JUBILEE 2000: ST. PETER'S BASILICA

September 2000

Reflecting on God’s grandeur, I marvel

  At the beauty that surrounds me,

The statue of the Pietà vibrantly reflects

  The sweet sublimity of God’s mercy;

The nave floats in the swirling, variegated,

  Multi-colored waves of a marble ocean,

And massive pillars of magnificent marble

  Stand at attention like the Swiss Guards.

As the doors silently open, the Holy Father’s

  Vehicle slowly rolls down the aisle,

And in rushes a breeze of heavenly hope

  That placidly fills the sails of our souls;

I stand on my chair and see the saint whose

  Faith defeated the dreary dark night,

As he kisses a babe, love ripples through

  The crowd and rhymes in our hearts.

DIVINE MERCY AT PEYTO LAKE

August 1988

As I struggle up the steep path,

My legs now feel much heavier,

And I wonder if the view will really

Be worth the arduous journey;

I see a sage old man approach,

Bearded like one of the prophets,

When I ask if I should continue,

He winks at me and nods yes;

Finally, when I reach the summit,

I behold the Valley of Heaven -- 

I breathe the Holy Spirit into my

Soul, and then exhale a smile;

The snow-capped mountains

Glisten in the warm soothing Light,

As the lovely lake glimmers from 

The Divine Mercy rays of the Son.

DIVINE MERCY AT MORAINE LAKE

August 1988

It is a bright beautiful morning in the

  crisp clean air of the Canadian Rockies,

We ascend as I drive up a wonderfully

  windy road past babbling brooks,

The two of us are together, in the car that

we affectionately refer to as the “Tin Can”;

After reaching the sunny summit,

  we gently roll into the Valley of the Ten Peaks;

We finally arrive at the large lake and 

  look up at the regal ring of mountains,

Yet I feel slightly saddened because

  somehow it’s less than I expected;

A lodge that looks like a big log cabin

  stands silently like a sentinel near the water,

We decide to dine there and enjoy a 

  delightful bit of roast beef for lunch;

The savory flavor of my sandwich lingers

  in my mouth, as I think about my morning,

I try to cunningly convince myself that 

  I’m not disappointed, but I know that I am. 

Departing for our next destination,

  I wistfully walk towards our little car,

But as I look to the right, I see a

  tar-black hill with a winding trail upon it;

The people look like pilgrims as they

  make their way up the mysterious mound,

Curiosity gradually grows within me as I 

  ponder, puzzled, where the path leads;

So I investigate and struggle up the steep

  trail, tripping occasionally on rock and rubble,

But when I get to the top, I am frozen

  with fascination as I behold the view;

Above me is a diadem of snow-tipped peaks,

  gleaming with the glory of God,

Below me is the pristine lake, and it is

  shimmering and sparkling like a gemstone;

It appears as if millions of sapphires

  and emeralds have melted into liquid,

And the blue-green color of the 

  lovely lake is luminous in the sunshine.

My senses are suddenly soaked in Your

  Holy Spirit’s lasting love, and I feel Your beauty,

At this moment, nothing else matters,

  and I only long to be close to You;

At this moment, I am oblivious to my past,

  and I am oblivious to my future,

I am living in the eternal and

  mystical present of the great I AM;

You are Holy Humility, You are

  Magnificent Mercy, You are Limitless Love,

And with Your divine sense of humor,

  You really are the God of surprises.

CASTEL GANDOLFO

June 2023

Just outside of Rome,

about ten minutes or so

after passing Due Santi,

where St. Peter and St. Paul met,

I got terribly twisted around

while driving on the convoluted roads

of venerable Castel Gandolfo --

in short, I was lost.

Sadly, I never found Ristorante Da Agnese,

where Sweetie Pie had previously dined

with her university class

(and where I now had luncheon reservations);

in fact, I never even got close.

Instead, I ended up on the other side of

Lago Albano, in the heart of

beautiful Castel Gandolfo --

but I was hungry,

very very hungry,

and I was struggling

to find another restaurant —

let alone find parking.

Well, I drove back and forth

along the main road,

along the top of the volcanic crater,

with its steep breathless drops-offs,

and I almost felt as if I were riding

a white-knuckler roller coaster.

Finally, I found a potential place

where I might be able to eat lunch:

Ristorante Gardenia --

but the big question was

would it be open.

So I stepped down into

what I thought would be

the lobby, but since the restaurant

was built into the hillside of the crater,

I suddenly found myself walking

down, down, down --

quite a long way.

