Friday, May 26, 2017

Coming to Terms

Coming to Terms

What’s so radical
About misuse of a term?
Words classical,
Once healthy, now deadly germ.

Radical Islam is a misnomer.
Its practice, Koran pure.
So-called moderates, the sarcoma,
The real radical offers no cure.

Radical is not
Pure Islam.
Its principles, its thought,
No peace, no balm.

Pure Islam is
Commitment, conviction.
On infidels quiz
Belief, impose affliction.


The secular west
Did its best
To rid its root
Of Christian fruit.

First in Europe
Began to stir up
Old convictions
Creating frictions.

No need for tradition
With the Enlightenment mission
Of thinking the rational,
Being one, killing the national.

Fluid thinking,
No principles linking
To past truths.
 The secular requires no proof.


Pure Islam and the secular
In strange alliance
Make spectacular
A frightful compliance.

The secular so blind
With no principles at all
Must resign
With submission, withal.


"Radical," you see
Really are the "Moderate."
The rational and secular plea
Have succumbed to the pure threat.

Is it too late
To come to terms?
How long will the secular wait
Before western culture burns?

Saturday, May 20, 2017

Common Curia

Common Curia

It was the last day
In February
Of the year 2013
Which gave us worry.

Why depart
From Office before death?
It was not physical loss
But political breath.

In the 2005 election
Joseph always led.
Jorge always second.
Ballot 4 made Joseph head.

The Curia incensed,
Plotted to change course.
Aided by red hats
Moved with no remorse.

The losers finally won
When Joseph stepped down
Unable to calm insurrection,
Relinguished the papal crown.

The Iago-like process
Took 8 years to complete.
An un-godly subterfuge
The legitimate one they unseat.


It was the
Eighth day in November
Of the Year 2016,
An election to remember.

The legitimate process
Rendered no win popular vote.
It was a college
The Constitution wrote.

Similar to the Roman,
The D.C. Curia incensed
At the unfit candidate
Plotted against.

The agitation seemed organized,
At least that was the rumor.
Certainly the attacks were politicized,
Perhaps by Senator Schumer.

But no!
Chuck’s activity too obvious.
The real source
Is silent and devious.

Who then rakes Executive-45?
Perhaps someone next door.
Someone who never left town.
Yes! Iago-44.


It has been said
Common to Benedict
And Executive-45,
The same to undercut and interdict.

The one who wants to
Close the world’s door
To true liberalism and freedom,
Is the same Iago-44.

Friday, May 19, 2017

If it smells like a rose …

If it smells like a rose …

It probably is
If it smells so.
Probably not
When you so know.

How so
With an institution?
Something as basic
As the American Constitution.

When a certain Article
Legitimates the manner
Of election,
Only one wins the banner.

An Amendment, First,
Announced freedoms
Institutionally allocated,
Created necessary legislative tediums.

When dissatisfied with
The banner bearer,
And institutional respect
Identifies no error,

Unhappy, some press
For executive removal and
Joined by legislative losers left,
Wax reproval.

Those left out
Only left now with fire,
We teeter on chaos.

With ne’er a scintilla
Of deep inspection,
A thousand baseless fits
Form insurrection.

What then smells
Like a rose?
The Constitution
We chose!

Friday, April 28, 2017

Too Many Notes

Too Many Notes

Remember the line
By the emperor
In Amadeus? A whine
From an uneducated lecturer.

The king had no credentials
In the specialty of music.
His knowing only tangential
 He misused it.

“Too Many Notes,”
How did he know?
As emperor he outvotes
Those in positions below.

So, let’s take Bill Nye,
The all-knowing
Science guy,
Whose umbrage is showing.

This mere mortal
Who calculates the future for us all
Believes himself the portal
Of understanding, to him only befall.

It is not umbrage necessarily
That certifies his arrogance,
It is hatred of God, primarily
HIS ongoing creation. Nye is incensed.

“I can be God,
Science backs me up.
My purview is broad
With an overflowing of my cup.”

“The Church is destroyed.
It was science and I
Our method now enjoyed.
‘Lo, the hour of freedom nigh.’”

No, not so fast
You feeble one!
Your method cannot last,
Your work is actually finished, done.

