Our Lady of Perpetual Help, after fire

I know the woman who rests her bare feet on the moon and the stars, while holding their creator, like every child that comes into time.

She clears a path through fiery conflagration, she opens locked doors, and shelters the small.

In the desert they will find refuge, while the guilty get lost in a maze, a trail of their own destruction.

She is the woman of the apocalypse, the heart of mankind, and the very nature of God.


Societal Norms on the Eve of All Saints

blog image relief of st infants

Chesterton wrote that “Tradition means giving a vote to most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead.”

He went on to say: “Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.”

In my family history there were relatives who were visited by or heard from these “dead”, to which Chesterton refers.

So I remember in particular a great grandmother, who would feel the toes on her feet being gently pinched at night until she roused herself from sleep and prayed for the souls in purgatory. Sometimes she had to keep praying  “until they left her alone”,  because they would “come back” if she had not prayed “enough” for them.

Yes, the ancient Catholic beliefs were held onto in those days, and children were taught the tradition that around this time of year,  All Saints and All Souls’ Day, your much beloved, dearly departed family members were allowed to visit you, and you with them, whether you realized it or not.

The visit was a custom or rule of the other side, because the holy souls (even those still in the purging place) didn’t really die.

Death was just a transition for those who had been saved. Yes, even as a child, I knew how to explain to protestant friends that the word “dead” in scripture usually only referred to the damned.

Why didn’t everyone intuit this?

Wasn’t to be with God to be more alive than ever, as He was the Source, or Existence itself?

Isn’t it us still in the material realm whose insights are dulled so to speak, by our own, encapsulated skulls?

We were not a family of conjurers, but looking back, I can imagine now how our familial acceptance of interacting with loved ones who had passed on – might seem superstitious or strange to a Baptist.  Some protestants I was told, also thought Catholics prayed to statues.


So funny, how much has changed.

It is not that I reject my religious heritage, but I see it in a deeper sense now, one that accepts that all religions and people of good will are simply like different, equally valid reflections and children of the same truth, and my hope is that my more fundamentalist friends realize this secret as well.

But in what seems like a lifetime later (yet somehow still only like yesterday), since my own dearly departed sweet Babci leaned her dear face close to mine, squeezing my hand in vivid dream impression, I still have the strangest discussions…

with my paranormal investigator friend.

At least they might sound strange by standards of current, polite society.

We discuss the norms or rules of the democracy of the dead.

He being the conscientious scientist, we discuss and we discuss until he insists he must leave “religion” out of it and I, the conscientious mystic, insist mysticism is not at odds with science. My hope is that we are both learning about the other side from each other, like different reflections of the same truth, which all people are to one another. For are not both scientists and mystics fascinated by, searching for, and examining truth? What does he know that confirms what I intuit; how the other side works, speaks, communicates, and what the other side desires?

And perhaps, just perhaps,  what I see and hear can help guide or inspire objective and direct scientific inquiry.

I insist he is onto something big, the evolution of mankind’s spiritual progress and understandings, the direction predicted by reknowned pyschics, and the woman who sees angels, Lorna Byrne –   for a potential, very possible, future reality.

He and I both believe from our own experiences and from the information collected from near death experiences, that the next realm contains a society of people, what used to be called a community of saints.

And since he is all scientist, no bias, no hype or sensationalism, he is a great man to be a leader in all this.

For just as there are fraudulent or dangerously corrupted psychics, there are paranormal investigators who are unethical, who fudge data, and I believe even fraudulent ghosts – some call them dark angels – who masquerade as one’s loved ones.

My guy is not one of them.

He is none of the above.

And he has authentic respect for the “dead”.

I don’t believe the dead are a freak show for children to masquerade as on Holloween night, bodily injuries depicted by way of grotesque costume, indicating the manner in which the dead were bludgeoned, or knifed to death.

No, the old Catholics had it right, when they taught their children to dress up as beautiful and brave, living saints instead, giving honor to those who had gone before, those whose passing will make our inevitable journey home – a non scary and welcoming one.

And my nonreligious paranormal investigator friend has it right as well, asking polite questions and not forgetting to thank spiritual entities, when he gets a response, especially evidence or indication of personhood.

And oh does he get such a response.

So much so in fact, anyone listening to the recordings on cannot honestly rule out personhood existing on the other side, that living, society – of the dead.

Early this morning as I aroused from sleep, I hear something interesting as well. I had prayed the night before for enlightenment, I admit, clutching my tiny statue of the Christ child, in the palm of my hand. Call me superstitious, or not. But I think this message from the divine Infant, regarding the family of God in this realm and the next, was for Hiram.

My entire family thanks you

when he says goodnight to the ghosts.


Searching for Oz



 A book review.

