The Church Is Imploding from Within for Two Reasons

Over the past several days, it has been brought to my attention in conversations with under 50s, that is, Gen-Xers and Millennials, that there is a huge misunderstanding about being a Catholic and living as a Catholic.

Let me list a few things which being a Catholic is NOT:

one, believing that private revelations are the main source of spiritual information;

two, following devotions as the main journey in holiness; this would include putting more emphasis on sacramentals than on sacraments or teaching;

three, believing that the emotional is more important than the rational;

four, believing that one must live in the consolations of God in order to get to heaven;

five, thinking that one's gifts are essential to the Church.

Let me list the things which do define a person as Catholic:

one, knowing and studying the long list of teachings of the Catholic Church, including the elements of the Creed;

two, then, accepting these truths through reason, as far as possible, and by faith;

three, receiving the sacrament of Confession and Holy Communion as frequently as possible; using the sacramentals as secondary, not primary means to God;

four, realizing and knowing that emotions are treacherous and false, not to be trusted unless totally purified by God, and that the emotions serve the passions and not the virtues, which are served by Faith and Reason;

five, being humble and knowing that God cannot use one's gifts until one is purified of egoism and pride.

May I say all this is a different manner-- that the weaknesses among the laity are anti-intellectualism and a lack of faith. Faith is believing without seeing. How many Catholics actually live by and in Faith?

On top of this, one must think like a Catholic and not like a secular, or a pagan, or a protestant.

One must learn, discuss, share, not trivia, or nonsense, but the Faith and with Reason.

to be continued...

A Catholic Fairy Tale-Blog Tale Six "Until the End of Time"

The fireball streaked across the sky and the small girl saw it. It flare like a red arc and fell into the sea near the girl's home. The girl's name was Fial and her mother and father had left her long ago to go to a far land to find money, as they were so poor, That was so long ago, that Fial had forgotten how many years ago they were gone.

They had left Fial on their cold, rocky island with three brothers, three cats, three barrels of dried fish and dried kale, some crockery and a sacred book. The mother and father had taught the children how to fish and make kale soup. But, that was long ago. The island had seen many people leave because of lack of work and poor fishing. Fial and her brothers were the last ones on the island.

One day, the oldest brother, Lit, came to the others and said that he was making a coracle out of reed from the back of the island to look for his parents. Fial was afraid. She had lost her mother and father, and she did not want to lose her eldest brother, a strong, tall boy of fifteen. But, Lit was determined to go. One day, when the sun was shining, Lit said goodbye to his two brothers, and Fial then pushed his coracle into the sea. That was many years ago, and Fial had forgotten how many in her grief. Lit's face was the first she had remembered as a baby, and now she would not see his black hair and brown face again.

After a few years, Dona , the second son, came to his brother and Fial and stated he could no longer eat fish and kale soup. He wanted a bride and to have his own thatched cottage. Fial cried and told him that he could not leave the two youngest on their own. They had already lost their parents to the sea, as well as Lit. But, Dona was determined. He made a coracle out of the reeds at the back of the island and when his craft was done, he pushed it into the sea and left. Fial watched him until her eyes could no longer make him stand out from the waves on the horizon. She slowly went back to the cottage and made soup for herself and the youngest boy, Gare. A few years went by and Gare grew restless. He wanted to make things, like bridges and larger buidlings than what the two could do with the rocks and reeds on the island. But, Gare did not want to leave Fial. He knew it would be wrong to leave his sister on her own on the harsh island. He would think of a way to convince her to move.

As Gare was planning a way to convince Fial to go with him and leave the island, a strange thing happened. On a sunny day, a very large bird flew over Gare three times in a circle. He watched it and noticed that it had black markings on the top of its head. Gare thought “This is Lit” and he watched and waited. The bird, which looked like an albatross, perched itself on a jutting of rock near the small bay which lapped up to the door of the cottage. Gare watched the bird. And suddenly, it flew low over him and dropped a packet at Gare's feet. Gare picked up the packet and watched as the albatross flew higher and higher into the air, out over the sea, and then far away.