Eventually, I found someone,

and in my best Italian,

I asked if they were open,

and if I could have lunch there.

They were very kind,

and they said they could serve me

in just a few minutes

after the kitchen was open.

So I waited out on the side balcony,

sitting comfortably on a sofa,

which faces the very top

of Castel Gandolfo,

where, just a short way up,

I saw the antiquated domes

of the Papal Palace’s Vatican Observatory

amidst the charming Italian buildings,

in lovely pastel shades,

and the lush greenery

that blanketed the hillside.

Soon, the smiling waiter

led me to my small little table,

right on the edge

of a very narrow balcony

that overlooked the lovely lake.

The balcony’s rail was of

black wrought iron,

and the large elegant lamps

that hung from the ceiling

reminded me of

the glory and grandeur

of the age of Christendom.

I placed my order,

and then looked out

over the glory of God,

stunning Lago Albano

in all of its magnificent beauty.

Truly, the views were

nothing short of spectacular,

and as the sun slowly strolled

through the afternoon sky,

the chameleonic lake

gradually seemed to change colors.

I saw emerald, aquamarine, teal, gray,

in the most wonderful shades imaginable,

and the colors varied

depending upon the light,

the angle of the light,

and the movement of the

dramatic dark storm clouds

that were gathering,

in the distance,

and, eventually,

over the lake itself.

First, the waiter brought

some refreshing Natía water,

with fresh-baked bread --

and being a bread lover,

I was a happy man.

Then, came the main course,

Gnocchi alla Sorrentina,

one of my favorite dishes,

and it was prepared to perfection --

in fact, it was a masterpiece,

from an aesthetic perspective

as well as a culinary perspective.

It was the perfect blend of

semolina dough and potato,

and the delicious pasta,

brimming in the cupped dish,

was elegantly served

in a light and mild tomato sauce

that was bursting with flavor;

it was topped off

with fresh fior di latte

and a lovely sprig of basilico --

I felt like a king.

Then, for dessert,

I tasted the finest Babà con Crema

that I have ever had,

a rum-soaked cake

in the shape of a brioche,

filled with sweet cream,

and served on an artistic plate

which was cratered with indentations

(presumably, to make it easier

for me not to miss a morsel

of this unforgettable pastry).

So as I reflected back upon my afternoon,

I asked myself the question,

Why did I allow my mind

to get all twisted around

when things didn’t go my way,

when I was not in control?

Why didn’t I trust in God,

the God of surprises,

who spent this entire trip

trying to teach me

that through trust

He would shower His

divine mercy upon me --

which He did, repeatedly --

even in the dark night

of unknowing?

FIRST TRIP

Dedicated to my Father: Circa 1970

Me and Dad were at

Knott’s Berry Farm and

he couldn’t wait to share

his favorite attractions with me;

the torch of his enthusiasm

burned even hotter

than the fiery ashes

of his cigarettes;

but I was like a wet match,

soaking wet,

and Dad had no chance,

no chance at all --

my whole world was

Disneyland;

hot words of anger

gathered in his mouth

like fierce storm winds,

but then he hesitated,

thought pensively for a moment,

and, finally, swallowed them;

with a smile of selfless surrender,

he took my hand in his own

and, together, we walked

towards the parking lot.

BINGO NIGHT

Circa 1970 

It was Thanksgiving evening, and the lamps

  Glowed cheerfully in the cozy house;

Though the clean little home was modest,

  It was filled with the sweet scent of love.

We were all stuffed with good food, and

  Ready for some post-meal entertainment;

So the time had come for everyone in the

  Family to engage in some competitive fun.

Our very alert ears quickly snatched the

  Numbers out of the air, one by one;

Then our fingers excitedly placed the

  Small black discs on the bingo cards.

Aunt Therese felt sorry for me, a young boy,

  Because I was terribly saddened by losing;

So winking with a smiling old eye, she

  Pushed her stack of pennies into mine.

LITTLE PRAYER AFTER HOLY COMMUNION

Inspired by St. Louis de Montfort & St. John Paul II

Tuus totus ego sum,

Et omnia mea tua sunt.

I am all yours, O my Jesus,

And all that I have is yours,

Through Santa Maria,

Your most holy mother.

Come, Holy Spirit!

I pray for myself…

I pray for my family…

I pray for my faith community…

I pray for the world…

I pray for the poor souls of purgatory…

Vive Jésus!

Amen.