Sometimes in an author we recognize a voice, startlingly familiar, as if angels have guided their pen to page… tap, tap. I find myself engrossed in Adele’s book, feeling honored that  she would “share” her inner thoughts with me.  I want to take her words in slowly and ponder them all, for I was meant to read this. Adele’s style of writing is one in which the flow of words, although seemingly random, form beautiful, rhythmic patterns, like the movement of water in a stream.

This smacks familiar to me.

It is a voice through channels unexpected, that reminds me of home.

And thy own soul a sword shall pierce, that, out of many hearts, thoughts may be revealed. Luke 2:35

My Sweet Lord told me

I cannot be without you

HE is in me

I was drinking black and white water

they gave me, so as not to get caught

I cried

They held a gun to my head

My father would rather be better off dead

than kill me by destruction

The mass is in tatters

Its remnants remain

like shattered victims

on the floor

Open the door

and let them out of My house

where (and when) they are being


I will see and feed them

in the hills

(Oh, my Sweet Jesus, how I love you!)

make amends with the sinners

after they have fallen from My Grace,

and give them drink

from Celestial waters

It’s important you understand the plan

(not yours, not mine)

As it was in the beginning

Is now

And ever shall be

The plan of My Father

In Heaven

For random valleys

hurt the meadows

that they grow in

and towns and cities

cannot be built on ice

Flowers grow (and blossom)

where they are planted

The shores will eat them up

if left alone

The mountains are high

close to My Heart

Wild and Free

Like the back of my hand

Which would not harm

Its servants


Your hour is here


Raymond’s Song

I write this poem in honor of my dearly departed cousin Raymond, who entrusted with me the carrying out of his deathbed decree. 

For false relatives continue to flock like vultures over their would be victim’s heads, and some continue to treat me and their dying son and brother’s last words with as much ignorance as they would wish upon their victims. They have replaced their false sympathy for those who suffer with empty threats and promises, for now no one will pay them a false allegiance.

Yet they act as if dark deeds have never before been challenged.

They are all becoming like one troubled soul I know, who thinks the state can take away his earthly mansion, for not doing the bidding of an evil man. 

As for me, as long as I have a voice and live on this earth, I will continue to rejoice and sing Heaven’s Song.

For as Raymond said it, they don’t get it.

They just don’t get it anymore.

It is not us who are suffering.

Never was.

Never will be.

And never will be ever after.


Help of the helpless

My dear family

This is my deathbed

Fear not, abide with me

The dark shadows lesson

God’s means and ways made clear

Oh my sweet family

Awake, abide with me

For my dear Lord Jesus

Bearing gifts

He calls to me

Like Christmas morning

Rejoice, abide with me

This is no false vision

In Heaven I’ll awake

For no actions I have taken

For false or pity sake

Hear my Last Word 
and Testament

Heaven’s story I will tell

Trust is not forbidden there

False charity is hell

God does not abandon us

Or withdraw His Father’s Love

When we cannot do His will

As injured sparrow, lamb or dove

Renovate God’s mansions

Like flowers in the Son

Tether not the captives

The misfits that you shun

Long I loved you in life

No false attempt to charm

Ne’er false words spoken

To no gentle brother harm

Help of the helpless

Lean close  dear family

Abide with me forever

Lean close and hear and see

I have loved this life too dearly

Vultures pass not where I lie

I have loved this death too gladly

To speak error while I die

The motive of  intention

Will remain forever clear

Do not reward with slavery

Intervention do not fear

For at birth we are delivered

Through His Image all made same

But through death we are delivered

Wild and free God calls by Name

You are not the help of helpless

Nor the spouse to marry me

You are not celestial virgin

Infant born beneath my tree

Let us build the City of God

Make haste abide with me

Mother’s house is in the after

Abusers’ kingdoms will not be


Call from Daddy in the wee morning hours of All Saints Day


hauls across dusty rooms

with a bank note in it

sells on ebay(?)

there are holes all over the place





giant flea market [my upstairs barn used to be used for a giant flea market]

They’re not (cutting? letting?) in

Buyers numbers lots




[there’s a fly suddenly buzzing around my bedroom]

Mexican prison

Benny Hill


There’s a problem


loose lips sink ships

meat and potatoes served here

I’m the same way

Nag every minute

mouth piece for John

a kit

size it

in order to have a funeral doc

fleeing to Mexico

my cake

buying crumbs out all night

the bench lying in it

the grave

can be her shoes

get her pillow

smother her face in it

she’s basking in it

pick a wreath

call for supervision

Sunday Edition Criminal Chase

Remember down at Shady Acres

Where the grass was over grown

Ring Ring Ring went the sound

Of a rotary dial

It’s your Daddy on the phone

I asked you to take care of them

My children and my wife

You ate instead the bread I gave them

Took my very life

Little Nate he understands

He’s doing very well

Though he bears the marks your sins have given

In the blood in which he fell

The incorrectly ordered man

Is deadly to himself

And my daughter writes in place of me

That book upon a shelf