Fial saw this and ran out to Gare. They stared at the packet, which was made of seal's leather. Fial told Gare to open it and as he did three things fell into his hand. The first thing was a bright, golden key. It was about six inches long and simple, like a simple house key.

The second thing was a loose diamond, so bright it hurt their eyes in the sunlight. It was finished, not rough, but not in a setting. The third thing was a seal, like one uses for wax. The seal had the shape of a leaping dolphin and strange words around the edge, like runes. Neither Gare nor Fial could read the words.

Just as they were staring at the objects, a second, very strange thing occurred. A large fish, like a small whale, temporarily beached on the sand, and then, it leapt back into the waves and was gone. Where it had landed, was a small map with an island and a compass showing directions. Fial gasped. It was a page missing from the sacred book of her parents she had kept in her room in a drawer. She recognized it as the page which was ripped out of the front of the book. And, as she was holding it, a third strange thing happened. Over the sea, Gare could see a coracle coming. It was tossing on the waves, as if empty. Then, suddenly, it crashed, and was caught on the rocks where the albatross had landed so many minutes ago.

Gare and Fial rushed over to the small craft and there, at the bottom, was an old man. He was very large, for the size of the coracle and he looked healthy, but he was not awake. Kial and Gare reached down quickly, as the coracle was sinking under the rough waves and pulled the man onto the sand. The man began to cough, then he opened his eyes, and looked at the two young brother and sister. The man began to speak, but neither Kial nor Gare could understand his language.

They helped him into the house as a gale was rising and Kial made soup. The man sat by the fire. He tried to speak, but the brother and sister let him know that they could not understand him. Then, the man, who had the whitest of white hair and bright blue eyes, took some damp paper and a pencil like instrument out of his shirt pocket and drew this picture.

He drew a castle with a battle raging in the front, of a large army. He drew a holy priest saying Mass in front of the castle. He drew the priest being killed and the army destroying the castle. The old man stopped and wept quietly. Then, the man pointed to the dead priest and then to himself. Fial and Gare then knew that he too was a priest. The man drew an island with no people. He drew a church and then showed it burning. When he drew, the two youth's understood that the man was the last priest of all, the last priest of the island

Gare gave the priest his bed and then the older man fell asleep. Gare and Fial talked into the early morning and decided to give the objects to the priest and then they fell asleep.

When the two awoke, the priest was setting up to say Mass. Fial and Gare had memories of being taken to Mass as children, but it was so long ago, they could hardly remember. The priest made a sign asking if the coracle was gone. The three then went out and could see it half under the waves. The priest strode out and swam to the coracle, now being tossed here and there. He dove down and came up with a medium sized black box. Fial and Gare watched him take it back to the house. When he could not open it, Gare gave him the key. The priest looked a long time at Gare and then took the key. In the box was wine and some white, small hosts, a cross and long piece of linen marked with purple designs.

Fial and Gare watched as the priest set up a little altar. Then, he began to say Mass,.

Introibo ad altare Dei

Gare knew the words. He was so excited he began to weep. Fial, who had never remembered the words of the Mass watched. Then, the two, priest and server, said the Mass.

Fial felt a warm happiness fill the cottage. She felt like a new girl. She did not understand what was happening, but she knew it was good.

After Mass, all three were quiet for a long time. Then, Fial made soup. Gare then gave the priest the  second thing from the seal pouch. It was the diamond. The priest looked at it and then took a ring without a setting out of his pocket. The diamond fit exactly into the ring, and Gare knew the priest was a bishop. Fial stared as the bishop squeezed the diamond into the ring and watched as Gare knelt down and kissed the ring. She could not believe her eyes.