PRAYER ON THE WAY TO MASS

Based on the writing of St. Francis de Sales

O Lord,

I recognize

my unworthiness,

and I humbly

ask pardon

for my sins.

Amen.

THE SPIRITUAL BATTLE

Guardian Angel, please pray for me,

Because the devil tempts us to obsess,

We must evade the evil of worldly idols,

And not dream of what to possess;

Thirsting for things can thicken anxiety,

Which can seem to never cease,

We struggle and tuggle with all our might,

And banished is all our peace.

The diabolical dragon swoops down,

Determined all good to destroy,

With the flaming fire of enslaving greed,

He seeks to kill all devotion and joy;

But as our trustworthy guide from Heaven,

With love you sing a sweet prayer,

And your petitions rise like a happy dove

Higher and higher up into the air.

When the evil one tries to pour words of

Corrosive poison into our innocent ears,

Teach us to think of the Lord Jesus crucified,

So that banished are all our fears;

When we dance with delight with temptation,

Help us the crucifix recall,

For the cross crushes the devil’s teeth,

And into hellish Styx he will fall.

Meditating on the gore of Golgotha,

Our hearts like tearful candles melt,

Knife-like nails puncture his palms,

And blood trickles to where Our Lady knelt;

Then our foolish obsessions are obliterated,

By the power of His holy love,

And we are magnificently made new,

By His grace flowing from above.

Trying to lure us into obsession,

The devil deceptively dangles his bait,

But seeing you push us out of harm’s way

Only fuels his mad fury and hate;

We escape the avalanche of avarice,

That can crush the soul like snow,

You lead us on a path filled with Light,

So that our life in the Spirit will grow.

LITTLE PRAYER TO ST. MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL

Dear St. Michael,

You are the great warrior angel,

Ready for the spiritual battle,

Always sober, vigilant, and alert,

You wait and watch for the enemy;

Then in the midst of black terror,

You slay the red dragon of fear,

And brandish the sword of the Spirit,

The glorious golden sword of Love;

Teach us to become brave soldiers,

Soldiers of Jesus Christ the Lord,

Nourished by the holy Bread of Life,

Refreshed by His sweet new wine.

Amen.

TO POPE BENEDICT XVI

As you bashfully smile,

you extend both arms

and wiggle your fingers:

your welcoming wave

is a gentle greeting to

the pilgrims at St. Peter’s.

A prudent theologian,

you write the most

eloquent of encyclicals;

being a classical pianist,

you speak wisely about

true beauty and true art.

In your own quiet way

you shepherd the flock,

for you’re a very holy man;

you’re an obedient son,

a simple man of Love,

a humble genius.

JUBILEE 2000: VIA CRUCIS

September 2000

Pummeled by Parkinson’s,

he battles through the basilica,

leaning forward, heavily,

hunched over, crushed

under an invisible

wooden cross, laden

with the world’s woes;

from the ocean of onlookers,

a mother mildly lifts up

her little newborn,

and the Polish pope

most tenderly

blesses the babe

with a gentle kiss;

the spectators exhale

a halo as they breathlessly

and solemnly sigh, “O!”

TO ST. JOHN PAUL II

You have a playful, loving smile

  that was delightfully disarming,

You have pleasant, penetrating eyes

  that looked deep into our souls,

As a humble seminarian you silently

  evaded the nefarious Nazis,

Years later, your heroic words crushed

  the cold-hearted Communists;

Your valiant, victorious voice was

  carried on the wondrous wings

Of the cheerful cherubim, who raced

  round the globe and rained down

On the world God’s heavenly hope

  and wonderful words of wisdom.

You are a saint for our century:

  poignant poet, daring dramatist,

Protector of the powerless,

  merciful mystic, pro-life pope,

And stalwart spearhead who ignited

  the fire of the New Evangelization;

Your hideous opponent the devil,

  like a sly, sneaky soccer player,

Tantalizingly tried to kick abortion

  through Holy Church’s doors, but

As the goalie of the Chair of St. Peter,

  you flicked away temptation,

With your rock-solid shepherd’s staff

  gripped in your warrior-like hands.

With courage, you relentlessly pursued

  Christ’s love even though

You had to trudge terribly through

  the dreadful, dreary dark night

Of Nazi dictatorship, and you had

  to bear the wicked weight of the

Cruel, crafty Communists in your

  beloved, historic home of Poland;

Through your remarkable writings

  you lifted us ever so high in the air

In a Heaven-bound spiral, far far above

  the murky mist of moral relativism

And into the sublime, sunny splendor

  Of Christ’s truth and freedom.

