These are just various recent scribblings of varying quality. The second is my half-serious, half-sarcastic musing on the 'liturgy wars' that plague Catholics, but also others; it occurred to me that what some people on both sides are always looking for is not better liturgy but that Unicorn Rite that will make everything good and put everything to right. That's a lovely idea, worth working for. And also an absurd thing to expect or demand prior to Kingdom come.
Icarus
The day will come
when I'll be free
and, like an airborne gull,
sail above the lonely sea;
I'll fly so high
into blue sky,
so far above all sorrow
no darkness could ever follow.
Into the sun
I'll soar so free,
away from this prison-isle
and its hard captivity;
I'll fly so high
into the sky
with wings of light and flame,
renowned above all names.
No more cold sand,
no more cold sea,
only sky and light forever,
glorious and ceasing never,
away from chains and sorrow;
I'll fly so high
into bright sky
no darkness can ever follow.
Catholics of the Unicorn Rite
The Unicorn Rite Catholics are singing their Mass,
lifting their voices to the God of creation,
singing the introit and collect of the day,
today, this day, that the Lord has made,
today, this day, on which they all hearken.
Antiphons rise in a fountain of prayer,
glorias lift up in heartfelt rejoicing;
blessed like balm is the holy union,
like great grace their deep communion;
and every credo is hale and holy
and every word bears the kiss of peace.
Chaos Dreams of Order
Chaos dreams of Order;
Order dreams of God;
God dreams up the borders
that limit human thought;
liminal with glimmer
gleams the twilight of the sky,
but the light grows never dimmer
from the Joyous and Most High.
Collect
Superessential Trinity, glorious in Unity,
grant us your mercy for the praise of your glory;
grant us a spirit of wisdom of revelation;
enlighten our hearts with the hope of vocation;
that we may inherit the fullness of Christ,
that we may be part of the One who fills all.
Just Before Nightfall
The clouds write joyous poems with the gleaming of the sun
as mountains break the glory into a radiant crown
and rivers all catch fire in the aura of the West
to pour like flowing gold, to ripple in the light.
Can dreamers hate a darkness that has heralds so holy-bright?
