Dry Well

Woo me, Beloved.
My heart has hardened,
and my eyes remain dry
even at the sight
of misery, suffering and death.
I have consumed,
yet I am empty.
I know that
this is the kind of heart
You would spurn.
Because it is
a clean one You want –
broken and humbled.
I am wrestling,
grappling with Your angel…
“Give me my blessing!”
This is my silent utterance.
Words are just 
too shallow to describe
my estrangement…
An unspeakable kind
of aridity is forming
at the depths of my soul.
“Why will You not respond?!”
This is my truthful cry…

Then comes the calm…
A downpour has begun.

My wounds for yours

Beloved, I ask you to see,
not only with your eyes,
but also with your heart…
these wounds that I bore.

Come closer,
and put your hands at my back.
Feel the scars on which I carried the wooden cross.
Here, on my knees,
are the marks of the times I fell,
on my way to my Crucifixion.
Here, around my head
a crown of thorns had been forcefully pushed, and been beaten…

Look at my hands and my feet –
You see the holes in which nails were hammered through?
At my side, a lance was pierced,
where blood and water gushed.

Most painful of all, dearly beloved,
Are the wounds in my heart,
And in my mind –
The memories –
of being betrayed by a friend with a kiss,
for thirty pieces of silver;
of seeing others run away
when I was being unjustly arrested and falsely accused…
of being denied by one of my most trusted ones,
before the cock crowed to signal the dawn of a new day;
of women wailing and crying,
of the people I love shouting,
“Crucify!”
…And seeing a most beloved mother
bear my Passion
in the most profound silence and humility.

Take a look at my wounds, my beloved,
I invite you to hide yours in mine.

Ireland

Kind wind, take me to the place where greens abound,
And the sun warmly shines over a cool mist;
Where strings and pipes create mystical rhythms,
pacifying my soul;
And where hearts and hands are kind,
and everybody smiles like the sunshine.

Oh, Land of the Celts,
Speak to me of your mystery…
A curious foreigner am I,
in blood, lineage, and ancestry.
But in the ancient Faith, I am one of your daughters.
All of us are but the gentiles of Israel,
gathered by the blood of Christ.

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Noontime Rendezvous

“I’ll meet you at noon,” I said.
I thought I could spare some time.
“I’ll wait for you,” You said.
I pretended not to hear.

At noon, I talked.
You listened.
I smiled quietly.
I may not have heard You speak of it
but Your eyes tell me, “I’m here.”

“Let’s do this again,” I suggested,
With a blush, with a bite of my lip.
“Sure!” was Your immediate response.
“Let’s meet at noon,” I concluded.
“Let’s!” You said with a smile,
and with Your beautiful voice trailing off…

At noon, I chattered a bit.
You listened.
Quietness filled the void.
And I was content.
You started to speak,
and I immersed myself
in Your beautiful voice,
in Your comforting words.

“Tomorrow? Again? Noontime?”
You concluded.
This rendezvous ending so soon?
I yearn for more time with You.
Thus I replied to Your question with a nod,
reassuring You with my silence.
“I am excited for tomorrow,”
I whispered.

And so, every noon time,
I meet You.
I recline to hear You,
To receive You,
To let You touch my heart.

The atrocity of wicked words

Hold that wicked tongue!
sharp as a sword,
deadly whenIMG_0799 it strikes.

I beg of you,
take a hold of it,
you are breaking my heart,
maiming my limbs.

Do not paralyze me,
with your ill spit,
with your icy words.

Please,
seal your lips,
and open your heart.

Please, my beloved,
allow my love
to heal your sick mouth.

Let my warm embrace
deeply penetrate
your ailing heart.

Your heart
I wish to heal,
for from a mended heart
a new tongue
will spring forth,
in which you will utter
my powerful, life-giving words.

Ode to the British

Under the British skies
I’ll keep still and seek for You.
There, I’ll unearth the roots
Of the Anglo-Saxon poets and saints
who made me love You even more.

Newman, Chesterton, Tolkien, Lewis –
What’s in their words?
… their illumine words,
…that made me feed on them like rice?

Campion –
who courageously bragged, at the point of death,
the majesty of his King, my King, my beloved.
“So the Faith was planted: so it must be restored.[1]
Ah, such a man, such a warrior, such a priest!

And More, who can ever forget
the Knight and the Lord Chancellor?
Whose inspiring martyrdom and faith grab me by the neck,
and choke me to tears?
You allowed me to share with him
a commonality –
that of a public servant –
which marks him as my spiritual father
in doing my ministry.

My Love, let this summer journey be a pilgrimage.
You closed some doors, yet You have opened another one.
You know my heart perfectly well, better than I can fathom.
I offer to you my safety, and I beg of you
to grant me the kindness of strangers.
My life, my vocation is in Your hands.

 
[1] Campion’s Brag, from  “Saint Edmund Campion, Priest And Martyr,” Evelyn Waugh, 1937

I think of You

I think of You,
at this very moment,
as I am writing these
love verses.
 
I think of You,
always –
every second,
every minute,
every hour.
 
I think of You,
the moment
I see the first light of day
from a peaceful slumber
during the night.
 
I think of You,
whenever the hot shower
and foamy bubble bath
touch my skin,
sending giggling sensations
through my nerves.
I think of You
whenever I smell
the sweet perfume
of soap and shampoo.
 
I think of You,
whenever I hear
the melodious plucking
of strings, and chorus
of beautiful words.
 
I think of You,
whenever I unlock
the steel gate
that separates my home
from public roads.
I think of You,
whenever I make
that brief commute
from my home
to the office,
seeing persons like me,
starting their day,
probably whispering
short prayers
asking for Your grace.
 
I think of You,
everytime I inhale deeply
as the pressure 
of my daily crosses hurt,
and everytime I exhale slowly
as Your goodness and mercy
allow me to bear my daily grind. 

My love, You fill my thoughts,
and just the thought of You
brings me
joy and delight!