The third item in the pouch was the seal. Gare's hands were trembling. Fial watched him give the seal to the bishop and she understood. The man was the Pope. The Pope took the seal and placed it on his finger. He then read the words on the side, and Gare for the first time recognized them as Latin, but in an odd form. The words were said by the man, “et ego dico tibi quia tu es Petrus et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam et portae inferi non praevalebunt adversum eam.”

Gare fell to his knees as did Fial. They did not know what to do but kneel. The old man took them by the hand and made them stand up. Then, he said in Latin to Gare, that he was not only the last priest in the world, but the Pope. That all of Christendom had been destroyed by many enemies and he alone escaped. Gare, who had learned Latin many years ago from Lit, asked the Pope if he had seen Lit, describing him. The Pope said yes, that Lit had joined the last army of Christendom and died in front of the castle. Then, Gare asked the Pope if he had seen Dona and the Pope said yes, that he had been the steward of the king and now, all were dead.

Fial and Gare did not cry. They had known that their brothers who left so long ago, were dead.

But, then, the Pope asked Gare a question. Would Gare study to be a priest, so that there would be two on earth? Gare, his eyes shining, said yes, with all his heart. Fial was amazed at her youngest brother. But, she was silent.

The last thing to give the Pope was the paper from the sacred book. Gare gave it to the Pope and he looked at it. He laughed a little and said this was a map of the Vatican but the Vatican was no more.

Gare and Fial could not understand why the page was torn out of their sacred book.

The Pope looked at them and said slowly so that Gare could understand, that his parents had left to find the Vatican, not to find money. That people had come from all over the world to defend it from her enemies, but all now was lost. Gare and Fial then knew their parents had been martyred.

They cried for a long time and then, they were peaceful. Night came and the stars shone. The Pope explained that the next day Gare would begin to learn Latin. Fial could learn as well. Then, when Gare's Latin was good enough, the Pope would teach him the Tradition and Truths of the Church.

That night, Fial stared at the stars as she lay on the beach. She could hardly imagine that her world had changed so quickly. She knew what had become of her missing family and she knew that Gare would be a priest. But, what of her. She prayed and asked that God would show her and then, she went back to her room and went to sleep.

After a week, Gare could begin to discuss things with the Pope in Latin. Fial came to him and asked him is he would ask the Pope what she was supposed to do.

Gare brought soup to the Pope after Mass and asked him. The Pope said that Fial would be married, have many children and then die an old woman, in a convent which her daughters would found.

Gare could hardly believe this, as there were no men within hundreds of miles of their island. But, the Pope said this would be so.

Six months and then a year passed. Gare knew how to speak Latin and read so well what the Pope wrote that they would talk for hours. The little cottage was peaceful and happy, with Mass, the simple suppers and conversation.

Then, one day, the Pope said to Gare, “Fial must be made a coracle, and she must leave us here to  find her husband. She will find him on another island and bring him back here. But, she must leave.”

Gare was afraid, but he trusted the Pope, and together they made the best small strong coracle they could. In a week, Fial was kissing the hand of the Pope and her brother's brown face goodbye. Then, she pushed her boat into the waves and was gone.

Fial used her oar, but then let the currents take her. She was going East, into the sun, and the wind was hot. She floated for a long time, several days, until she saw the thin line of a low island. A large bird flew above her and the sky was clear. In two weeks she had been in the small boar, with fish and soup and water. Now, the waters pushed her onto the empty beach of this low island.

It was hot, much hotter than her island. It was almost bare, and rocky. It was dry and windy, not green and rainy like her island.

Fial got out and pulled her coracle up onto the beach. The island was so quiet. She could hardly believe there would be anyone there. The large bird flew over her three times and she followed it up a small cliff. The sun against the rocks almost hurt her eyes. Then, she saw something which surprised her. It was a small church, made out of white stone.

A strange cross which resembled a flower was painted on the rock of the church. She walked towards it and suddenly, there were three men. Fial  became frightened, but one called out in her own language. “Wait, do not be afraid” Fial was about to run away, but when the men approached she saw they were kind and worried.

