VERBA POETAE

Song I

Letra: Meet Blessed Virgin; summons.

An’ she stood before me. Full efficacy,  

Fear tight in th’ concupiscence of demand, 

She glowed. Life with composed energy, 

Glory all these carnal eyes could withstand,

A Catholic catechism sprawled open,

I lay dumb on th’ dust of my sweaty back,

Thick jean, bible worn in my Baptist hand,

Evangelist from th’ protestant attack;

"My son," th’ Woman spoke, "why do you hurt me?"

I couldn't respond. How?!

So I didn’t—I just stared at her. Her eyes;

Snuck servile stars emblazoned atop small cheeks,

Beauty. Her clothes cut adjacent from th’ sky,

Abysmal wisdom eternal youth keeps;

I stutter’d. This had to be her. This had t’ be,

It had to be. It was. Mary. Mary. 

It was her. Her with me. It was her—right? 

And she spoke:

“My son. My little son. Come close."

What was going on? I lay on my back still. 

I couldn’t obey. How? She was too holy;

A halo ring o’ light above her air filled

And updrunk all the sweet breaths she outbreathed;

She was here and her hands held out to me;

Why? Why me?! She was here. An’ time itself took

In fat motion th’ heavy vantage o’ hold’ng her;

Glory itself, from my fearful eyes shook;

Mary was in front of me; she’d stopped me, 

She’d thrown me off my holy horse, white lurch,

In route t’ Our Lady of San Juan del Valle;

To preach, to preach against the Catholic Church. 

Her eyes were of love, they stared at me loud. 

Love—yet I ne’er knew this ethereal being,

Love? Who was I to be loved? To be found?; 

She was e’ery beauty an’ fold wrapped in one being—

Mary. 

"Son. Come here," she spoke gently in soft tone, 

Words like whispers climbing th’ leafs of my soul,

From atop a hill sunk into my bones;

She reached her gentle white hand. 

She was real. 

"Who are you?" was all my dumb mouth could expand. 

"Who?" And she replied to me with a kind smile. 

"I am your Mother," 

the folds on her eternal robe demand,

My eyes fill with wayward tears as my body shook and files;

"Mary," I spoke, 

”Mary? 

Mary?" I said,

"Yes my small boy. I’m your mother.”

Why was she talk’ng to me so plainly. Why? 

The sun pressed it heavy hand on my face,

Shake, shake, shook my bones, my voice rattling ,

I—I didn't know what t’ say. This woman, this state;

To see her here stand’ng so small yet so bright;

I rose and crawled to her as she asked me, 

The grass bright dry under my dirty nails,

My skin felt the cool blades, humility,

Fear crippled in my unholy heart swelled;

She was even more beautiful up close;

"Why do you hurt me?,” she touch’d my cheek as she spoke;

Her touch burned a quiet trail all my skin owes,

I wept. I wept. Regret out my sighs smoked;

My mother here. Mother Mary. Blessed here. 

Blessed. Blessed. Here. That she'd pity me her son,

Even though I’ve stamp and curl her friendless dress asunder,

Me. Her. Mother. Mary. My doubt undone. 

I stared at th’ hidden apex of beauty, 

I see intend’d creation. Lipped forever, 

Mirror of vassel’d God, small infinity,

I see her. This young, saint, love. My mother; 

"Why have you come to me?" I said quick soft trembling,

"Because your words will bring my adoration,"

She spoke, her words like winds of numbered choice,

"I'm just a boy. I’m just a boy," I unction’d—

"My young boy. You’re correct, you speak rightly,

Yet I choose, and God himself will use you;

Not by your choice, but by His own demand,

And by His you’ll speak for me your Mother;”

She tossed her love into my carnal eyes,

Eyes that drink evil, hate, sin, pride, death—

Not her eyes. Gentle vaults bear’ng God’s disguise,

Bending borrow’d morrow in sovereign hold’ng breath;

"I'm yours Mother. I’m yours. I’ve always been though not 

Always known, I’m yours mother. I’m sorry—

Please—I’m sorry, shaking this mortal coil 

Springs of hope—hope—that you’d forgive me my 

Sovereign Lady. Forgive me. O’—how could

I hurt you? You? You, Mother real. Mother. 

Real, mother mine. Mother. Mine. How? How?!

I’m sorry. What dust upon my lips cursed 

And calloused your precious name. Me! Me! 

I’m sorry. Forgive me Lady! For doubt’ng 

You. For holding my word’s dull and unsharped 

Hand against the thick fortress of your lov’ng 

Name. You. You! Who gave Jesus his blood; you 

Who hold this heart, you! You who are all I 

Never am. You! Forgive me mother—cursed 

And dumb orphan of a wayward way. I’m 

Sorry I ever hurt you. I’m sorry! 

