A blessed day
to make my way
among the roots and vines

Spring is here
the promise clear
of life without con-fines

From Spirit strong
is bios drawn
the Lord, the giver of life

Apart from death
the Father’s breath
is Paraclete, bane of strife

Like wind He blows where ere He will
His freedom is profound

A drop from Him cures every ill
He’s present all around

So on this day
I hope and pray
that He will bless me well

What He will give
a grace to live
alas, no man can tell


My form is made to apprehend
the myriad things that shift and bend

The lunar sphere which shines beyond
a nearby shrub beside a pond…

may consist in all or nothing both
yet to my form they surely boast…

of Logos, which, both here and there
creates the world and shews the care…

with which He makes the All collapse
into a portrait strewn perhaps…

with patterns, signs, motifs, and sounds
that reveal His nature, which few have found…

Yet all perceive His glory here
and no excuse have those who shear…

the Truth with empty words and lies!
And justice due will be reprised…

For Light and Life are in the Word
and all with ears have surely heard…

that leavened in full will be the world
The Life of God will be our pearl

On a Dark Night

It seems to count for little
what I’ve heard, what I’ve read
for the mysteries of God are yet left unsaid

In earnest I search the scriptures
and every word, like a thread
by intellect is woven, that light might be shed

But to weave in one fashion seems akin to all others
In this one respect, all threads seem like brothers
that each, in their turn, seem plausible at best
yet far am I from certain in which I may rest

Still, intellect itself
where Grace is concerned
will serve but a little
afore all is unlearned

For the thread which is spoken is not the true thread
The intellect, to all concepts, in Truth must be dead


The aspirant, green, to the Lord doth say
according to my justice, by your hand grant me pay

For the Law he doth count a thing known to himself
as a writ profound, sitting high on El’s shelf

But the Law is to song as a bird is to flight
its contours distinct, but its course, beyond sight

To the aspirant, then, frustration is had
when he weighs his own deeds on a scale, good or bad

From their law naught but shame do the arrogant receive
but the humble grow richly if only they believe

For Grace comes by faith, as St. Paul does attest
The Song called by Logos, of itself, grants them rest


St. Peter’s dome is girded round
with carven shapes, their form profound

From underneath, its awesome swell
wrought with pains too great to tell…
bespeaks of order, grand and pure
the weight of time its beams endure

Atop the dome is fixed the Cross
From age to age it greets the lost

The cornerstone is Jesus called
and by His word are men enthralled

Yet Logos reigns beyond the base
The work entire is had by Grace

For whether in power he makes the Earth
or grants to man the gift of birth…

Christ himself obeys the Lord
and makes his Will a thing out-poured


When off to academe I went
with promise and twinkling eye
I thought all kinds alike to me
but my thinking was awry

For when I had occasion once
to speak among my peers
of matters plain it seemed to me
no cause for strife or tears…

they said my words would not be heard
my thoughts worth less than chaff
The lack of pigment in my skin
had somehow earned their wrath

This accusation, new to me
was wholly strange and foul
My kin were stock in ancient lands
on grounds both rich and fallow

They came here Poles, they came here Greeks
they came here Slavs and Swedes
Many were poor, many were bent
and many were Catholics, indeed!

But when the rich in academe decided we were white
it was then in our own neighborhoods when first began our plight

Will to Action

Action is the key
From action do we flee
Ineptitude strikes each man in his turn

Though it makes a demand
by action, we stand
and by action the fetters are burned

Pointed action of body and mind do attest
to strive is far better than to coddle one’s rest

So before you are taken by death and decay
before the ashen Keeper with you has his way…

Direct each organ to work for the Good
Every man of strong will has been what he would

The Ten-Thousand Things

There once was a greybeard who looked at the world
“The ten-thousand things!” he spake, lips unfurled

He knew that his number was silly and trite
but a Truth he embedded in his verbage that night

Every bit of nature has presence in its time
but the ten-thousand things change their shape..
as a rhyme

The leaf that today is trod underfoot
in a day might be burned and turned into soot

But the leaf is a leaf for today and all time
and the soot will be soot in its day..for all time

The learned might name the greybeard a dunce
but every leaf, every frog
is ten-thousand things..
All at once

True North

A gift was given
The world was riven

A spectrum profound
I’m ripped from the ground

The gates begin to widen
A new Cosmos to stride in

I seek forbidden rites
The soul is aflight

The Christ spoke it true
Hundreds have been made new!

Afore the Nazarene
A host were made Clean

But my ego interfered
The intellect not reared

I thought myself tall
But in truth, I’m very small

The ego beaten down
My intellect, but a clown

Having realized my plight
God’s Grace is the Right

Knowing the fleshy course
His Grace is the Source.