“Do not be afraid. We are ship-wrecked. We have been hoping for someone to take us to a place where there are people. We escaped from the slaughter of the war.” Fial began to cry. She did not speak of the Pope, but told of her own brothers. One man cried. “I knew Lit. Yes, he died. He was brave”. Fial began to cry so hard that the three men grew more silent. Then, they told her to sit down. They came back with honey, flat bread, mussels and oysters. Fial ate while they told her of the wars. They were a father and two sons. The father was Ambrose and the sons were Paul and Mark. Fial asked them if they were Christians. They said of course, and they were the last soldiers of Christendom. Ambrose explained that he had tried to save the priest who died and could not, the enemies were so fierce. Then, Paul said he was upset at the death of the bishop, the last one, as he had wanted to be priest. Fial listened, and Mark stared at her while she ate.

After awhile, Fial sad slowly, “I know of a bishop.” Paul was so excited that Ambrose told him to be quiet and listen. Fial did not tell the men that the Pope was on her island, but she did tell them that she had met a bishop.

Then, the wind grew hotter and the men offered the little church for Fial to rest in. They stayed outside in the heat and sandy storm which came off the island. Fial awoke. It was the next day. 

Mark had caught and cooked fish, while the others were packing their goods and taking down the church, stone by stone. “If you will let us, we will build a small ship from the driftwood and leave in a week to your island where we can meet this bishop.”

Fial agreed. In one week, all four were in a small boat with a sail, full of fish, nuts, olives, and water. The men cast off, and Fial was on her way home.

The trip took less time and in days, the small boat was putting into the bay in front of Gare and Fial's cottage. The men, especially Paul grew excited as they approached, as he could hardly wait to meet the bishop. But, when Ambrose, Paul and Mark saw Gare and Peter coming towards then, they were struck with silence. All three knelt down in the sand and kissed the Pope's ring. Mark said softly, “Your Holiness.”

Within the year, Mark and Fial were married by Peter. Paul was studying with Gare to be a priest. Ambrose took simple vows to be a monk and hermit. Soon, he went to the other side of the island to pray and be by himself.

In the next year, Mark and Fial had their first baby girl, named Mary, and Gare and Paul were made deacons.

The Church was growing again.

The Religion of What?

mia ‏@amiramikhail29m

Personal contact in #Minya: A taxi driver with a cross in his taxi was taken out and decapitated. #EgyChurches

 Retweeted by J. F. Solem

Doctors in Ireland Will Be Forced To Do Abortions

http://www.dignitatishumanae.com/index.php/irish-government-set-to-compel-catholic-doctors-to-perform-abortions/

On the best seller list...

http://www.humanevents.com/2013/08/15/mark-levins-liberty-amendments/

Catholics of the West

If you are not doing penance, fasting now and allowing God to purify your heart, mind, and soul, you may easily fall in the sleep of the apostles in Gethsemane. They added to the pain of Our Lord.

Definition of Schism from The Catholic Encyclopedia

I only show the beginning of the excellent article. Passive and active schism has already occurred in the Church and has for at least 40 years. It does not start out all the time as formal denial of papal primacy, but in effect that is what it is.....