Whatever you ask I will do. Let me 

Serve you and all your God given glory. 

For surely—surely—serving you is serv’ng 

God!

I said with Protestant lips burnt in praise,

"You will get up an’ walk inside this church built for me,

So you may know that I’m here, blind you'll go 

To the altar where you will find your needs."

"Yes mother," I said with me head bowed down, 

And I heard her no more—darkness found me, 

Blind. Yes. Lost. By a natural shadow bound,

Yet to find the ends of this lightless fee:

To walk inside this Catholic church, new Catholic made;

Born brutal, rush charg’d, full rush this new pattern bade.

Song II

Letra: I meet the Christ; commissioned

My loud steps burst inside th’ Basilica;

I heard no one. Empty. High stood th’ altar. 

Dry pews, air in thin patience, bright echo sum ,

I walk in th’ echo of foot and falter;

What was I doing inside a Catholic Church?

A Catholic Church, the same which I’d hated. 

Counting dumb a thousand faults in worn search,

Striking with sharp thought earnless chip or shed;

Babylon bearers of the antichrist—

The lines were struck in my head. Each set, bur built,

Long high structure of reproach an’ remonstrance,

To suffocate th’ world of unbred, sword shift tilt,

Coffin deep titan ship, wet faith advance

To rid the world of Catholicism. Truly—

That had been my mission. Had been. Yes. Had.

Yet I what was I doing now? What happened t’ me?

Had my steps been wrong, th’ zeal, the protestance? 

But such was lost. For now at least, not gone;  

Then I saw a fire snuck in cavernous keep,

A fire. A small continuous fire. Snuck deep; 

Sunken bright in th’ darkness my blindness seeped,

It was burning built high on the altar heap’d;

Something burning. It was bread. The smell

Bent th’ inner atom of my carnality,

Bread burning louder in ethereal yell;

Small bushel, call’d quick my curiosity,

Why was it here in the church?

I heard my foot steps drag an’ drift with echo, 

I used the wooden pews to help me walk,

Closer, closer, shift’ng feet t’ pulse glory stow,

I feel the fire, heat an’ all its conscious bulk;

I made it to the foot of the altar 

Where a Eucharist stood hot flaming high,

Shining raw glory ‘round cut circular,

My Protestant heart filled with deep cool sighs,

Infinity spread in rays of long light—

 “My son," a soft and lipless voice whispered,

Th’ wind couldn't cut sweet sound from human lung,

My name wrapp’d in eternal wanting sured,

The small dateless spoke t’ my soul chords rung;

Natural. I stare. And stare. And stare.

"Remove your shoes, son of Adam this is 

Not your ground,"

An’ I saw him. 

Jesus. 

He stood before me. 

Before us. Face like fire, cut like flint,

He stood. I fell. And quick I want’d to leave;

To leave, to leave him. This loud place. Me. Sin. 

T’ leave Jesus. I didn't want to be that close,

He was too holy. An’ I was to me. To me. 

He was there. Himself. Jesus. Th’ timeless dose

Shocked my captive senses to beg and plead. 

Now beside me. Mary bowed. Jesus in front,

Bowed the galaxies of her garb speak low,

Round roping her head, soft pattern glory haunt,

Her palms face down, white forehead press soft glow;

Before the Christ we bowed. Me th’ sinner. Still. 

And Mary the handmaid. Holy Mother. 

She bowed before our God, th’ quiet bursting filled,

Beside me. The Protestant in tears smother’d

Jesus—I didn't want him t’ speak. I know. 

It must sound bad. But you don't understand. 

I thought I would hug him if this time showed,

That I'd kiss his hand, an’ in lov’ng embrace stand;

But I didn't. I couldn't. How? I am evil,

And him—all glory. Everything not me. 

"Listen," he spoke Hebrew; yet I understood,

“Here this is my mother. Here beside you;”

I pressed my forehead harder to the ground,

"And mine to share with you.” He continued

“You will rise and 

Listen to her. And she will take you and 

Show you my glory. Not for you. For me. 

For the Father. For Our Spirit. You will 

Be my messenger. My son. My brother."

Brother? All I wanted to do was such soft word,

My heart split at all the unction battled heard. 

Song III

Letra: Art

And we were alone. Us and watchful darkness,

Her eyes white with purest fire stared down,

As I held in my hand a gift from my Empress,

Wood art, in mind of thousands words in pound. 

My Mary had given me a triptych.

The painting in verbs of flight played to me,

Painted with the colors my thoughts stitched,

This is the art that she handed to me—

The author hasn't added any updates, yet.