Dust Into Flames

By Cynthia Scodova

In ancient times God spoke to us
Through prophets, and in varied ways,
But now he speaks through Christ his Son, 
His radiance through eternal days.

To God the Father of the world,
His Son through whom he made all things,
And Holy Spirit, bond of love
All glad creation glory sings.

                           Universalis Hymn Stanbrook Abbey Hymnal

                                                                                                               Google Images 



                                                     You cannot be grasped.
                                                     You enter all facets of closing
                                                     The myriad doors hinge.

                                                     You brush by 
                                                     Trailing
                                                     Your blinding 
                                                     Brilliance                                                                                                                                                                                                     Through the moors 
                                                     Of our exile:
                                                     Our hearts’ vast dark.

                                                     You are 
                                                     The bristling presence                                                                                                                                                                                Illuminating all forms 
                                                     You sustain
                                                     In your love
                                                     Stooping down

                                                     Stirring this dust
                                                     Into flames.


Cynthia blogs at The Mad-Eyed Monk.

Toward Unspeakable Light

By Cynthia Scodova


I stretch out my arms to you,
  I stretch out my soul, like a land without water.

                                                                Psalm 142

The moon

 is  

teetering

in the tangling hierarchies of branches.

Orb of dread

and dream:

bright of bird songs

and right angling light

from the day.

Our hearts’ 

full 

undisclosed desires

 beneath

the vast unconquerable

realms of infinity

and love,

where we

begin again

to recognize

somewhere within

the beautiful 

softly spoken 

voice

of God

praying 

us toward

unspeakable light.

Cynthia blogs at The Mad-Eyed Monk.

A Little Prayer

By Cynthia Scodova

 

“What pleases Him is that He sees me loving my littleness and my poverty.”
                                                       St Therese of the Child Jesus

                                          Google Images                  

                                                                     

Who can press back

 the mountain of night?

Grasp the petals 

of morning 

slipping

 through 

the fields of light?

Or keep 

the song rising out

from the small voice,

where everything is falling

in vaporous flux:

these prayers becoming

the edges of hills 

holding 
the little we are

to the mist 

  of the earth. 

Cynthia blogs at The Mad-Eyed Monk.

Cold Courts

By Cynthia Scodova

When peaceful silence lay over all,

and night had run the half of her swift course,

down from the heavens, from the royal throne, leapt your all-powerful Word;

into the heart of a doomed land the stern warrior leapt.

Carrying your unambiguous command like a sharp sword,

he stood, and filled the universe with death;

he touched the sky, yet trod the earth.

                                                                   Wisdom 18:14-16

                                                                                                                 Google Images

                                            The cold courts 
                                                          of the fields
                                                   curl in 
                                              on themselves
                                                          beneath designs 
                                                   of cloud
                                              falling
                                                           through
                                                    this time of 
                                              grey
                                                           clawing
                                                     branches 
                                              against
                                                           the dimming sky
                                                    of my heart
                                              where I don’t feel you 
                                                          anymore
                                                   but the 
                                              bitterly  
                                                          breezes
                                                   over me
                                              through these
                                                        lonely courts  
                                                   of the fields
                                              closing in 
                                                          this
                                                   time of 
                                              grey 
                                                          clawing 
                                                   branches
                                              against 
                                                          shuffling
                                                   ghosts
                                              of prayer.


Cynthia writes at The Mad-Eyed Monk.

Words

By Cynthia Scodova


This day at thy creating Word

First o’er the earth the light was poured:

O Lord, this day upon us shine

And fill our souls with light divine

                                         Universalis Hymn

                                                                                                                        Google Images

                                                        The morning comes
                                                        like soft hands
                                                        out of my dreaming,
                                                        where I wake

                                                        twisting words
                                                        in flames of possibilities
                                                        between the tips
                                                        of attention;

                                                        becoming the coloring glass
                                                        I am looking through
                                                        for glimpses of the unfathomable
                                                        beauty of You;

                                                        holding them up  to the limitless,
                                                        unapproachable-bright
                                                        molting hues
                                                        of You.