Schism (from the Greek schisma, rent, division) is, in the language of theology and canon law, the rupture of ecclesiastical union andunity, i.e. either the act by which one of the faithful severs as far as in him lies the ties which bind him to the social organization of the Church and make him a member of the mystical body of Christ, or the state of dissociation or separation which is the result of that act. In this etymological and full meaning the term occurs in the books of the New Testament. By this name St. Paul characterizes and condemns the parties formed in the community of Corinth (1 Corinthians 1:12): "I beseech you, brethren", he writes, ". . . that there be no schisms among you; but that you be perfect in the same mind, and in the same judgment" (ibid., i, 10). The union of the faithful, he says elsewhere, should manifest itself in mutual understanding and convergent action similar to the harmonious co-operation of our members which God hath tempered "that there might be no schism in the body" (1 Corinthians 12:25). Thus understood, schism is a genus which embraces two distinct species: heretical or mixed schism and schism pure and simple. The first has its source in heresy or joined with it, the second, which most theologians designate absolutely as schism, is the rupture of the bond of subordination without an accompanying persistent error, directly opposed to a definite dogma. This distinction was drawn by St. Jerome and St. Augustine. "Between heresy andschism", explains St. Jerome, "there is this difference, that heresy perverts dogma, while schism, by rebellion against the bishop, separates from the Church. Nevertheless there is no schism which does not trump up a heresy to justify its departure from the Church (In Ep. ad Tit., iii, 10). And St. Augustine: "By false doctrines concerning God heretics wound faith, by iniquitous dissensions schismatics deviate from fraternal charity, although they believe what we believe" (On Faith and the Creed 9). But as St. Jerome remarks, practically and historically, heresy and schism nearly always go hand in hand; schism leads almost invariably to denial of the papal primacy.

Schism, therefore, is usually mixed, in which case, considered from a moral standpoint, its perversity is chiefly due to the heresy which forms part of it. In its other aspect and as being purely schism it is contrary to charity and obedience; to the former, because it severs the ties of fraternal charity, to the latter, because the schismatic rebels against the Divinely constituted hierarchy. However, not every disobedience is a schism; in order to possess this character it must include besides the transgression of the commands of superiors, denial of their Divine right to command. On the other hand, schism does not necessarily imply adhesion, either public or private, to a dissenting group or a distinct sect, much less the creation of such a group. Anyone becomes a schismatic who, though desiring to remain aChristian, rebels against legitimate authority, without going as far as the rejection of Christianity as a whole, which constitutes the crime of apostasy.

...

Some theologians distinguish "active" from "passive" schism. By the former they understand detaching oneself deliberately from the body of the Church, freely renouncing the right to form a part of it. They call passive schism the condition of those whom the Church herself rejects from her bosom by excommunication, inasmuch as they undergo this separation whether they will or no, having deserved it. Hence, this article will deal directly only with active schism, which is schism properly so-called. It is nevertheless clear that so-called passive schism not only does not exclude the other, but often supposes it in fact and theory. 

You can read the rest here...http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/13529a.htm

The Shock from Archbishop Eamon Martin

By now, most of you would have read the Tablet article on Archbishop Eamon Martin's comments on pro-abortion politicians. See my post below for an excellent link on this.

http://supertradmum-etheldredasplace.blogspot.ie/2013/08/must-read-and-must-digest-implications.html

I remind people that when the wars against the Israelites in happened in the Books of Joshua and Maccabees, the first response of the leaders was a call to repentance for the whole People of God.

Joshua and the Maccabees knew that the cause of the wars was the evil of the Israelites, primarily idolatry. Only when the People under their leaders repented did victory occur. Only when the entire nation humbled themselves and were obedient to God did God aid the armies of Israel.

God sent supernatural powers, great angelic warriors, to help fight the enemies of the Jews. But, He will not help us unless our Church leaders repent of supporting in anyway abortion and ssm legislation.

I am waiting for clarification from Ireland. I am in Ireland for many more weeks. If this Archbishop and others do not change the heinous support of abortion, Ireland will go the way of all nations who disobeyed God.

This is another sign of the decadence of the Church here, not in individuals here and there, not in some good and clear priests, but in the hierarchy.

God will not help Ireland until Ireland repents.

The problem is that the Archbishop has defined the problem in terms of politics instead of morality.

Supporting aborting babies is not merely a political stance, but a SIN. That idea is missing in the Archbishop's statement.

Of what is he afraid? Conflict? Joshua and the Maccabees plunged into conflict as they had to respond to the enemies who would defile the People of God and the Temple.

We have Christ in our midst. How can we do less?

Miscellaneous

Tasha, I shall continue answering your questions on Saturday.

