Marian Poetry by Carl Winderl

Source: Carl Winderl, Ph.D., Professor of Writing at Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego, California.


I'm "The Mother of God"
at the foot of the Cross clutching at

Simeon's sword impaled in my breast

where the blood of despair trickles
betwixt my fingers
as the sword pierces next

my heart, my mind, my
soul, my very being there
washes me
in the blood of the
Lamb, again, as at His birth
while the rabble twist and turn the

blade with their jeers and scorn, and
their catcalls taunting Him to

save Himself, let alone the world

til only me, I'm left with just
His striped God-forsaken Body. I
sink to my knees, praying
my prayer no doubt
my doubt that true to His Word

He will

do what He said He would do,
three more days hence; and my wounds

will be no more. Forever.

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on Good Friday afternoon

on Good Friday afternoon, or there-
about when they stretched

My Son to cool

the heavens clouded o'er with
opaque, lethal smoke choking
the eye of the sun
from the Fathers above, and below

though the leaded sky was
not a nebulous phenomenon but
a simple reaction:

(HCN + [CO2 + O2 + N] + a) 6 x 106 @ Ks F

yielding a noxious gray holocaust sky

and the rains came that eve
in single carbon droplets fell
from the eyes of souls winging above

not from despair but joy

for the long-expected Messiah had come
and gone

to prepare a place for them.

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When My Son Raised Lazarus from the dead

he never forgave Him
oh, . . . his sisters
loved Him more than before

but Lazarus never got over
called forth from His Father's
presence, since

a sparkle in the eye, the warmth of

a hug, a tug on the heart, hearing

his name -- 'Laz - a - rus?' --

whispered There aloud would

never be . . . the same again here; oh
yes, I know the feeling, for

His Father breathed in me
and I've
never been the same

nor has the world, and

although My Son lived (and
died) to forgive him,
and loved
his sisters in return

I now know . . . of all the miracles
My Son performed
that's the one I'm ever
so glad

He never did again, on earth .

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God Is

on my tongue, at
Holy Communion the Host
comes home to roost,

in a Way

I had but naught
envisioned; as
if from the first

the Vision of Him in me
were mine, alone

not unlike the melting wafer
transporting its substance
along my throat, pulsing
through my very veins, to dis-
solve with-

in the core of me, until

His sweet essence
flowed in me, and I

in turn pronounced His name
Lord of All, as He
lay down His sweet head

against my breast
and I kissed the Man-
na from Heaven on his soft baby
face, while He nuzzled me

and I, verily,
the First of all His miracles

was on His tongue

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Three of the above poems, as well as several others, have been published in Mary Speaks of Her Son: Poems by Carl Winderl (2005), by Finishing Line Press of Georgetown, Kentucky.  The Marian Library has a copy.

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