INRI (A Poem)

I love my pen;
by it I post
the page, the lines that cross

my mind have crossed
here through my pen
the page to which I post.

But what I post,
has it, then, crossed
the soul with mortal pen?

I that penned and posted to the cross?

The Office (A Poem)

I am a book

A weapon

A yoke

You know this

You must!

You set my ribbons in place

Firmly, grasping at the words within

Gasping at the “Glory Be”

Slipping into slumber

As the world turns

I sit on my shelf

My pages unturned,

Containing within myself

Liturgy! The Word of God spoken! A life worth living

Oh but why do you ignore me?

Adore all else until the last light

Forces you awake

Asleep in my pages

You lie.

I see frustration burrowing within you

Pages drifting out of your spine as you

Forget.

Who you are?

What you’ve done?

Then all you can do is heave

Your rot-less husk of a hardback

Into your shelf and open

Me. I. Your friend and your mentor.

Your closest ally and your starkest reality.

It is I, bound in this menial leather,

That is freest.

And you will again fall asleep,

Many hours forgotten,

Unwritten.

Unspoken.

Not so much prayed as endured. Not so much spoken as sighed.

Candlemas (A Poem)

The crowd comes to gather the darkness.

No light to their wicks has yet sprung.

The church doors allow them no entry.

The night is no longer so young.

Face spreads to face a grey pallor.

No mouth to an ear spreads a lie.

Years upon years mark the aged.

In darkness, they ready to die.

Yet hark! Now a spark among tinder!

Yet see! Now a flame doth arise!

Its light, now a color ‘midst pallor!

Its warmth, now a shine in their eyes!

Now candles light, one to another!

The flaming bright, miming the sun!

Face looks to face, sees a brother!

Hope, with the fire, has won!

For Christ has now entered the temple,

And the Holy of Holies revealed!

The veil is now torn for the priesthood,

The crowd opens doors to be healed!

Glory to God in the highest,

For the people have longed to be free!

Glory to Father, Son, Spirit,

One God and one Lord, Trinity.

Ron Dicianni: "Simeon's Moment"

Miseri Cordis (A Poem)

There is a man who I must be
And yet I do not know his name.

Not yet his body rightly see

Though his cross for mine I claim

Oh the quest through dark night weary

Now my soul must surely claim

For it finds nothing certain clearly

Save uncertainty of name.

And now my wretched heart I know

Holds yet a pain I cannot name

And O this melancholy sow'd

What in reaping will God claim? 

That starkly nameless go I now

Flying fast from flaming claim

Of my soul as is, but how

To crack at the ice and name

The Godhead I so endow

As with life of me, my name

And so freely give up, now,

The free will that I had claimed.

O God, this wretched heart of mine
Is now a mercy that I claim
For though mercy's fogged in time
Heaven's splendor lights my name.

Replies to Marlow's Passionate Shepherd (A Poem)

• What is love? (Baby don’t hurt me)
  Leave my freedom to live with thee?
  What thing in nature have I missed?
  I’m an environmentalist.

• Sit on some rocks? Rlly? Alot?
  OMG dude thts not even hot
  You can see sheep if you want, well
  I look for signal for my cell.

• Roses! You are minority!
  But God takes my priority.
  (Sigh in grief, my friend, moan and groan
  Welcome to this lady’s friend zone.)

• A gown made of the finest wool
  Bright white, and light, and yet quite dull
  This is not right for my station
  I crave the latest sensation

• These pleasures will not make me move
  You’ll learn you've got a lot to prove
  You think you can so easily
  Get your grubby hands on me?

…


Perhaps the shepherd swains will sing
For the delight of each morning
Far will the shepherd have to move
In search of things resembling love...

Stress Level (A Poem)

Sit down there. Have a care. Listen to some tunes. Put in the headphones. Ignore the loons upstairs. No one even cares. It’s not like you can be caught unawares. No one ever stops and stares. Listen to the rhyme. Have a good time. Eat a lime and pucker up. Refuse the offered buttercup. Catch the rude dude on the swing. It’s just mood, dude, what you’re fighting. Eat it up. Information in a cup. Overdrink and spit it out. Give your forehead a good clout. Find a stout stick and stick it out. Sit down there, and pout it out.


Stand up now. Have a cow and rush and row. Realize what you forgot. You’ve let your brain turn into rot. And now you’ve got a lot to do. Panic till you see it through. Be frustrated, down and blue. Be sleepless, helpless. Be self-sufficient. Die a little. Ha! That’s inefficient. Sigh and moan. These wounds of woe. Weep and sigh. Carry on so. They don’t seem to want to leave you, though. Stand up now, it’s time to go.