Dark Night of the Soul series will continue on Saturday.


Thanks.....

Must read and must digest the implications of this statement from Irish bishop

http://protectthepope.com/?p=7974

If this is true, the Irish Church may be in schism.

More Blog Poems for A Friday

Poems from The Ark

Poem One, The Violet

A moment of God showing one vulnerable and small

in the face of mysterious Love

The Spirit chooses my fate and leads me

as long as I am docile, like a small stream

against a high bank, like the sea contained

So, I am protected, like a child waiting

to hear the Voice of the Father saying

Oh Little One, where are you, where have you been

I have been waiting for you

in the field of lilies and wheat

Against the clear sky and the blue sea

which changes like moods, grey, white,

yet serene in its antiquity, touched by the oars

of Odysseus and witnessing the sails of Valletta

Who can judge the sea, who can judge one's self?

In a moment of particular judgement, I see the horror

of my sin, in the face of Pure Innocence and Goodness

He alone judges me and stands before the gate,

with The Woman at His Right Hand, she who is

All Beautiful and All Kindness

The Lady smiles and all is well, and all will be well

as she takes from Her Princely Son, the hand of those

who rely on her mercy and His forgiveness

Oh Great Ones, how can I look at your purity

How can I be anything at all except dust?

And, the King walks beside me, He Who is God

and Man, He walks as I walk through the trials set

by Him, for His Glory and my salvation

He walks with me, as He calls me sister, friend

and I am, but only because He has called me

But, one of His Little Ones, crowned not with jewels,

like those Pearls who have gone before in innocence

those Pearls who wear the emblem of perfection

No, my crown is merely flowers, which would die

in the other land, but here do not fade

Like a small child betrothed at an early age, not

understanding the King who will be her Spouse

like the trusting girl, who places her hand between

the large hands of the Father, blessing her, giving

her guidance and protection, I wait

Yet, I do not understand and deny any status, except

that of the violet by the pathway, which some step

over and some step on, and some notice, but for

a moment, then pass on. Like the violet, wild and only

there, because of a Roman matron who was lonely

for the Aventine brought some on the ship, so I wait

And, where is he, and what is he thinking and do

I even have a right to know, to wonder, about

someone who is so far above me, yet my brother

yet the one I choose to love, because I was given love

and said yes, because I am free to love

Like Peter, I was asked three times and three times

I said yes, because He Who asks knows the way

will be hard, yet the only way, the way to Rome

the way home to the heart of the Church

where all is serene, like the grey sea

Poem Two An Adventure in Grace

I alone see his youth, his tall and slender stature, his smile

which takes over his face and lights up those around him

I alone see through the mist of time to another day, in the

Hand of God, who outside time knows us in a stream of life

We are not just now, but were and will be in Him and if

He chooses, He shares the past, the present and the future

In a moment of Love, which takes me outside myself

into another time, a time of peace and innocence

How He sees me, how He sees him, young and innocence

awaiting an adventure in the Heart of Christ, Who is

and always was. The newness is eternity, is healing, is earthy

contentment for a time, a short time, yet holding all

in the breath of the air, in the flight of a bird, life lives

in a fullness, in a perfection which is God Alone

And, yet, He chooses to share this vision of perfection

of eternity with one who is so low, so insignificant

the small one called to wear a ring of power, if only

for awhile, realizing the authority and the pain, and

the joy of completion. Will he respond, will he say

yes to an adventure outside his imagination, yet imagined

by God from all time? Freedom to be all one can be takes

courage and a step outside time, forever changed, forever loved.

And because I love, I am given vision, the shared

vision of the Son of God, who gives His gifts as He wills

I did not ask for Love, Love came to me, in an instant

in a quiet, yet determined yes, a shadow of the Great Fiat

Her Perfection is a guide for me, who loves less freely,

less intensely, but with all the will I have

Her Yes gave me life, and my yes will invite life

on a smaller, less sacred, but redeemed manner

for am I not allowed to be part of redemption

am I not allowed to take part in the great dance

which is sacrifice, pain and joy, meeting in Love?

