Rosary Poems
les Mystères:
 
Additional Winderl Poems

Joyeux

no man knew then the hour

nor knoweth it now
even tho Isaiah It announced
and John echoed Him

yet, there he stood, diaphanous, robed
in Trinitarian regalia, ad-
dressing me, 1st ever – Meryemana, rapt
swathed in radiance, sensing
the warmth, yeasty, from within as if

Light emanating

from My Throne Womb
about to burst forth, I

let it be, My maidenheart, enLightened

pulsing, Incarnadine Morse Code

through my veins

Magnificat anima mea   
   dominum!                              
precursing St. Teresa herself

:  giving what was asked for
   taking what was given
inscribed upon my very being be-
coming, in essence esculent . . .
I heart-throbbed, suffused in delirial luster

Totus Tuus! Totus Tuus! Totus Tuus!

for the Word was made flesh
at last
and it was the Beginning
all over . . .

Again

Fully radiating the Holy

Spirit, our triptych on
her Elizabethan porch stands
empanelled there thus, the scene seen

we three
:  she & hers; the Dove; I & mine

in One accord – of Love Above

while inscribed below, our thrice-
fold litany
fraternitas; unitas; caritas

awash alike in the triune font, beyond
our wildest conceptions, paired
miracle births about to be;

the baptist baptized by the
spoken fulfillment of the Old
Testament’s logos from a womb with
a view to

the future Perfect

with Whom He’ll be well pleased, these
twinned tuning forks, My Son’s struck from
within, juxtapositional
John’s R.S.V.P.ing
in concerto allegro, sings from without . . .

their mutual adjacent cadence

afloat in their geminal
sacre couer sacs
spring-fed from their Jordanian reservoir

of our Mosaic amniotic flow in
the natal neo-
ark of the New Covenant where
there’s emblazoned upon the transom

veni creator spiritus.

Our pulse I sense, racing in
its Morse pararhymes

:  live, die, rise; live, die, rise;
    live, die, rise . . .

toward the mouth of our eventual
 deltas, and
My Son’s Alpha & Omega til

in principio, consummatus est, futurus in
aeternum

and so shall be, let the worldshine with
fervor, zest, and zeal upon these

 nouveau homme fetalities!

Thus duly recorded

in the City of David

led along the right path
for His Word’s sake                                                                            

in a stable prepared for me
in the presence of strangers
I lie down on

pastoral straw while

my head’s
anointed with goodness and
surely mercy-
ful sweat drops of blood, and

lo, Jesse
and all the heavenly host
they comfort me for

here the Shepherd is My Lord

as His communal blood runs
over ever
the cup of me with its waters
still, now; forever

in His temple
Me, He shall dwell, all

the days of My Life ( is His )
even
though I walk through the
shadow of the Cross

I will fear not.

What

shall I not want?

or was it circum-

scription    instead . . .
My Sweet Baby
underwent, a prefiguring of
His eventual disfiguring

when they’d try to erase
the Word (in
   a circle
   they’d size
   Him up) although on the day

of His Presentation (only

   the first – not ever the last) the
peoples’ Presence came and
went unnoticed, for
they were

too intent (oh, the fore-
   shadowing
   of His flayed skin)

at the Temple there
they unscrolled Him, signed His
death warrant
and sealed it (not yet with a
   kiss) with His blood

upon the vellum of a Lamb for

ever the teachers of the Law
rarely the knowers, as
only the circum-

scribes and pharisees
doing their usual little dance of

circumlocution

April Fools

the first at eight, the last at
thirty-three
 
the best perhaps at twelve

when for three

days, how long else would He – no
when He
first planted His minis-

Tree in the Great
Temple Hall and sat, enthroned (Who not
   wholly filled yet
   their holy chair [His not yet

not the last, but

the best Paschal April, for
not their profane
knowledge, but properly taught for

prophet-

izing His Messias’
dead rejection, as His Father’s Business
Man low-
ly death, whence He practice predicted the
un-
lawfull led
without an ear to hear, who

will not then, there . . .

nor in His twelfth year, here


   throne]) and surrounded
by the aged priestly throng; not the first

 

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Lumineux

John at the Jordan

anointest His head

the Lamb led, preparedst
beside
the still waters

to be buried
in the baptistry, neath
the flood of
His re-

mission of sin, risen
in the runneth over font
sanctified
as if Noah’s dove on the wing
returneth

manna in its beak
straightway; united

in the Triumvirate of

:Man, Dove, Voice

in Whom
there’s a serene Presence
pleased, beloved, hallowed

My Son

surely the shadow of death
shall follow all

the days of the Life

suffer it to be so, but know

no evil:  wilt dwell

blood is sweet, especially

when it hath been turned
out of water

as at Nathanael’s nuptial day
though known by Him
since his natal day

when they’d played and
he’d sat at that
first Last Supper
just after the Finding and

