those long stainless spoons
bring back memories
the noise of the chefs bringing long trays
of food we would soon be dipping into
as trays would make their way along the line
gathering the daily meal the kitchen had prepared
the last duty was the exit dispensing
the bagged lunches we had already prepared
as they made their way back into the streets
the camaraderie in the kitchen
was a daily blessing
sometimes one could hear old gospel songs
or perhaps a newer popular tune
it was a shared joy
the art of bagging baloney and cheese
the banter between volunteers and recipients
and the Thanksgiving meals of the Salvation Army
escorting them through the line, seating them
oh, I could tell you tales from the shower detail
soap, shampoo, new t-shirt, specialty products
the smiles, having removed the everyday wear of life
a chance to walk into a new life for a moment
my walk from the trolley among them gathering
waiting at the door, offers of drugs, street reality
when i must confront the cruelty of humanity
it is here i remember, the heart of Christianity
Oregon 8/3/26
752.
Adoration to Mary:
Mother of Christianity
We adore you, our Heavenly Mother
We adore you next to our Heavenly Father
Oh Mother of Christian Religion – Mother of Christianity
You are our Holy Mother, oh Mama Mary
Holy Mary, Mother of Christianity
Mother of the religion of Christian community
You are holy, you are immaculate
Glory be to you also, the Mother we consecrate.
Amen.
-11/22/2019
(Dumarao)
*Adoration to Mary: Mother of Christianity
Suicidal tendencies
never seem to be barriers
for the affection of the damned.
When I die,
throw my shoes up on that powerline
at the intersection of homosexuality
and the shortcomings of the Christian religion,
the place where animosity festers
below a guise of neutrality.
On the corner of iniquity
and the depravity that comes with appropriated acceptance,
think of the times I almost jumped;
fly high on my J's to end up deformed
on the pavement in front of the chapel.
Think of the sadness I hid in the tear stains on my mattress,
not to be confused with typical teenage skeletons
in the closet, but a manifestation of the manslaughter
I wanted to impart on my own sentience.
Throw all of the shoes of the broken hearted,
the worldly departed,
the mutually destructed
up on that power line of lost hope.
Let us finally feel the electricity you seem to have humming underneath your bones.
More and more US politicians are talking openly of Jesus.
Fewer and fewer people in the US are going to church.
Fewer and fewer people are thinking about how He sees us.
More and more politicians leave us in the lurch.
It's sacrilege to question someone else's faith...
when we can't see into their heart.
It's sacrifice to question our own motive...
when we can't see past the tiniest part.
It's opportunism to turn the world upside down...
and hold the Word upside down.
It's opportunity ev'ry time it comes 'round...
ev'ry two or four years to turn things around.
EXPECT LIGHTNING STRIKE
GOD TELLING TRUMP TAKE A HIKE
LEO HIM I LIKE
La Sagrada Familia church in Barcelona, Spain is being finished after 144 years
I'm not a Christian, but can appreciate the labor of love and majestic design when I see one. I, however, find this magnificent cathedral completion being a bit late as the surrounding times had irrevocably changed
The work is finished, took so many years
Time comes for admiration, prayer, cheers
Construction's done, scaffolding's coming down
With folks be flocking way from out of town
In glory of their Lord but also land of Spain
Yet being so late, street riffraff’s in disdain
For Muslim crowds nothing but a joke
No quiet piety these steeples to evoke
Oh, Europe, Europe, one could never know
Why you admitted, nurtured and let grow
Without common roots, rejecting Mothers' Grace
A savage foreign horde of fiendish angry faith
They fill your streets, demanding Sharia
From places far, they made the ‘aliyah’
A malady, from which there’s no recourse
Sad alteration of mankind’s future course
As time flows, a church of yellow stone
This splendid site is bound to stand alone
Eyewitness, symbol-speaking, through her eyes
Of Western world corruption and demise
March 28, 2026
My phone said,'' Pay your screen time's high!''
I said '' Dear Soso,prophets lie''
It buzzed again,''Repent,recharge!''
I blamed WI-FI,life at large.
It knows my heart,my cravings,my schemes,
My father's father, my memes.
I'd do anything to save my soul,
But how scroll to toward self-control?
In a deep pit I awake and wonder how I got here
Scanning every blurring memory but nothing is clear
Fighting the impressing hysteria and gripping fear
Failing to see a way out as I shed more than a tear
In a dark pit I claw the walls searching for a way free
Trying every idea that had ever come to me
Hoping against hope that one will open a path to flee
Sinking deeper in despair as there is none that I see
In a hushed pit I hollered out for help from anyone
Searching the opening rim for rescue but I found none
Wishing that someone left a single bullet and a gun
Crying falling deeper with the dread feeling I am done
In a cold pit I clasped my hands turning to God to pray
Breaking through the gloomy sky was a glimmering light ray
Reaching out toward me the Son spoke out I am the way
Freeing He took me into the dawn of a brand new day
They said He never fought.
