Their Lonely Betters

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper that words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.
A robin with no Christian name ran through
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters
Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
Words are for those with promises to keep.

W.H Auden

Before I forget this poem forever

The Era of Bullying

I was severely made fun of as a kid, growing up.

Sure, everyone's picked on, but mine didn't end at school. I guess it was easy to make fun of what you could see, if what you saw was less than what the world expected.

I was severely made fun of a kid, and I had a thick skin. I loved people and I wanted people to love me, but I had nothing to give you see. I wasn't good at anything. I still am not.

So I learned to survive. I learned to expect loss, yet still hope wide eyed that everything would be okay, that I'd be okay in the end. You see, I always had God. And now I've pushed Him away as well.

"I'll be praying for you.

I had the same experience of the bubble you spoke of upon entering undergrad. I felt it pop. And it hurt. Pray for hope.

The World can be quite harsh. It will make assumptions and go with them blindly. Pray for them.

We will fall such that we can't receive Eucharist. We all need Confession because of our sins. We probably haven't the minds to encompass all the doctrine. Pray for the Holy Ghost to reside in your heart, that it might live there and guide you in all these things when you need it most.

When the groups or parishes are stuck up, pray for humility in yourself and them.

When you know you don't fit the mold, pray that God might continue to form you for the mold he fashioned for you alone.

You are not alone.

Listen, I can see a humble heart in you. I can see a sharp and dynamic intellect. Most of all, I see clearly a soul that is suffering and struggling! This is how I know you are close to Him, the Living Flame of Love.

He gave you that bubble that you might see a specter of the beauty that is holiness. But it popped! And why? Because you have grown! You are meant for much more than that bubble; it couldn't contain you forever because you are meant for God!

It might seem hard now, but you should know this. Act as a Saint. Because you are. When you struggle, ask for the grace to struggle as a Saint, because it has been poured out at the crucifixion. When you rejoice, ask for the joy of the Saints because it has already risen with Christ from the tomb.

I will definitely be praying for you. I want you to be holier than me! I want to see you in Heaven; don't let me down now!

And as for that bubble, remember it as an allegory of Christ in the grave. Though Life itself had to enter the grave so that God's mission could be complete, the grave could not contain it, for that is no place for life. Love and Life had to be FREE. Just the same. You had your bubble so that you could begin to form a relationship with Christ to begin your mission. But you could not be contained by that! No, you too, like the Son of God, are meant to be FREE.

Go,Rejoice,and LIVE!"


I miss Innocence. I miss all of it. But if God calls me to burn, I will. 


"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain." - Khalil Gibran

The Country

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.

Billy Collins

The Most Difficult Prayer I'll Ever Have to Pray

Litany of Humility

Cardinal Merry del Val

O Jesus meek and humble of heart, Hear me.
From the desire of being esteemed, Deliver, me, Jesus.
From the desire of being loved, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being extolled, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being honored, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being praised, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being preferred to others, Deliver me Jesus.
From the desire of being consulted, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being approved, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being humiliated, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being despised, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of suffering rebukes, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being calumniated, Deliver, me, Jesus.
From the fear of being forgotten, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being ridiculed, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being wronged, Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being suspected, Deliver me, Jesus.

That others may be loved more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be esteemed more than I, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
That in the opinion of the world, others may increase, and I may decrease, 
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be chosen and I set aside, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be praised and I unnoticed, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be preferred to me in everything, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may become holier than I, provided that I become as holy as I should,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.


calumniated: make false and derogatory statements about

Doormats

I am, was, and will always be a doormat.

I can't change that facet of my personality, no matter how hard I try to stick up for myself, when it comes down to it, I can't.

There are too many things that just need to get done, and who's gonna do them if not me?

Right now, I am sitting here covered in frustration and anger, yet still I trudge on. My legs ache, my body aches, and I just can't say no.

I'm not a danger to myself, nor am I overworking myself, but I am overworked. I do too much with too little time and my focus is all wrong.

My roommates are the biggest source of my frustration right now. To be honest, I always want to wish a lot of evil upon them, but I don't because I truly don't want that. I just don't want to be angry when I come home. I just don't want to be angry.

