Wednesday, January 26, 2011


A cry for help is a
cry in pain.
A cry for attention a
dirty shame.

But why should be the call unanswered,
why do we, unanswered, call?
Why should need be met with stone?
Should I pretend not to need at all?

How does one one's weakness plain
when weakness is met with foul disdain?

Tuesday, January 25, 2011


Hey, it's been a while, there's some crazy things going down in my life.  Mostly consisting of the fact that I'm having to realize that our Lord loves each one of us enough to call us to do things which we can't even justify.  Expect a post about it. Eventually.

Maybe this is poetry, or maybe it's just the song which it is when I sing it.
But here.

I see - we all walk in darkness
I've found - we all seek the light.

I know we've all got our reasons
So when you come to me and say

You don't understand,
I say I don't either.
But sometimes our hands
aren't meant to try.

So hold me close
you can't be my guide, now.
But be my friend
And stand by my side.

Friday, January 21, 2011


Love your parents as yourself
And love them to heaven - nothing else.

But live by faith and faith alone
Fire must be brought into homes.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Hey, a couple things.

I recorded this poem I wrote.  You can think of it as a reading, but better.
Take it as it is:

Also, this guy I know runs a great blog.  Here.  It's honest and helpful, personal and relate-able. Check out the Catholicness.

Also, everyone out there check out the March for Life.  It's on Monday.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

What it's Like to Miss One's Friends

It seems to be lust for just one human voice.
Or even some sentient ambient noise.

Too tired to ration sleep as rational
Too longing for something, anything affable.

A Love so Ungraspable

A love so ungraspable,
so lonely, so true,
I am unfathomably
alone without you.

And fear so completed
by guilt  inconsolable
Fear so full yet not afraid
of life so uncontrollable.

Thursday, January 13, 2011


Confession hits like a kick in the face.
Oh the glory, the joy of being put in my place.

Monday, January 10, 2011

We're all drunkards in our own way

We're all drunkards in our own way,
I can look into your eyes and say
"your breath smells just like wine, my dear,
let's keep on breathing tonight, my dear,"

We can say "we're not afraid
to stare at each other's mouths and wait
for it all to just fall out
to figure what it's all about"

I don't know what you see when you look in the mirror
But I know what you say when you talk to yourself.
And I could be ashamed of you
and what you've forced me to
But I-

I love you.

You, Damned Speech

And yet the insecurity
of my inconstant brevity
of thought and speech
and affectation.

Just so when I am company
to friends, I am no faculty.
I fear that they grow tired of me
and lose my hope in empathy.

But when we, metaphysically,
move in the same direction,
often it is nice to make
these physical connections.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Parted Ways

An introspective extrovert
who needs his friends: their touch, their words
must learn, when without company
not to lie match loneliness with vacancy.

I prefer the human kind,
(at least so runs my lonely mind)
to God and his less tactile touch.
These things which I do love so much.

Saturday, January 8, 2011


Your greatest offense
was the flat-out denial
of the pain I would suffer
just to know that you smile.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

The Eve of Everything

I stayed up late on the eve of everything
I've never seen anything happen before.
I drank too much, so when the clock struck twelve
I didn't see it create itself.

Unshadowed Land: III.The Torch

A man, black against the horizon, crosses the crest of the mountain. He is known as Aethon in the town of his birth, one of the best of his kind, and is sorely missed. He is strongly built, but slender after his long journey. The light all round him illuminates his entire person; every detail shines like a moon, his every flaw and failing shines. He cannot bear to see himself, cannot bear to see his arms against the landscape, like darkness shining, glaring against the beauty of the world. Moving as does a weary man, he steps forward, purposed and set. As he begins to see the contents of the valley between the peaks, he slows, feet falling harder and heavier, then sits, gazing into the open land.

"Elaine," he breathes.

He exhales slowly, letting his exhaustion and pains fall away, and, first in a while, resting.

"Oh, Elaine."

His eyes are set upon the single Lily in the center of the valley. Lily, green and white, though no brighter than all else, seemed more perfect somehow, more precious. She seems, in his eyes, like a fire is to its pit. The light seems not only to reflect from her, but to be contained within her and distributed all the more perfectly for it. Not only does she convey the light, but she receives it and chooses to share it, changing it. She is clothed in the sun.

Her light, it seems to him, is focused in the center of her bell, cupped, and held, then radiating. It has a strange color, somehow different from the light all round, but in an indistinguishable way. It is the same light, but new. He has a strange feeling that it is shining in this way just for him, that it appears so because, in some way, of his presence. And stranger still, he finds now that he can look directly into this light, that it does not burn his eyes, but is gloriously colored in some way which he could see. It seems to him, if not the same light that he had seen at his home, at least of the same palette--That it is purely light, but shining from the Lily, is mixed somehow with the Lily's nature. It is visible to him in a way unlike that of the other light, as if his eyes can somehow grasp this light more fully, that it appears more clearly to him now that he might be led to see the greater palette of light up in these mountains, which, so far as he had come, had simply shone some paler grey, subtly transcendental as if under some veil.

