The beauty of an evening walk Beneath the shrouded stars Where ripples on the pavement, Transformed by ambient light, Become a pseudo kind of sky A path for souls to trod.   A darkness not yet absolute Though visions greatly blurred By water falling all around Less seen than it is heard, Create a perfect backdrop For mysteries observed.   At end our wanderings led us To stand outside your door And in that spilling forth of light We prayed in one accord. And now I thank you LO

Is it morbid to take such delight In the title of Mary, Our Lady of Sorrows? To spend a portion of each day Trying to meditate on the Passion of our Lord?   As a Catholic, the “Memento Mori” scene Almost becomes a passive catchphrase, Not something most people would look twice at Never think to challenge or probe the intention.   But can I really parse out the line Between a pious regard for mortality And the twisted, clawing consequence of grief, A loss not fully processed o

I beg you LORD, by rule and measure, Make my heart into thy treasure. Grant me to love but with thy heart,           To make my life your work of art. Guide me as I feel my way,           Throughout the trials of my day, Those special gifts you grant to me,            To offer for souls’ eternity. And though some days I may forget,           To greet with charity all those I’ve met, Your grace is always ever near,           You soothe my heart, wipe every tear.

The paradox of art is that all our creativity – All our vision and plans and attempts In whichever media best communicates the interior - Is just a grasping at the unattainable realities Of beauty, truth, and goodness.   And yet, it is necessary to keep creating Even though we are confident that our efforts Will never capture the light that inspired them Because, without the sight that is the gift of the artist, Many will stumble and lose their way.   The vocation of an artis

The beauty of the setting sun           Is magical to see; A spectacle new every day           Yet known to you and me.   An image quite familiar           In many stories told Can help us see the majesty           In things both new and old.   Consider how the western sky           Unfurls, as well we know, New patterns of colors and of clouds           Once sun has dipped below.   The greatness of its influence           Is not so cut and dry That it ceases just because    

The drifting of the dragonflies Across the dappled ground Seems to beckon and invite man To turn his gaze upon the skies.   To see above the beauty effervescent In the ever shifting clouds. The fleeting patterns never same Yet with such subtle grandeur shift.   The head bowed down by daily dirges Eyes firmly fixed on Earth’s surface, No aspiration but to plant the next In a series of unwavering, wearied steps.   Such a vision's scope excludes Any glimpse of horizon or infinit

The universe is enormous: A vastness uncontainable By our limited human minds. A scope that’s wholly alien To our experience on Earth.  ...

A poem about experiencing Eucharistic Adoration on the Fourth of July during the fireworks. Time spent before You is always transcendent:...

I knew you were a dream because real life never feels this way. Reality is couched in particularities, Simple differences between here...

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul; If you look into mine, can you see the darkness? The constant dilation, huge circles...

I wish I could see you because I'm so much better with a smile and a hug than with words. I wish you could sift through the jumbled mess...

Ariel – Do you remember – that one time – when we were princesses? I have lots of favorite photos, memories, moments – but those photos...

I know you're suffering, I'm suffering too. But that doesn't mean I know what to do. There's so many differences In what we go through....

How can I say I’m broken When you’ve been through so much more than me More than I could ever even imagine. How can I say I’m broken When...

There comes a time when pumpkins are plucked from the vine, carted off to somewhere strange, stabbed and scraped hollow, maybe even...

I contain the gift of life And I love to sit in quiet contemplation With my hand pressing towards my heart Feeling my chest rise and fall...