So if you choose to step on me, know that I will be stepped on, for retaliation and passive aggressiveness are not my in my books. But I will not stay under your thumb forever; things will happen.

The measure you give will be the measure you get back.

Secret of the Easy Yoke

"You're struggling because you still love Jesus. Do not get discouraged. Jesus knows that you love Him."

I do love Jesus. That sounds pretty cliche, even to me. But I love Him. I love him like I love Dan or Tom or Roch, but differently.

You see, Jesus and I, we have history. We'll always have history. You cannot unknow what you know. I cannot fall out of love, although the love changes and I turn away constantly because I can't. I can't be who He wants me to be. I can't. And I know I'm a terrible person for that. I know what the right path is but I can't seem to choose it and it hurts me.

I wish I could go back to being 12. But God calls me not to a bubble. I know that.


 I came across this Pedro the Lion/Bazan masterpiece.

"Someone please tell me the story

of sinners ransomed from the fall,

I still have never seen You

and some days I don't love You at all.

If this is only a test

I hope that I'm passing,

'cause I'm losing steam

and I still want to trust You."

Except I'm not passing. I'm failing. I'm not losing faith, it's stronger than ever. What I'm doing is losing obedience.

I'm sorry, Jesus. I love You. I do.

I'm so so so sorry.

Things I Can Never Tell Him, or You, or Him, or Me pt. 1

I lay in my bed with her,

And her wrist is tiny in my grasp,

I can see her veins running

Up and down her arm,

Trying to flee the memories found in her touch.

She looks younger when she sleeps,

When she’s not worried about the scars on her shoulders

Or her back

And about not pleasing me enough.

The plumpness of her lips on mine is all I can think about

As little tendrils of air enter and leave her partially opened mouth.

The alcohol in my system is eroding my brain

And I won’t remember this tomorrow,

But as we lay here in my bed,

Her back curled up into my stomach

Her wrist tiny in my grasp,

All I can think about is how I could fall in love with her

Under a cloudy rainy summer sun.

I hooked up with a girl in a car once.

More of a lady, I would say,

Beautiful with full lips and large sea-green eyes,

She was wet when I touched her.

I first kissed her in a fluorescent bathroom,

It was rather clean,

And I took her against the wall

And squeezed her breast in my hand,

I felt her bite my lip and groan in my mouth.

After she drove me home

And I lay in my pink bed,

All i wanted to do was to write to you,

A little cyber text in a little cyber mess

And tell you about what I had done,

And how that I was sure that if you came to kiss me

At that moment,

I would taste a little bit like victory,

A little bit like shame.

I touched a naked woman in a car once,

And our breath moistened the air,

But even in all her naked glory

Writhing in my arms as the radio played some gritty blues,

All I could think of was writing to you

To tell you that I was still waiting for you.

You’re still the first name on my list of contacts,

Well the first under D.

I pray for you every day,

Except the past three days,

But I’ll make up for that tomorrow.

It’s hard to pray for you

Waking up at 3 pm at his house

After a night of beer

And sex

And celebration

That lasts way past the birds chirping in the dawn.

He shuts the window because they annoy him,

The birds,

And as I look down at my phone

With its battery at 27%

And your name still first on my list under D,

I can’t bear to tell him

That the only man I ever loved

Would call me his little song bird,

And make my name rhyme with sparrow.

Don't go around building igloos in the sand.

That's common sense, I would think,

to build houses that last,

unlike the roof that covered our hearts,

fragile it was,

paper thin wafers and candy coated shells

providing poor comfort from the

rains of pride and lust

that poured from the bar on the street corner,

the same bar you lost your favourite tie in

when you took it off to kneel before a girl

in front of the elephants in the back room.

She tasted like the way I smelled on a rainy day.

Things I Can Never Tell Him, or You, or Him, or Me pt. 2

I don't have a lot to say

when I ask  you if I'm pretty

and you say "Okay",

You see I'm asking you if you love me

and though I know it's true,

I need you to confirm it

or else I turn blue.

