From the Armadio degli Argenti of Blessed John of Fiesole, OP (Fra Angelico), c. 1450
‘… I rose up and am still with you.’
‘Let Him Not Lose What He So Dear Hath Bought.’
March 29, 2024 by at 3:00 pm
From Cell 25 of the Convent of San Marco, by Blessed John of Fiesole, OP (Fra Angelico), 15th Century
Think on the very làmentable pain,
Think on the piteous cross of woeful Christ,
Think on His blood beat out at every vein,
Think on His precious heart carvèd in twain,
Think how for thy redemption all was wrought:
Let Him not lose what He so dear hath bought.
–Pico della Mirandola (translated by St Thomas More)
‘… Wounded for Our Iniquities …’
March 29, 2024 by at 12:00 pm
From the Armadio degli Argenti of Blessed John of Fiesole, OP (Fra Angelico), c. 1450
‘… he was wounded for our iniquities, he was bruised for our sins….‘
A Fellow Named Webb
February 7, 2021 by at 11:28 am
A fellow named Webb there once was
Who was hounded and harassed by the fuzz
For committing a crime
Every single time
He just did what everyone else always does.
Tulips for Elsie
February 1, 2021 by at 7:49 am
Reruns
January 16, 2021 by at 3:33 pm
November 17, 2020 by at 9:47 am
becoming myself
could actually happen
i believe it could
on a rainy day
as leaves fall and paste themselves
to pavements and feet
walking familiar
paths to places known too well
shod in shoes worn out
if i were a rich man
counting money like syllables
then maybe i could rest
in increasing luxury
like a poem forming line by line
instead of worrying time
but i am more like
a haiku stanza falling
into line with you
and wishing i could
become myself with vengeance
and take you with me
Murmuration
September 20, 2020 by at 11:19 am
My dad gave me
June 21, 2020 by at 8:10 am
My dad gave me
The history
Of future things
That he could see
And when I saw
The fatal flaw
He showed how mercy
Breaks the law
My mom and I
May 10, 2020 by at 11:23 am
My mom and I
Flew through the sky
Towards the sun
On wings of why
We circled high
And in her eye
Some kindness answered
To my cry
Untitled
January 5, 2020 by at 2:09 am
My oldest daughter’s moon reflects my sun.
My youngest daughter’s sun collects my moon.
The woven strands of stars undone
Within my mind begin to weave a tune
That sings around me in a tunic form
With threads of gravity and mystery
To shield my soul against the wind and warm
The wintry past with future history.
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