The light, before, had simply shone him dark and all the rest light. The light before had separated him from everything else as something of a different sort entirely, of a baser material. Now, sitting just inside this sanctuary, he can see a newness about himself. Aethon seems not to be separated from the land in his entirety, but now to be separated from himself, which is separated from the land. All the things about himself which before had seemed so smudged, in this new light, now appeared loathsome and horrid, terribly perverted. Aethon felt, however, as though, in this light, he belonged in this land. That, if only this light would remain upon him, he could find himself at home here, at peace here, in the heights. This light was the fruit, somehow, he thought, of the Lily and the land, shining together, as if the mountains dwell in the Lily just as she dwells in them. Together, they had begotten this thing so gloriously perfect, real and present as the Lily, just as visible, but also just as bright as the land.

The sun above appears larger than he had ever seen it before. It burns so much brighter than any rising he had yet beheld. The same fire, though as a newer flame, burnt in the Lily. He has forgotten all which he came here to see, all which he planned to understand. He forgets, now, the simple Christianity of his town, the happy news of a man who saves and cleans and heals us, a god who loves and blesses and knows. A god who could be understood, could be tried. A tame god. This light, this land is greater, is mysterious and mystical. He stares, fixated upon the beauty of the light of this singular, white flower, this torch in the land of light.

And so, as he slowly rises to step again forward down toward the plant, he sighs again, not out of pain or exhaustion, but of hope and of awe.


Monday, January 3, 2011


Behold the bolded fealty declared
in our neat grasps so decently shared.
This pledge of mine--all facility
is turned, in pledge, to felicity.

Do mark the pow'r which signs expand;
Now--in the holding of the hands.

Sunday, January 2, 2011


If you noticed chivalry
you would, without question, see
the depth of my fair love for thee
and for a lady's gift of her own company.

Unshadowed Land: II.The Visitor

They told me I would find myself out here. That it didn't make sense, but I would find out who I am. I didn't want to know who I am. But I went out anyway, out here in the wilderness.

I lost myself out here. I left everything I am down at the bottom of the mountains. My thoughts - to be like Christ, I can't be myself anymore. We should be ourselves only inasmuch as we approach the same God from our own beginnings. So I left behind all that made me me.

And I found what I want to be. I found God in the predictable places, I'm glad to say. He said he would be with me anywhere if I remained in him, and everywhere is where I looked. And it's where he was.

But I can only stay here so long. It's bright here. I can't keep my eyes open. There's too much to see. Too much light. The sun is closer here. Somehow it's never dark. It all seems the same. There aren't darker things--there aren't brighter things. Everything is simply pure. Everything in brought together in the shining-everything reflecting off of everything else-all reflecting the same light of the sun as if it were in everything.  And all there is is shining stone.  

But I can't live here. Not normally. I'd give anything to be able to. But I can't for much longer. My clothes look dark. My skin looks dark. My hands are black like night compared to this ever-flowing day.  My hands smudge everything.  There's something I'm covered in.

I'm not ready for this land yet. I don't know what it would look like for something like me to stay here, but surely I'm not meant to. Not now. I'm not ready. I'm too dark. I can't reflect like everything else. It's too much.

Tomorrow is December 8th.  I shall cross over the highest of the mountains tomorrow morning. I shall enter the great ring of peaks. Even if the lore is true, few have ever been here, and none still know what is inside. But I shall know. If I die to see. I can't imagine it being more beautiful than this land itself.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

The Calm, The Calm there in your Palms.

And I had another dream today
That I was a stranger come to say
I love you.
And when you said "why?"
I said "I like your eyes.
They're just black and deep deep blue,
but they see light."

I commented upon your dress
and how the pretty flower press
would bounce just like your auburn hair
and when you spin float in the air
and how you look when I made you smile.
And then we sat there for a while.

You took my hand, do you understand
what it means that I'm a man
who gives and takes and celebrates
what he never ever could have created.
And we sat in contemplation of the fact that we related.

And we danced and spun
and had our fun
and then went back to our respective homes.

Then I awoke.

And the next day when I looked there,
you were gone and it was quite unfair
that I had learnt to love a dream,
had shared a sad solemnity
with someone who I'd never chance to meet.
Someone with such graceful, happy feet.
Such happy feet.

But then I found you yet again
and learnt through you to love a friend
who doesn't quite look just the same
but has your smile and feels your shame
Not auburn hair but tarnished gold
just like her soul.
But she won't see it 'til she's old.

She shies from love but looks for hugs
and finds hope in the strangest drugs
like smiles and nods and dancing free
just dancing free.
Just dance with me and you will see
That all of our reality
is nothing but the modesty
of something so much greater than the trees.
Oh, if you please.
Thank you, please.
Songs of birds and buzzings of the bees
I wish that I could take you to the seas
and melt away your insecurities.
Sorry to tease.
I'll say with ease.
That your hand is better than any memories.
I love you just even more than I did in my sleep.
And you're truer than any of my dreams.

8 Crazy Nights

Freedom and all untimed song-
just melody and unrhymed words.
Following each intoned chorus
and dancing with our unboned swords.

When found the gifts all freely giv'n
taking them is the first step to heav'n.

There is no ascetic debauchery
or drunken nights, raw entropy,
but true ascetic virtue is
to love gifts as gifts and God as He.
And to revel in thankful mysteries.

It is the Octave of Christmas and the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God!
Merry general greatness of Salvation!