Too many people on earth?
You’ve made a calculated threat
To God Who gives birth.
Your life, too, owed, debt.

Nye, you have no compassion,
Abortion is just another right.
Euthanasia is a process to cash in
Body parts of the dead,  a fury ignite.

You, of all scientists,
Should know science’s premise.
The Church gave you Enlightenment
Now time for your penance.

You cannot create the world,
You can only kill it.
Is that what your science will unfurl?
Can you undo what God writ?

Think it over.
You have a brain.
Give up your hostile takeover
And let the earth remain.

Ode to My Nose


Perfectly positioned
On the front of my face,
Protrude two nostrils missioned
To cover a certain space.

Mine, appropriately shaped.
I don’t know about the rest.
Some exquisitely draped
In the form Romanesque.

Regardless, all of them drip
From time to time
Falling toward the lip
With an opaque slime.

Though in a dripping situation
That slime do I seethe,
I am grateful for my station
As a person who breathes.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017



Have you taken time to consider the source of life,
The unfathomable mystery of our being?
The richness of our breathing rife
With gracious gifts for our finite seeing.

Consider the children of our affection
Helpless but unwittingly trusting in our arms,
To nurture and provide protection
From the world’s devious charms.

What can a God-less society provide
As basis for the moral life?
Its secularist pendulum sways to one side,
But its return cuts as a knife.

The secular is never permanent
It changes with the winds
Bringing to our detriment
No stable community, our chagrin.

So how do we protect His little ones,
The Holy Vulnerables He loves so dearly?
For the good of our daughters and sons
Our tasks can be stated clearly.

'Roe v. Wade' is a prison,
Its legal cuffs allow no room
For the pre-born children of the One Risen,
He Who walked away from the tomb.

Now is the time
To turn the legal table.
A time now ripe and prime,
A sinful law to disable.


Saturday, April 15, 2017

Mary At The Cross

Mary At The Cross

At the Cross her station keeping,
Stood the mournful Mother weeping,
Close to Jesus to the last.

Through her heart, His sorrow sharing,
All His bitter anguish bearing
Now at length the sword has passed.

Oh, how sad and sore distressed
Was that Mother highly blessed
Of the sole begotten One!

Christ above in torment hangs,
She beneath beholds the pangs
Of her dying, glorious Son.

Is there one who would not weep
‘Whelmed in miseries so deep
Christ’s dear Mother to behold?

Can the human heart refrain
From partaking in her pain,
In that Mother’s pain untold?

Bruised, derided, cursed, defiled,
She beheld her tender Child,
All with bloody scourges rent.

For the sins of His own nation
Saw Him hang in desolation
Till His spirit forth He sent.

O sweet mother, fount of love,
Touch my spirit from above,
Make my heart with yours accord.

Make me feel as you have felt;
Make my soul to glow and melt
With the love of Christ, my Lord.

Holy Mother, pierce me through,
In my heart each wound renew
Of my Savior crucified.

Let me share with you His pain,
Who for all our sins was slain,
Who for me in torments died.

Mix’d with yours let my tears be,
Mourning Him Who mourned for me,
All the days that I may live.

By the Cross with you to stay,
There with you to weep and pray,
Is all I ask of you to give.

Virgin of all virgins blest!
Listen to my fond request:
Let me share that grief of yours.

Let me, to my latest breath,
In my body bear the death
Of that dying Son of yours.

Wounded with His every wound,
Steep my soul till it has swooned
In His very Blood away.

Be to me, I Virgin, nigh,
Lest in flames I burn and die,
In this awful judgment day.

Christ, when You shall call me hence,
Be Your Mother my defense,
Be Your Cross my victory.

While my body here decays,
May my soul Your goodness praise,
Safe in heaven eternally.

Source: Rev. Hugo H. Hoever, S.O.Cist., Ph.D., ed. Saint Joseph Daily Missal. (New York: Catholic Book Publishing Company, 1961, New Edition), 252-253.

This sequence hymn was established for Friday in Passion Week. It is included in one of the seven sorrows (dolors) of The Blessed Virgin Mary.

A sequence (Latin: sequentia) is a chant or hymn sung or recited during the liturgical celebration of the Eucharist for many Christian denominations, before the proclamation of the Gospel.