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

Lost.

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!

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

 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.

Children

Children

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.

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.

AMEN.

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. 

Per Omnia Secula Seculorum

Per Omnia Secula Seculorum

 After seventeen hundred years

Western man, enlightened,

Challenged ecclesial peers

With reason, new life to heighten.

Birthed in the tradition

Of The Way,

This rational ambition

Aimed to keep the Church at bay.

No longer any authority revealed,

No transcendent absolute.

A new rationale to wield

Fluid thought making the Word moot.

Indisputable benefit from

This thought-provoked alliance

New depths to plumb

Discovery of modern science.

Though great its gift

To humankind abound,

It began its drift

From absolute ground.

Progressive thought

Lives in the abstract,

Its moorings fraught

With no absolute truths to transact.

Enlightened people crown

Themselves with scientific certainty

Using governments and law to drown

Out any opposing views fervently.

They decide to call

Themselves secular,

To distance from all

The religiously spectacular.

The secular don’t want to hear

Of any tradition in the public square.

Rhetoric is what they fear

From traditionalist who dare.

Diversity is the thought of the day,

A tolerance for almost any.

But listen closely to what they say,

Because they tolerate not the many.

If Hindu, Muslim, or Sikh,

Or Yellow, Brown, or Black,

The secular consider them weak

Because of the Christian historical track.

The secular controls the square

Admitting only what it allows.

While denying who gave it air

To the ungodly it bows.

But there is no secular,

So to this thought make a moratorium.

God’s universe is bound molecular,

Per omnia secula seculorum.

WENjr

My Musing Reason

My Musing Reason

At seventy-three I find

My thoughts and writings emerge

From my mind

With hardly a surge.

Then there are times

When an unknown Source

Creates lyrics of rhyme

Like water flowing its course.

That Spirit might hover

For hours, days, or weeks at a time.

Any writer covets this Lover

With powers so sublime.

In the low country of the tall palmetto

With that Source an artist wrote

A prose, a fluid libretto

Painting life from within an encircling moat.

But at the yellowing of his physical frame,

Came a visit from his Guide.

At first acknowledging his prosaic flame

 He then said, “Come home to Me, abide.”

There is a time for everything under heaven,

For everything there is a reason.

His artistic life was literary leaven,

Never a losing season.