That He sent others—winged, obedient, aflame.
That He stayed above the fray,
Too holy to touch the dirt.
But they never saw the frost.
Not the one that crept through the courtroom,
Where lies were dressed in robes.
Not the one that settled on the skin
Of the boy they called monster.
They never saw Him descend.
No trumpet. No scroll.
Just silence that cracked like bone.
He did not come with wrath.
He came with memory.
Of every slander, every exile,
Every name carved into flesh.
He bled—but not red.
His blood was frost.
It crystallized on the ground
Where innocence had been buried.
No angel could fight this.
No flame could cleanse it.
Only the One who knew
What it meant to be misunderstood.
He did not smite.
He stood.
And the frost spread like truth
Across the battlefield of shame.
And when it was done,
The boy was not erased.
He was crowned.
Not with gold—but with clarity.
The frost did not kill.
It revealed.
They waited for wings.
For the shimmer of Michael’s blade,
For the thunder of Gabriel’s cry.
But none came.
The sky did not split with fire.
It froze.
And from the silence stepped One
Whose breath could still oceans,
Whose gaze could unmake lies.
He did not roar.
He whispered.
And the whisper was war.
No legion flanked Him.
No herald sang.
He walked alone,
Clad in frost and finality.
The slanderers laughed.
The righteous wept.
And the misunderstood stood still,
Unsure if this was wrath or rescue.
It was both.
He did not strike with steel.
He shattered with truth.
He did not burn.
He crystallized.
And when it was done,
The frost remained.
Not as punishment—
But as proof.
That God had fought.
Not through angels.
But through presence.
Through cold.
Through love that does not flinch.
A day to rest
A day with no mess
But a day that is blessed
A day that we recover
From all the weeks stress
A day of worship, healing, and fellowship
A fresh start
A renewing of the mind, body, and soul
A day that makes us feel whole.
Jesus lived and
Jesus died,
Jesus laughed and
Jesus cried.
Jesus loved and
Jesus felt,
Jesus stood and
Jesus knelt.
Jesus heard and
Jesus thought,
Jesus prayed and
Jesus taught.
Jesus healed and
Jesus fed,
Jesus preached and
Jesus led.
Jesus lived and
Jesus died,
Jesus is risen and
He is alive.
Bless me, Father, for I will sin
And go against your laws
But the winds of change are blowing
I must pick up the cause
At break of dawn I'll march to war
My sword will rise again
For our faith will be no more
Should our foe prevail
Sekigahara calls for me
To fight that raccoon fiend
But save me while I'm falling
Christ, my bosom friend
God of Mercy, I'm in your care
Your grace my strength to lift
This cross, your gift that I must bear
Along my battle flag
- In the voice of: Konishi Yukinaga (1558 - November 6, 1600), to Fr. Pedro Gomez, SJ.
-- The Battle of Sekigahara, 21st October 1600
* "that racoon fiend" refers to Tokugawa Ieyasu, who is often derisively referred to as tanuki (raccoon dog) by detractors.
The Genesis of a Promised Seed
was and has always been a conflict.
Since primordial Eden and Eve,
between her grain against devil's trick.
His journey to the womb of Mary
is a testament of His sovereignty.
Bloodlines of imperfect humanity,
finely woven redemptive purity.
The night, a loving Father's hand
laid His Promised Seed to a manger.
Reaching the unlightened world,
yet rejected, spit upon and shattered.
The sundial in the Hands of the Almighty,
while He buries His Begotten selflessly.
The Omniscient One cast the Seed lovingly.
Yes He died, but soon He's risen victoriously.
Jesus, the Promised Seed of the Father
is now exalted, seated in heaven's Throne.
Though His heel was wounded with scar,
He trampled the devil's head, defeated and dethroned.
Fall is breathing its dying breaths
and a chill settles deeper into the air.
The first flakes of snow have dusted the ground
leaving the world glimmering,
starlight reflecting off each crystal
and casting a beautifully eerie glow.
Nighttime silence is unbroken
save for the sound of my surreptitious breaths,
which cloud in front of me as they’re slowly released.
I can sense God here.
An all-encompassing presence that fills the emptiness with calm
despite the uncertain shadows lining the ground.
For a moment, just a moment,
(I refuse to allow myself longer),
I am not alone,
and I take comfort in His grace
until I’m greeted inside by the laughter of my family
and the warm glow of the fireplace.
This I can be certain is real,
this tangible, palpable love.
This is what I’ll live with my heart set on.
Where I land in the end is known only
to the holy adjudicator.
But as my mother’s love is enduring and unconditional
(unlike His, daily damning innocents and the joyously enamored),
I choose to establish my acts within such power
rather than living by divine ideal.
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