And, the Theotokos waits, while I am lead by two

to Her throne. She waits, knowing what is and

can be. She rejoices in the Will of Her Son and

she rejoices in giving wine to the wedding feast

the wine which is Her Son's blood and my salvation

Oh Queen, I did not know that He would lead me

to you and that you would lead me to Him

I did not know that I was to bring another with me

and that he would bring me with him, because this

was the Will of the Father, who knows who we are,

nothing and yet, sharers in the walk

But will we open our hearts and take courage?

Will we set aside fear and uncertainty for a

great adventure in grace? Stealing a line

from Raissa looking inward for meaning...

Poem Three-Orion

I look at the southern sky and see the Hunter

his belt streaming against the dark night

Strider, the one who hunts and holds his

weapon up to the heavens in the winter night

For months, he walks the sky, holding myriad

stars in his person, his sign reigning over the night

of my birth and that of My Saviour's, who sky

was ordained and who gave me my night

so close to His in birth. Orion, who I have

followed over the continents at the turn of night

over the seas of the south and the mountains

of the green lands, where the darkness of night

is marred by the full moon, Strider comes bringing

the cold and taking the cold, in the large sky of night

He looms, the giant and his dog, Tonight, planets

dance at his right, and far to the north, the night

streaks with mist, covering the Wain and hiding

the Galaxy which holds our small night

Orion claims the sky and will not yield to another

his hunt over the centuries does not change the night

but I change, I wait, I see the setting moon, ablaze

like a red star, as Orion turns into a different night

My constellation, my guide from the deepest bay

to the green valleys and hedges, lining the night

like braiding on a dress, like the scoring of a

perfect landscape, like the boundaries of night

Only the Sisters, the Pleaders compete for my

attention, but Orion kneels until the last night, waiting

to rest.

Poem Four—Stars in Orion

Twice in my lifetime, I have seen shooting stars

cross the belt of Orion.

Twice I have seen the dying pieces of rock

tossed into the sky

like the small flames from the sparklers

held by a child

in Mid-Summer. These arcs of light

cross my mind in memory

and I rejoice in the simplicity

of light in light in Orion

Blog Poem Two for The Dog Days

Second Poem for the Dog Days

The Romans most likely left this town in summer,

the heat being oppressive without the view of

Rome or Capri, but I am here, looking at the

pink and blue clouds coming off the Estuary.

At least, now, there are fish in the Thames again,

and there are children, but not those of  the Cantiaci,

rather of the Commonwealth. Heat and a modern

version of the fog keep me awake at night.

I cannot sleep as I hear those Londoners walking

home from the pub, or wherever, like characters

from Dickens, yelling their names under the lamplight,

telling their stories after midnight, as if no one could hear.

Eppillus would be amused at the various lovers' tiffs

surrounding his lands and punctuating the steam of the night.

But, I would rather listen to the silence, and miss the sea;

too far from the Thames are the waves off Dubris.

Sleep evades us all in London in August, and the ancients,

as well as the descendants of Austen, left for cooler climes.

Did they go to Aquae Sulis with their new loves, or Vectis with

the children and matrona, playing in the sand, dreaming

Of  Stabiae, and the Bay of Naples, with more clear springs

than those of Aquae Sulis and did the materfamilias complain

of the lack of shops and popinae as well as the humidity?

Will we ever see villa and canis again, and where is a decent

Wine to celebrate Vinalia rustica? But, no, not on these shores

under the sign of Canis major, whose star hides under the

clouds and fog from the Tames, who gives potter's a name.

No Opiconsivia here on the embankment.

So, I think of other things, listening as the small birds

which linger in the late summer wake and sing slow songs

without passion, but out of habit, or wanting to praise God,

which is what I do in the early dawn, of blue and pink

A mirror image of the dusk seen so many hours ago.