He practiced
what He’d later say
again and again

at all the Marriage Suppers to be

:    many signs and wonders
      mighty deeds have

      ye seen

believest thou now

how 6 stone jars, filled up
to the brim, with 3 firkins apiece
of purifying ceremonial
wash-water

came to Be, yet thou
knowest not
 whence it was

for as My Son would further
later parabolize

:      why, . . . dost thou also not
        believe in santa claus; so unlike- 

wise men must thou also double
the Maker
 of His Presence

 in My presents . . . ?

when the Scroll unrolled

in Nazareth, it is written
how the Word had
fulfilled My passage and so

as His custom was
He stood up
to make The Pro-

claim,

a simple formula to provide
glad tidings to
those whom He loves comes re-

proof (Supreme

   -ly) for His conversion table at
the banquet in Heaven, see

:  the Marriage Supper where
   the Lamb of

   God will be served thus.

there,
in the ill-gotten guise of sinners
the sheep He feeds will
lie beside
the pool in the verdant
emerald-glimmering vestibule
over the world without end.

how else the flock
be shepherded, to enter into

for nigh
the Kingdom

is

at Hand

as a Lamp shineth

in a dark place and
the darkness
knoweth it not

so It preceded My Son
on the paths
to Sinai and Horeb whereon

Moses and Elijah
trod on Holy Ground then

He Himself Trans-

figured, there
with the newish threesome
Whose theophanic Face they saw
the Rising Son, glistering

as if from the dead
darkened night

radiating Light
-ning, showering snow
brilliant enough

to melt a sinner’s heart

thus casteth out

their darkness there;

clothed in white Light only
and not yet a set-
ting Son
the truest Word ever
lettered in 4 hath there been written
:  the New Commandment
not on stone
but on His heartflesh

Whose Resurrection foreshone

the ethereal Elijaic &
Mosaic life-after-death raiment bright-
white (as His Mother’s
   soilless linen in an unclean
   world) there

for not on the Mount is
He to be so much Transfigured

as in the hearts of men

pan y vino

when in
the marketplace, shawl
and neo-mosaic basket on arm

I am so often drawn

to and by
the fruit of
the granary and vineyard putting me
in the mind

of His sweet head
as He lay

beneath His shroud

the day after His best meal ever
at last
prepared by hand, His

the bread, in wafers, desiccated
the wine, in thimblefuls, coagulated
ne’er to be tasted nor
eaten in
the fullness of time again,
until,

the Marriage Supper of the Lamb
when drunk

from His Loving Cup

 

 

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Douloureux

oh, valley

 of the shadow
of death


thy name is Kidron

whose brook became
My Son’s rubicon
flowing near to Gethsemane
and
not a stone’s cast
from the Mount ‘twould be-
come My Son’s waterloo (well
ington-wise, i.e.) Who’d rule
with an iron rod
what of He, exceeding
sorrowful Body on the Tree
even unto death
that winepress of suffering
as He wilt

betrayed, since He was wont
neither wist they
what to answer Him, for

He prayed to

be led not out of temptation

now and
at the hour of His death

obedient, allegiant

with angelic sustenance-
strengthened spirit, although
edenic flesh
weakened the will, still

heaven and earth might pass away
but the Word

Never. . . .

oh, let not My heart be
troubled, to think upon It
for He knew

not His will but His be done.

in Plate's wash water

floated My Son’s sins

:  innocence, obedience
   allegiance
   and long sufferance

while the chief priests, scribes
and elders
circled round, in a frenzy
smelling

blood in the water, although
‘twas theirs

not His, and yet

not all alone Whose mother
stood outside the praetorium gate
and heard

from he who sitteth in the seat of
Gabbatha, “see ye to it”

the flagellated snap of
the CX whiplashes on Him

bound to the pillar

Who used to succor at my breast

yielded He
His back to be beaten,
His beard to be plucked,
His Mother to seek help from He

Who dispels disgrace

whilst His flinty face shielded He
not from buffets nor from the spitting
so that His blood

be upon them and upon

their children
witnessed, a scourged Jesus (Who

   suffered them, to
   come unto Him) and whose
parents’ bloody deeds
live

long ever after

ecce Verbus!

cloaked in regal purples
garlanded with glorious thorns

spat upon by blinded eyes
smitten with a royal reed
knelt before by unwise men

My Son utters not

an Empyrean Word, of distress
casteth off not
the inconsolate plaited crown
spiked with 3”

Spinae, from Parkinsonia aculeata
:  tissue tearing, scalp flaying,
   fault finding,
   fissure splintering (as if planting
   a cross
   on a skull)

and yet

-- neither their slings
    nor arrows
    can pierce Us –

    not His vellum
    nor My velum --

meant to be
merely chastised, at best

for being Zoroaster the Lesser,
or a false Mazdus, so they said

but
made to be sin without sin
instead; thus

behold,
this is the

Lex of the Jews

lo, verily led a Way

to the canyon of
the Shadow of

Sorrows

toward His
personal holocaust
where He’d succumb to

their scorched earth policy

My Son staggered
neath the load
of the world’s most cruel cross,
smitten by Love; He
evensang

:  Thy will be done, His theme A

to their theme B, My wannabe’s be-
wailed laments, from station-

ary spurned to stationary strickened

for who alone canst
heed the Cyrene call?
Rufus? Alexander? who wilt
lead the Way?

