue reading
All that enters through my eye My intellect must simplify; For nothing in my mind can be a Guest unless it’s an idea:
My prayers for you, alas, are all Somewhat anthropological. I cannot separate a whole, Dissect a substance and see a soul;
If in future I my lyre Ever from its rack remove, And go plucking with my plectrum Anything I cannot prove,
In little tasks of daily life Which every man must do, Like climbing up and down a hill, Or counting two and two,
God give me strength In making a rhyme To limit the length, To stop it in time.
Now the King-less Jews, I guess, Are check-mated, And their little game of chess Terminated.
The inn that would not bed and board The Blessed Mother of Our Lord,
I know that God is infinite, But like Him not that way a bit; I love Him, yes, but like Him less;