LIFE IS WORTH LIVING

In stature the bishop was rather short,

But spoke with power like a judge in court;

Sometimes his sharp eyes were piercing swords,

Other times his smile was warm, like the Lord’s;

His divine sense of humor won us all,

Yes, “Uncle Fultie” always had a ball;

His Shakespearean drama shook the soul,

Yet leading us to Heaven was his goal.

TO SAN PADRE PIO

When we, your stubborn spiritual children,

Don’t listen to you in holy confession,

You slap the Spirit into our sleepy souls,

As you make prayerful intercession.

When we plan to drop the blitzkrieg bombs

Of mortal sin into our desperate heart,

You bilocate and bravely speak the truth,

And the holy fear of God to us impart.

When the evil one stealthily attacks us,

Aggressively seeking victims to devour,

As a warrior, you heroically hunt him down,

And lasso the beast with Rosary power.

A PROFILE OF COURAGE

Eugenio Pacelli is consecrated a bishop,

  In Italy’s historic city of Rome,

But he is flung like a javelin into Germany,

  And Munich is now his home;

Egelhofer sends Commander Seiler

  On a mission filled with human hate,

The truth is Mr. E. thirsts for blood,

  And Pacelli he wishes to assassinate;

Commander Seiler and his gang selfishly strut

  To the bishop’s place of residence,

They’re planning a brash bold attack,

  Plotting his murder with confidence;

They threaten the servant with weapons,

  So she reluctantly lets them in,

Now they await the bishop’s return,

  Thinking victory they will win.

Seiler stands ready at the door,

  With his thugs in a semicircle around,

Armed with loaded guns and grenades,

  Their faces are rather frowned;

When the bishop opens the door,

  Seiler points a pistol at his pectoral cross,

Yet Pacelli fearlessly stands his ground,

  And shows him who is boss;

The holy bishop speaks as soft as an abbot,

  Or even a most prayerful friar,

But his courageous words rip into them,

  Like relentless machine gun fire;

The bishop’s eyes are two spear tips,

  That pierce right through their souls,

And in a daze they gape back at him,

  As motionless as telephone poles.

With empty hands the would-be assassins

  Return to Egelhofer the Extreme,

To his surprise, Pacelli still lives,

  And in the Munich diocese reigns supreme;

The bishop bravely swatted their plans,

  As if they were harmless flies,

Never before had they looked at a priest

  With such powerful paralyzing eyes;

During the Second World War,

  He saved countless lives from Nazi extermination,

And many Jewish people commended him,

  For his covert operation;

This lean, stately figure ran the Church,

  Though he never sought out fame,

He is better known as Pope Pius,

  The Twelfth who has held that name.

TO ST. FAUSTINA

You, the mystical    

missionary of mercy,        

are honored as        

the first saint        

of the Great Jubilee,        

the first saint        

of the new millennium;    

you serenely smile        

as the blessed blood        

and the blessed water        

kiss and mingle    

in the infinite ocean        

of Divine Mercy;    

you see the barque    

of St. Peter as it    

faithfully floats on     

the beautiful waves,        

protected from the    

storm winds of worry,    

free from all fear;    

like the warm welcoming    

arms of the Bernini Colonnade

at St. Peter’s Square,        

Divine Mercy is ready to    

earnestly embrace every    

hardened sinner who            

hungers for healing and    

thirsts for generous love:    

Jezu ufam Tobie!

THE MIRACLE OF THE SUN

Like Rosary beads dipped in holy water,

  Raindrops are falling from the sky,

Seventy thousand people in the roaring rain

  Who would really rather be dry;

The valley of the Cova da Iria is a black

  Blanket of umbrellas and hats,

And the drenched, dripping crowd is like

  A muddy mob of very curious cats;

Three children kneel before an outdoor altar

  As they await the promised sign,

And non-believers mockingly joke that

  The children are just tipsy with wine;

The riotous rain finally stops at noon,

  As the weather is forced to succumb,

But noon passes, and Heaven is late,

  So perhaps no miracle will come.

But then a marvelous, mystical stillness and quiet

  Come over this blessed place,

All laughter subsides and totally vanishes,

  Without even the slightest trace;

Our Lady appears to all the three children,

  Wearing garments dazzlingly white,

Her shape is graceful and delicate,

  And her clothing is brighter than light;

Her eyes are like sparkling jewels,

  And her sweet voice makes their hearts sing,

Her face is most exquisitely beautiful,

  And she is a treasure of the great King;

But after hours and hours of waiting,

  The crowd sees nothing at all,

If a Heavenly sign they don’t get,

  Then perhaps the children they’ll maul.

