Happy Feast.

Our Lady of Perpetual Help, Help Us Perpetually.


  1. Matthew,

    And of course because foolish poets rush in where wise theologians fear to tread, I offer this meager tribute to her:

    Perpetual Distress Signal

    Stinging the sky, a beautiful beacon beckons the way
    With its splendid gravity of grace, upward, upward…
    To news, traffic and weather in segments and fragments.

    A radio tower is singing through its narrow lattice.
    Threading the first full fade of stars, dull as old hubcaps,
    Its lace of steel pulsing web-like with dew, a damp echo

    Of last night’s rain. By the clipped fingernail of sun
    Time is climbing into its fiery hours even as my car climbs
    Up out of the valley of my life, unlived and static.

    Bumper to bumper, coupled and commuting with other cars
    Climbing from their owners’ own death valleys.
    Apart from our life, we are yet clinging to a part of our life.

    A dwindled glimpse in the rearview mirror: time jogging
    Away, its twin legs pumping with shapely health, such pistons
    That carry off all my Eurydices and other contretemps.

    I wish to hear a little good news on the radio, for once;
    Does the tower stationed at the head of the valley hear
    The stars being newly captured by day’s sky-blue vessel?

    It seems to indicate a point on an infinite crown of sound,
    And behind the stars, Count Basie, and Pius XI, and Mr. Walter
    Winchell, and The Shadow and even Marconi Himself

    Back to the beginning begin to climb out of the universe,
    Playing, narrating, entertaining, inventing like eternal virgins,
    Broadcasting morning prayers to the dead air beyond,

    Believing God to be a reverse transmission of the void,
    His mother with her cloak at dawn broadcasts comfort's blue
    In days without interruption or limit, clement, loving, sweet….

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