All praise to the ceiling that keeps the roof
from leaking directly on my good mood
the memory of saying lauds before
the sun peeks through the blinds or rain down pours.

To exercise that makes me fit all praise
and water afterwards that cleanses waste
the clock that tells exactly when to eat
so cure would not to take effect forget.

All praise to radio’s curtailed excess
that tv flaunts in color’s moving mess
to choice between electric breeze and air
or gadgets and the presence of a stair.

To literary pieces that proclaim
man’s loyalty to Him and kith and kin
the moral fiber of the universe
to strengthen and renew itself all praise.

The evolution of each day and night
all praise is given to so that it might
extend another cycle of the joy
the earth suffuses every man and boy.

So that the thought remembers vespers too
a mental health all praise is given to
to keep the liberties of living life
at bay when other freedoms are in strife.

That terminal applies to good and bad
and nothing lasts too long to make it sad
all praise to those whose dreams and wishes keep
the world a peaceful place for seamless sleep.



It is an odd phenomenon to find
your phone spewing messages that mind
the homily you heard (and even read
before) at Mass repeating in your head.

What it does speak of is the import
better understood when shared and nothing’s lost
until the words have sunk and been writ off
to memory And, when recalled, a smile

shall lure it back to sing a voiceless sound
of amity. Of promises unsaid
between the lines professing guarantee.
The words are not just characters but oaths

of what an office holds if it were sworn.
For friendship is an ark, a covenant
between two sovereigns, two vows of trust
and confidence. It is a heart espoused

by fellow heart, it can’t renege, it must
epitomize the certain courtesy
of pacts. As strange as inspiration strikes
a poet’s block, this stroke defies the odds

and squeezes in, insistent, and persists
because, it later dawns, the purpose went
according to no plan, it was as plain
as breathing out or in, a glad refrain.

That, almost like a twin, the other note
gave birth to an allegiance to the fact
is testament to faith between, among,
the Triune One and man and other men.


The weary nomad was in search of self
piled, buried underneath an earth; a cage
surrounded by the sloth of different
enticements carefully arranged to make

the will attuned to opposites of grace.
And so it was his voyages were rife
with ribald gore and appetites that fed
on gluttony and greed insatiate

up till his ear was pricked by guilt; his son,
as still as smile, the kind that missed his mind
that wasn’t there, proclaimed: You never were!
The letter, loud as gavel, banged on him.

And still, protected by a flimsy shield
of erst-neglected rediscovered kin,
his arrogance and scant remorse back-talked
defenselessly through games his son deflected.

Equally deep were his solitude
and quiet grief when, afterwards, without
the influence of transient glee and vice,
the movie of his past flashed sorrily

like starless night and silent thunder clap
only the inside of the heart, the ear,
could hear with all accessories of hurt.
A boomerang of karmic sort sans doubt.

And, searching deeper, there were thankful senses;
music of some token song was plumbed
to spawn a genre, probably an age
and dawn of spirited applauding sound.

Poor Party

There is an urgency in thinking that,
to first and foremost see an absence missed
if only for the sake of certitude,
a loneliness can surely cease when met

in mutual presence. The eyes, peculiar,
pretend to hide the spark, initially
dismissed because the mouth could not protect
the heart that has already leapt in bounds;

sufficient unto courteous pleasantries
without the graces social standing asks.
The poor do not profess amenities
nor make excuses for a humble feast;

they simply are. And so the marvel moves
in clumsy second chances finding out
that first encounters are not accidents
and that the present laughter highs a five.

If there was need to fib somewhat it was
not contrary to sound precepts of good
one wills another when the truth, at bay,
can save the night and stall the day’s demise.

Goodbyes were long as if to pat the back
until at home it rests with fond recall
of bonding with the likelihood of blood
that, although not umbilical, was hot.

The topics were diverse, flooded the mind,
the punctuation only once as though,
on cue, it snaps as, every now and then,
it rises, pauses, soars again to shine.