After speaking to the three young children,

  Our Lady casts a glance up above,

She gently points upwards to Heaven,

  With a heart filled with mercy and love;

Then Lucia quickly points at the sky,

  And tells everyone to look at the sun,

They only see a thick cloudy darkness,

  So their expectations are little or none;

But through the clouds the sun is slicing,

  And it’s spinning like a circular saw,

At this very strange and unnatural sight,

  The crowd’s nerves really feel raw;

The sun is like a gyrating sparkler,

  With sizzling sparks flitting about,

It is held by God’s invisible hand,

  He is mighty -- of this there is no doubt.

Then the fickle sun changes colors,

  And the many spectators reflect its glow,

The chamelionic sun lights up sky and land,

  Putting on an impressive show;

First the sun turns a stunning silver,

  And this is followed by a brilliant blue,

Then it turns a glorious, gleaming gold,

  Followed by a most radiant red hue;

Every so often there are stellar explosions,

  With blinding bursts of light,

The people are starting to tremble,

  And are wondering if they should take flight;

They stare at the sun for a very long time,

  Yet none of them hurt their eyes,

The whole crowd gapes in surreal wonder,

  Observing this sign in the skies.

But suddenly unbolted from the wall of clouds,

  The sun moves about in the sky,

It looks like it’s riding on a roller coaster,

  On invisible tracks way up high;

The blazing orb dances in a fiery frenzy,

  Although there’s not a lot of wind,

And glacial hearts are melting below,

  Of those who have seriously sinned;

But now, like a menacing molten meteor,

  The sun falls down towards the Earth,

Thousands of people cry out in terror,

  Not experiencing any kind of mirth;

Alarmed atheists pray Our Fathers,

  As their hearts’ flag of surrender is unfurled,

And agnostics stagger and stumble for cover,

  Fearing it’s the end of the world.

Approaching at a frightful velocity,

  The sun gradually drinks the dark sky,

As the speeding star draws ever nearer,

  The people are preparing to die;

The red giant now fills the heavens,

  And the situation is exceedingly dire,

The surface of the sun is a seething solar ocean

  Of fantastical flaming fire;

But all this time the three good children

  Have visions from the Heavenly realm,

They experience ecstatic joy and peace,

  Since the good God is at the helm;

Then, in the twinkling of an eye,

  The crowd looks up through happy tears,

They’re stunned because their nightmarish vision

  Very suddenly disappears.

Just ten minutes earlier, the spectators in the

  Cova were standing in the mire,

But now, in a flash, it is completely dry --

  Faster than anyone could ever desire;

Ten miraculous minutes…

  Have forever softened many thousands of souls,

Their lives are totally transformed,

  And they no longer seek secular goals;

October 13, 1917…

  Will be remembered throughout all of history,

Though for skeptics who read of Fatima,

  This day may always be a mystery;

Many atheists and agnostics saw a miracle

  That made them turn quite pale,

So know that this story happened,

  And it is not some silly fairy tale.

TO SAINT THÉRÈSE OF LISIEUX

My sweet Little Flower,   

your humble acts of charity   

are like tiny mustard seeds,    

yet when they’re poured out    

upon the fruitful fields of Heaven    

by the Father’s faithful fingers,    

they form a mountain of love    

that would gracefully tower    

over the mighty Everest;    

you stand in great strength,    

as the missionary of missionaries,    

in the gentle presence of    

the Virgin of virgins,    

the Mystical Rose    

of incomparable beauty,    

and your precious seeds of prayer    

are cultivated with care by the    

ever patient Divine Gardener,    

nourished by His living water,    

producing a bountiful harvest of    

salvation in our suffering world;    

above the clouds of worry,    

your cheerful sky is always blue --    

help me to follow your example    

so that my soul too may sing    

those heartfelt words of wisdom:    

“My vocation is love!”

THE SAINTLY COUPLE

Behold the Little Flower’s mom and dad,

They pray for parents about to go mad.

The Martin family had five sweet girls,

So their devout home was filled with French curls;

Louis and Zelie were full of great love,

They taught their daughters the path of The Dove;

With their “little queen” they had lots of fun,

And each of their girls became a young nun;

When Louis and Zelie finally died,

Heaven’s beautiful doors opened real wide.

So parents that want to pull out their hair

Should ask them for help, for they really care.