I watch movies that make me weep

and imagine blonde girls that with you sleep,

I know it's dumb that this is rhyming,

but darling, I don't have the best timing

to tell you that what I want you to do now

is to come here and kiss my brow,

so then I may rest gently

and my soul my hug you calmly.

I'm scared you're going to become a stranger,

that the blue of your eyes or the brown of your hair

or the way you wore that fat little watch on your wrist

is going to disappear from the memories in the middle

of my eyes,

the same eyes you yearned to be with you forever.

I'm scared you're going to become a figment of my

once long forlorn imagination,

another poem lost in the midst of reality,

a dream, a whisper, a caress against the reality of the

life I lead.

The more I hold on, the more you slip away.

I'd rather believe that you never existed.

Can anything compare

to the sight of his brow on my chest?

Laying down,

the peace of sleep smoothing his forehead

and molding his smile to my own,

The memory of his beard on my neck

as his lips made hallelujahs emerge

from in between my ribs.

Can anything compare the feel of his hand

intertwined in my mine?

The way his skin, rough and brazen

wrote songs against the veins and valleys

of my little fingers,

wrapped so tightly around his

memorizing the way they moved so that

one day when we are to separate,

the tears that will escape my eyes

cannot erase the sights and smells created

by the love that we once shared,

long ago,

in a bed too tall in a world too small.

Things I Can Never Tell Him, or You, or Him, or Me pt. 3

Coffee stained papers,

come to take me home.

He drinks and he loves me,

he loves me and he drinks,

I'd much rather he loved me

or drank,

but not both.

It's a bit much for me to handle,

kind of like coffee stained papers,

my life is clean and neat

and all the paragraphs are justified,

and don't get me wrong,

I like messes,

just not on my papers

or my heart.

So here I write,

trying to ignore the football brown stains,

and hope that he'll text me soon

so I can tell him I love him once more.

I listened to a song today

that you sent me years ago,

and it doesn't even feel like a lifetime has passed,

but a lifetime has gone

and now I'm in his arms and you're in hers alone.

You never did write me those letters

that you promised you would from prison,

I guess you never committed any crimes.

I'm smiling

and I miss you.

I always will miss you, my love,

but not my only love.

His hazel eyes are green in the light,

and his arms are strong

and safe,

and he'll never send me songs I'll listen to years from now,

but he's the trunk of an oak while you were the gentle

brush of a willow in the autumn breeze.

You might have loved me once long ago,

but all that's gone in the wind now.

A lifetime ago I listened for you,

and now in his bed I sleep

and dream of waterfalls in the snow.

UTIs and Cambodia

Another UTI :(

On the plus side, listen to the voices of Cambodia.

16, Maybe Less

I spent an hour with you, should I want anything else?

Random YouTube comment: This song reminds me of the only girl to ever slide across the seat of my car and sit next to me...we had a nice, simple summer together, 1979...it wasn't tangled by sex or drama....my memory can still recall the touch of your lips on mine...if you read this, Judy, know that my heart keeps a special place for you...

Mumford and Bums Report to the West

I know I'm behind on Mumford and Sons. I still haven't gotten Babel or listened to most of the songs on it, but I've heard some here and there.

Truth be told, there are very few songs that seem original on the new album. I'm not doubting the originality or the tenderness of the lyrics, but there just isn't anything that's super appealing to me in the likes of "Little Lion Man" or "White Blank Page" or pretty much any song from the first album.

That being said, listen to this excellent cover of what I deem to be the best song on "Babel"!

"And I’ll go along with everything you say
But I’ll ride home laughing, look at me now
The walls of my town, they come crumbling down."

Snow is falling west of here. The mountains have more than a
foot of it. I see the early morning sky dark as night. I won't lis-
ten to the weather report. I'll let the question of snow hang.
Answers only dull the senses. Even answers that are right often
make what they explain uninteresting. In nature the answers
are always changing. Rain to snow, for instance. Nature can
let the mysterious things alone—wet leaves plastered to tree
trunks, the intricate design of fish guts. The way we don't fall
off the earth at night when we look up at the North Star. The
way we know this may not always be so. The way our dizziness
makes us grab the long grass, hanging by our fingertips on the
edge of infinity.

Tom Hennen