Contemplation

 

lavender
Photo source unknown

 

The path to the prayer room
runs beside a bed of herbs —
rosemary, sage, holy basil,
chervil, chives.

Lavender. Walking,
I pluck a stalk and crush
the woolly flowers lightly in
my hand, pausing
to inhale the fragrance.

I carry the sprig down
the steps, into the place of 
contemplation. My body stills,
but thumb and finger lift
the purple flame, an oblation.

The aroma is itself a prayer,
a reaching, a receiving. I sit
in silence, breathing what God is
telling me: he is in me
as he is in the flower.

Thanks be to God.

~ A poem by Luci Shaw 

 

God’s Grandeur

 

Bird flying
Photo taken by me at sunset today. . .

 

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared
with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell:
the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright
wings.

 

~ A poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, S.J.

 

The Evening of the Visitation

 

 

The Visitaion art by Angiolo D'Andrea
The Visitation art by Angiolo D’Andrea (1880-1942)

 

Go, roads, to the four quarters of our quiet distance,
While you, full moon, wise queen,
Begin your evening journey to the hills of heaven,
And travel no less stately in the summer sky
Than Mary, going to the house of Zachary.

The woods are silent with the sleep of doves,
The valleys with the sleep of streams,
And all our barns are happy with peace of cattle gone to rest.
Still wakeful, in the fields, the shocks of wheat
Preach and say prayers:
You sheaves, make all your evensongs as sweet as ours,
Whose summer world, all ready for the granary and barn,
Seems to have seen, this day,
Into the secret of the Lord’s Nativity.

Now at the fall of night, you shocks,
Still bend your heads like kind and humble kings
The way you did this golden morning when you saw God’s
Mother passing,
While all our windows fill and sweeten
With the mild vespers of the hay and barley.

You moon and rising stars, pour on our barns and houses
Your gentle benedictions.
Remind us how our Mother, with far subtler and more holy
influence,
Blesses our rooves and eaves,
Our shutters, lattices and sills,
Our doors, and floors, and stairs, and rooms, and bedrooms,
Smiling by night upon her sleeping children:
O gentle Mary! Our lovely Mother in heaven!

 

~ A poem by Thomas Merton

 

Happy & Blessed Feast of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary! 

Canticle to Saint Rita

 

saint rita by unknown artist
Art source unknown

 

Though your life was filled with pain…
Though your soul was torn apart…
Never once did you complain.
Faithful ever was your heart.

As a child you served God well.
You were always good and kind.
On holy things you did dwell
Within your heart, soul, and mind.

When your parents asked for you
To be a mother and a wife…
You did all they asked of you;
Gave up your will and your life.

When your husband treated you
Most harshly and cruelly.
You served him faithful and true.
Converted him lovingly.

When your sons did seek to kill
The man who slayed your husband.
You placed your trust in God still,
And He in turn stayed their hand.

When your head was pierced into
With a thorn from Our Lord’s Crown.
It increased your fervor true.
Never was your soul let down.

Grant to me a small token,
Through the merits of your heart.
Grant that I be soft spoken.
Please ask God to take my part.

~ A poem by Rita Marita 

 

Saint Rita of Cascia ❤ Patron Saint of the Impossible, pray for us! 

There Is a Homelessness

 

Jesus My Beloved art by ricardo colon
Art by Ricardo Colon

 

There is a homelessness, never to be clearly defined.
It is more than having no place of one’s own, no bed or
chair.

It is more than walking in a waste of wind,
or gleaning the crumbs where someone else has dined,
or taking a coin for food or clothes to wear.
The loan of things and the denial of things are possible
to bear.

It is more, even, than homelessness of heart,
of being always a stranger at love’s side,
of creeping up to a door only to start
at a shrill voice and to plunge back to the wide
dark of one’s own obscurity and hide.

It is the homelessness of the soul in the body sown;
it is the loneliness of mystery:
of seeing oneself a leaf, inexplicable and unknown,
cast from an unimaginable tree;
of knowing one’s life to be brief wind blown
down a fissure of time in the rock of eternity.
The artist weeps to wrench this grief from stone;
he pushes his hands through the tangled vines of music,
but he cannot set it free.

It is the pain of the mystic suddenly thrown
back from the noon of God to the night of his own
humanity.

It is his grief; it is the grief of all those praying
in finite words to an Infinity
Whom, if they saw, they could not comprehend;
Whom they cannot see.

~ A poem by Sister Miriam of the Holy Spirit (Jessica Powers), O.C.D.

 

A Poem to My Mom

 

my mom
Mom & I (photos taken by me)

 

My mom is always near
even though we live miles apart.
She lives in my heart.
She is with me all the time. . .
In my daily walks around the neighbourhood.
She is the music I enjoy listening,
that brings me calm and peace.

She is the joy and the sunshine
when I contemplate the beauty of God’s creation.
She is the fragrance of fresh flowers.
She is in my mind when I’m not feeling well.
She holds my hand and reassures me
that all will be well.

She is my warmth and my rest.
She is the sound of the birds chirping at dawn
when I awake.
She is the colors of the rainbow, reminding me
of the promises of God.
She is in the clouds that are slowly passing by.

She is in the day and the night.
She is in my heart, you know.
She is the place where I came from,
my first home, my childhood memories.

She is the one leading me into Mary,
Our blessed and heavenly Mother.
She placed me under Her care and protection.
She is my first love, my first friend.
She is my mom!

~ My personal reflection

 

Wishing you all a very Happy & Blessed Mother’s Day! ⚘

The New Season

 

woman and the fountain of love by christian schloe
Art by Christian Schloe

 

Waiting is purification,
is patience quelling desire,
is God’s time permeating human haste.

The crystal droplet
gathers at the curled leaf’s tip
but does not fall.
The mighty wave bounds in
but does not break.

The heart’s new season
pauses on the threshold
of the walled, inviolate garden,
the spring of living waters at its center.

We wait till that authoritative voice
cries once more, “Come forth!
Begin to bud and bloom!
Toss in the breezes of my ardent love!
Be all renewed and filled with light!
Waiting is over—
the hour of fulfillment come!”

Beloved, this is our new season.
Together let us go to meet it.

 

~ A poem by Barbara Dent, O.C.D.S.