Onely, He
carries His shame
on a lower-case t, crossing

the narrow pathway up
the hill
where they flew a flag

of black
but there He raised,

the One of White

DDC

and then some

of the massacred innocents lay
in that cold concrete room
on the floor
while the gases cleared, overhead
overheard, the Word, over-
all the Lamentations soldiers smirked
goosestepping back to Herod’s hall

their mighty work just begun

the echoes of the mothers’ cries
:  Rachel runs round about the cities
            weeping
   her clothes rent, ashen mouthed
                         mourning
   hair streaming, eyes screaming
                                       comfortless
   through Bethlehem and all
   the borders thereof til

Herod’s shifting sands from the upper hour-

glass chamber to the lower of

the other, Pilate stands, in place, in
all the H’s shadows . . .
a little off, to the side, in space and time
before My Son

and wonders in his heart,
“who do I say He is”
from Galilee

shall He be
entombed, lie upon
a cold slab too, suffocated there, as
well exhaled, His last gasp

expired
like all the others
MMMMMM

and then some
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Glorieux

from the thronewomb

here near the sepulchre
I am, close (again)
as I can, as I was when He

was enwombed; my cheek

against the cold stone’s pressed (as
   once He nursed and
   nuzzled my warm breast) but I’m

oppressed

by the silence within
wherein His Body hath so lately lain

or thus they say;

His birth-
day date, I recall, three days hence

oh, where is the Life now

:  above, yet
   or below
before here, again, at last
when He’ll Glorious appear in
His Trinitarian regalia
to give to us the Word, once more

at the Re-Annunciation

of His forever birthplace
:  in the Temple restored for
   the Holy Spirit . . . ‘tis

   any and

   all of our human hearts.

their nightLight

is He.  Now
that He’s been elevated
:  like Father
   like Son.

And I, ponder

in My Heart of hearts
  (where
   Simeon hath performed his
   sleight-of-hand sword
   tricks) restored

by My Son

to His Right

-full Domain of Being, from thence

the quick and the dead

shall all
see His return
in the samewise cloud
to the place I have prepared for Him

in the throneroom of My Heart

where He sits, reigns forevermore,
and is,

that also they may be.

after He'd gone

His Presence, still
It hath comforteth me

none the less

Fear not, for (at
   the Feast of Pentecost)
ingathered

the Tongues of heart fire Descend
licking at
the beholders, hungering
for a taste of Heaven in
His FirstFruits

the Wafer and the Wine

longing to dine
at the Marriage Supper
of the Lamb, served
at last, slaked by the Blood

eager for the Flesh, yet

quenched only
by the Spirit

sprinkled from the hyssop, dipped
in the Crystal Fountain,
Whose
deep draughts from
unloose their tongues

as if drunk on New Wine

with what Rapture

I and My Son
were One, in Heaven

again

I yielded (just like
   Falling Asleep) to
the letting
and be
-came body and soul
once more (leaving, no doubt,

   Thomas longing
   to touch too My Son’s

   Mother . . . ) as if

on the wings of
eagles I mounted from whence
I’d run the Good Race

and not been weary, trans

-ported and trans
-figured
even, . . . -literated (in
   the manner and the style
   and [full] grace of
   Enoch & Elijah) thus

not so much merely translated

in Our meeting in the air,
in the
twinkling of an Aye:  Radiant
   for
   all is calm, all is bright

   in the starry, starry night

in the Empyrean

twelve stars coronal surround
the Skypace
and I

am filled again
with the embracing Presence

above, below, within

my soul proclaims
to the world, what
:  hath not been conformed

   but am transformed
   by my renewed mind and
   hath proven

   what is that good

   perfect, acceptable, let-

   able to

not His will be done
   but His.

now no mere lowly
hand-made of the Lord,
Who is with me ‘tis

no secret now my
sacred coronary nature
doth magnify

The Enthroned:  Magnitudinous

reigneth,
blessed in golden spun raiment
embroidered immaculate
:       in fine linen, clean, and White
         ever Pure

         Eternal.

 

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Theotokos

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
being
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
once
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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2967 Evergreen Street
San Diego, CA 92106 – 1404
619 – 849 – 2417
carlwinderl@pointloma.edu

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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This page, maintained by The Marian Library/International Marian Research Institute, Dayton, Ohio 45469-1390, and created by Hannah Overman , was last modified Thursday, 02/07/2013 10:50:40 EST by Ann Zlotnik . Please send any comments to jroten1@udayton.edu.