Kneel and pray. Let Him have say. Practice joy up on your bed. Let it all flow out your head. Weep and groan and sigh and moan. You’re almost grown, you soldier, you. He’ll carry you home if you’re all through. Battle scars and wounds all, too. He’ll help you till you’re finally you. Just let Him, and that’s what He’ll do. Shut up idiot, you know it’s true. Do it now, don’t take all day. Let your guard down all the way. Listen close now, Hear Him say: Kneel and Pray. Stray this way, into day.

Photo by: praycatholic.wordpress.com 

O Hope (A Poem)

The flowers are dead in the meadow

All that hearkens to God is ignored

All that is Man stands in shadow

And the battle-cry put to the sword

O Hope
For the End

Can renewed be a blade that was broken?

Dust and blood wiped from the eye?

Can ear of man be made to hearken?

And mouth of man, made to cry?

For in every fell deed day is darkened

As the Son of God dims, He will die

O Hope
For the Power

Yes cry the angels in heaven

Yes cry the soldiers below

The helmet indeed has been cloven

Greater indeed is our foe

O Hope
You won't Bend

Still we hope for a dawn yet unbroken

Still we fight for a light that is veiled

Our ears we have made to hearken

The God-man in heaven, we hail

And though we die in this day that is darkened

Our beating heart has not yet failed.

O Hope!
This is our Hour!

Photo by: http://wallpaperus.org

In the works: Two modern heresies and a definition of religion! Pax!

For When the Beads Fall (A Poem)

There is a Rosary
Of days stretching out
Before us
As if prayed late at night
With fumbling lips
And whispering hands

And you knowing you

Are miles from
The last
Amen

How can we
Endure it
?

And yet you
Say your Hail Marys
As if your heart were a
Candle in the dark
Instead of a crack in the basket
As if
Our Celtic crosses were meant
To intertwine so

     Lovingly.

Onward, then 

I say to you
Saints and Sinners
Into the Dark
Our Rosaries biting in our hands
And slicing in our throats
Like daggers naked
For the devil to behold.

The guardian angels will light the way
When the beads fall from our hands

A sigh dropped from weak humanity
A tear mournfully masquerading as
A Rose 

As the (k)night falls

Photo by: asksistermarymartha.blogspot.com 

Business as Usual (A Poem)

Saints are different from
Sinners because they
Carry On. 

Saints, however
Carry On because they are a
Sinner. 

Sinners, then, are simply
Saints, that do not
Carry On. 

Sinners, rather, are to
Carry On if they wish to be a
Saint. 

Carry On, then, O you
Saint and
Sinner! 

Carry On, then, O you
Sinner and
Saint!

Readers, I've just finished High School! I don't really know how to feel, how to act, or what to do. Pray for me, then, as I feebly carry on, 

darkness and light, sadness and joy.

The advent of a new age. The end of a celebration.

Speak Love Softly (A Poem)

Isn't it lovely that you don’t have to be yourself? 

I walk into my parent’s room.
I’m a child.
I've had a bad dream,
And I need to wake up.

That dream is my life, and I feel
Like it’s dead.
I’m a lone corpse
And I need resurrection.

Isn't it lovely that you don’t have to be yourself? 

The room is empty save
For the music box on the shelf.
It plays softly, slowly.

The clutter is overflowing the dresser.
A gun belt, a few knives, many coins
All fall away.
What was sought, No. What was found
Is a crucifix. Christ’s arms are spread wide in the agony of embrace.
I hold him in my hand as the music plays on.

Isn't it lovely that you don’t have to be yourself?

I look into their mirror
And I see my face. But more importantly I see
Eyes that have seen too much evil
A nose upraised at too many a problem
Ears that too often failed to listen
A mouth that was opened too many times in scorn
A head that was not bowed enough.

Isn't it lovely that you don’t have to be yourself?

And the dead weight can be lifted?
And the sin forgiven?
And the corpse given life?
And the fault cut away?
Thrown away?
Eradicated?
Destroyed?
Annihilated?

Crucified..?

Isn't it lovely?

Photo by: www.ag.org

Philomena (A Poem)

Eyes
With a piercing
Gaze, staring straight
Into mine. Arms, folded into
A prayerful embrace, as if holding my…
Soul

Her expression is blank, but I
See in it, more love and devotion than I expect.
I am left breathless by her
Beauty. My heart longs, simply to…
Hear her speak.

It is as if She
Were alive, though she died
Long ago, as a…
A Martyr.

Her face, so full of Peace
Does not betray that she was be
-headed, nor say how much pain she dealt with.
Still, I find myself crying. Peace be with thee,
Philomena.

Photo by: http://www.adorare.ch

Reach Me a Rose (A Poem)

Reach me a rose

With the formless grace

Of olfactory sunlight

Reach me a rose

Heaped with blooms

Spread like wings

In this valley of ashes

Reach me a rose

Filled with faces dead and

Gone Filled with friends

Gone now and forever

Reach me a rose

Explained by the ferocious

Delicacy and single-mindedness

Of the man I want to be.

~D.L. Piscoya