                                                        These small spheres
                                                        of words
                                                        like all clacking colors
                                                        of marbles

                                                        rolling over the edges
                                                        of meaning,
                                                        into the wells
                                                        of the unspeakable,

                                                        where
                                                        we lower our
                                                        myriad
                                                        pails,

                                                        dipping
                                                        into the dark
                                                        un-reflecting
                                                        there.


Cynthia writes at  The Mad-eyed Monk.

Into Thin Air

By Cynthia Scodova

For he shall save the poor when they cry
  and the needy who are helpless.
He will have pity on the weak
  and save the lives of the poor.

All nations shall fall prostrate before you, O Lord.
Psalm 71: 10-13

 

                                                                                                        Google Images

                                                          Into thin air 
                                                            these prayers
                                                              go 
                                                          against
                                                            the cloud-
                                                              calm cold
                                                          in both directions--
                                                            how long
                                                              this uneasy 
                                                          reaching out 
                                                            through
                                                              frost breath's
                                                          filigrees  
                                                            into thin air
                                                              where my heart
                                                          hesitates
                                                            its’ song
                                                              alone
                                                          between
                                                            the sun going down
                                                              and the dark?

Cynthia blogs at The Mad-Eyed Monk.

Advent Promises

By Melanie Jean Juneau

The Visitation by Albertinelli (photo credit:
Wikimedia Commons).

He will come.

I can trust that He will come.

For He comes even on a  frosty whisper,

Lighting the darkness with pinpoints of hope

Just as the stars appear each dark night.

He will come,

In spite of myself;

His arrival does not depend on my preparations.

Only that I wait expectantly in the dark.

In the silence

If I open my inner stable door.

He will come like a tiny child

Silently slipping into the open spaces in my heart.

Unconsciously,

I smile

Eyes Twinkling,

Automatically.

My heart burns with newborn life.

He always Comes.

images are personal photos

Melanie blogs at Joy of Nine9.

Incomparable is the Beauty

By Lora Goulet

 

 

Incomparable is the beauty

of Our Blessed Mother's love for her children.

From her Immaculate Heart

Mary infuses us with the purest and loveliest peace.
 

Our Lady's Heavenly Maternal embraces

lift our hearts, victoriously overcoming every trial.

Ever joyful are the hearts of her children

~steadfastly protected by the graces she delivers to us~

directly from our Almighty and Eternal Father.
 

Miraculously strengthened in faith through all adversity,

Mary's children thrive within the mercy and love of Jesus

as the clearest discernment from the Holy Spirit

freely flows through our hearts.

 

"All thy children shall be taught of the Lord,

and great shall be the peace of thy children."

Isaiah 54:13
Douay-Rheims catholic Bible

 

 

Lora blogs at mommynovenas.

Always with me

By Lora Goulet

Always with me

in my apron pocket, 

in the glove compartment of my car,
in my purse or backpack, 

nestled in the jackets of my Breviary and Bible,

on the bulletin board in my kitchen

Always with me 

on my bedside table,

tightly held while I sleep

Always with me

in the middle of the night

whenever I am afraid, or hurt, or crying

or concerned with an important decision,
reminding me of Jesus' healing miracles

Always with me
as I walk with Jesus through a lifetime of 

blessings, trials, discernment, loss, 
abundance, graces, anguish, joy, indescribable peace,

praying that at the hour of my death He will be

Always with me

 

 

The Rosary is the Gospel Prayer

within which we contemplate the life of Jesus through the heart of Mary

 

 

Lora originally posted this at Camino La Mancha. She also blogs at mommy novinas.

Between Us

By Cynthia Scodova



"...But the greatest of these is love."
                                First Corinthians 13

Driving through the rain

that stays

along the miles

we draw apart,

in the time we were given.

And our letting go 

become cloud

going 

around and around

the sphere

of our hearts--

carrying, with storm winds,

the blazon-unleashing leaves

like lamps of angels

 down the dark road

lengthening 

between us

in the lashing

rain,

where love 

remains.

 

 

Read more of Cynthia's poetry at  The Mad-eyed Monk.