Two Blog Poems for A Friday

Boomers

Some say the millennium generation

have the most individualists

and that we boomers are

nothing but conformists

How wrong, how general

a statement of a generation

which holds old hippies,

politicos, idealists, realists,

back-to-the earthers, and

plain old fashioned grunts.

I see us as the great mixture

of competitive over-achievers

who went to Washington with

high hopes and no money

as well as the ones on motor

bikes who bought cheap shacks

on the Pacific now worth a

couple mill.

No, we were all different, and

happy in our eccentricities, those

of us who sang all the songs in

cars speeding along country

roads as well as the city folks

who we wanted to be but not

really. Boomers can't be

categorized and if you try,

we shall change, just for the

heck of it. We are the generation

of mercurial dreams....

Love in Stages

Under the same sky, along

the same, big river,

From Missouri, from Iowa, up

and down the Mississippi,

my parents have had 64 years

of married love in stages only

I have seen as I am the oldest

and witness to change.

They might not remember

the first years, when I was very

small and yet knew that they

were lovers, special to each

other with nick-names and

moments of passion which created

our big family.

I have an incredible memory

from age one and like any oldest

child, watched and wondered at my

parents as they grew up before my eyes.

The beginnings were romance and roses

love after war, and children, young,

not always understanding each other

and quiet days of worry. But that changed

to the expansiveness of busy times,

children, success, the loss of children,

sadness, and some disagreements which

I as a teen thought appropriate for the age.

Forty was so old, so old, from my young

eyes and forty-five was older, Their love

merged into love of home, children, a silent

change from youth to forbearance and

forgiveness, a necessary practice for two

so different, with varied expectations.

Give and take, dance and  bridge,

home and work, moving and staying put

all streaming into one river of acceptance

and changing dreams. Reality made

new partners in life. Commitments

renewed on the twenty-fifth and thirtieth

anniversaries, while children grew and left

and moved away farther into new lives.

A second stage of dancing and accepting

differences of onions, of aspirations, of

dreams and the dying of dreams. This type

of love was new to me, a love without

romance unless worked upon, like a

tapestry with a set pattern but unfinished.

I was not around to watch all the changes

of love, of life, of becoming one and

then two and then one again. I sensed

a change but could not tell where the

hearts lie.

A third stage popped into focus after

years of illness, each taking turns

at wellness and energy and sickness

and health. I saw what I had only imagined

was possible, love without the need

for return, love unrequited, love sacrificed

for the sake of the other-real love, real Love

unto death. Being in love and just being.

So, one couple can travel this route to

a certain type of freedom, of perfection,

but my path has been strangely fragmented.

My journey was not so neat, but more exotic.

Like a pilgrim with a shell and sack, I searched

for truth and love and found both in stages.

Three men led me to the same love. The first

all romance and roses, fine wines and

walks at midnight around the campus lake.

The second, the husband and father

a place in which I experienced the death

of expectations and the birth of a different

type of hope. But not to be til death us do part.

The third, unrequited, pure love, without

any hope, well a little, but full of the

joy of freedom and death to self. A holy

love which gives me a taste of heaven

What my parents did in one life-time,

I have accomplished in three, and yet

all love, all stages are gifts of time,

person, patience and a little

bit of luck. I think and write in

gratitude that love is real in stages.

Like the map of America, like

the Oregon Trail, like my ancestors

footsteps on the wooden stairs in

Iowa, Missouri, California, Oregon.

I trace the movements of love in

places, from Indiana to England

to Malta, and back again, through

the points on the globe to the brighter

points in the sky, those stars which

remained the same in all places,

like love, like guides to my soul.

Now, all three of us are at some

ends of some journeys undefined,

unseen, awaited in a faith we share.

We three cannot discuss such loves,

as we come from generations and nations

which did not do such things. We are

sharing in silence, in private, in the

quiet knowledge that love never ends.

The best things are those we cannot

articulate, but live, and live in stages.