Complexity of grief

By Lora Goulet

Christ as the Man of Sorrows, Flemish School (photo credit: Wikimedia Commons).

complexity of grief 

 ends and begins horrific pain

loss inexpressable

departs and returns so unexpectedly

unbroken ice on a river before the thaw

looks so quiet

invisible undercurrent

ruptures and casts aside everything in its path

unleashes tears unstoppable

thunderous turbulence 

assured that He hears

our quiet garden prayers

Holy Mass, Eucharistic Adoration, Holy Rosary

His most tender and glorious Sacred Heart is our home

Jesus is always with us

His perfect compassion

He understands our circumstances

having loved so deeply

left with emptiness

mirroring the love 

Our Heavenly Father feels for His children

His passion and suffering in union with our sorrows

He sends His angels and saints to help us

as together we course the narrow turbulent path 

to the indescribable beauty of being with Him forever...

"His mercies are new every morning"(Lamentations 3:23)

En Los Corazones de Jesús y María

Lora originally posted this at her blog Camino La Mancha.
She also writes at mommynovenas.

Beloved

By Cynthia Scodova


Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad,

  let the sea and its fullness resound.

The fields will rejoice, and all that is in them,

  all the trees of the woods will rejoice

  at the Lord’s presence – for he comes...

                                                                                     Psalm 96

                                  You are beautiful, my beloved,
                                  easing into
                                  the long bed of night;
                                  deep-indigo, star-dust satin
                                  you brighten
                                  each morning.

                                  Your light becoming
                                  what it touches:
                                  peridot pastures torching
                                  the uncontainable lines of heaven and earth;

                                  the fire rings of maples
                                  opening fists of rubies,
                                  citrines and sapphires,
                                  hues on hues of garnets
                                  scattering like broken necklaces
                                  across the blue-silver
                                  floors of the autumn air--
                                          our hearts seasons and solstices.


Continue reading Cynthia' poem at  The Mad-Eyed Monk.

The Hidden Closeness

by Cynthia Scodova



But you, Lord, are near to me,

  and you are trustworthy in all your precepts.

                                                                 Psalm 118

The soul selects her beauty

then swings open 

wide the doors;

inviting and gracious

more 

or less.

Yet, sometimes the stunning

comes

swooping in, 

startling,

like the great, 

gray-ivory wings

of the blue heron,

shaking the wind,

like a snap of sail

out of the unexpected

moment

and lush crescendo
of summer:

Continue reading at Cynthia's blog The Mad-Eyed Monk.

Vespers

by Cynthia Scodova

God is ever creative. 
His love renews all things and is the source of our hope. 
Let us turn to him in confidence:

                                                                            Universalis Prayer

The Evening by Friedrich (photo in public domain).

                                                Evening on the porch

                                                after I fold
                                                the duties and labors
                                                of the day and step out
                                                from what is left undone
                                                and wanting
                                                into the sanctuary
                                                of restfulness,
                                                into a gently rocking 
                                                over time-
                                                rings of floorboards,

Read the rest of Cynthia's poem at  The Mad-Eyed Monk.

Each Morning

by Cynthia Scodova

                                                                      My heart is ready, O God –

                                                                      my heart is ready.

                                                                      I shall sing and make music.

                                                                      Awake, my glory!

                                                                     Rise up, harp and lyre!

                                                                     We will awaken the dawn.

                                                                                           Psalm 107

The River of Light bu Frderic Edwin Church (Photo Credit: Wikimedia
Commons).

                                                                  What love
                                                                   Each morning

                                                                   Diffuses our darkness
                                                                   Brightens the yards of our sleep

                                                                   Making rose-gold fire
                                                                   Spill into the branches of trees

                                                                   The soft flesh of the hills
                                                                   Burning

                                                                   The worn crusts of our hearts
                                                                    Into a glance of you

                                                                  Wherever I look
                                                                  Whomever I see

                                                                   Something of you Lord.


Find more of Cynthia's poetic reflections on the Liturgy of the Hours at  The Mad-Eyed Monk