John Lars Zwerenz

(1-5-69 / Kew Gardens, New York, USA)

Mary, The Mother Of God

The scenery of Mary's Court is green, white and gold.
Green are her trees, white is the sun,
And gold is of The Spirit, containing every other hue.
There are brooks which run, of azure blue
Through her forests and her gardens, framed by regal eglantines
And gilded, holy, gleaming moss.
The brooks are of wines,
And gently toss
The reeds which play beneath the cloudless sky.
The Palace of The Virgin
Is heaven to the eye.
Her Kingdom is devoid of everything old,
And pertains to only that which is new.
The glistening gloss
Of the morning dew
Is found in her palatial field
Where her rosy bowers yield
Perfumes of marigolds, daisies and gems.
I met The Mother Of God donning diadems.
Her long, black hair
Is astonishing to behold,
As if all gold
Finds its temple there.
Her crown is studded with immaculate jewels,
Each the reward of a Saint's fidelity.
With a tender love she commands all citadels,
And all the angels glory in her beauty.
All the Saints are in awe of her dusky, Jewish eyes.
Her gazes outshine the bright, celestial skies.
And her skin is fairer than all of heaven's blooms combined.
Her song is that of such a charming sound
That it leaves a man blind
To what is all around.
Her fingertips are of a pearly-white,
And when she roves in her Court, beneath the purple stars of the gleaming night
She smiles at her sons and daughters in that vast and holy square,
Majestic and massive, made of marble and stone.
Her perfumes are of honey, and permeate the midnight air.
She rarely wishes to be alone,
Except for the times she converses with Her Son,
Pacing on the hallowed beach, where the streams
Of violets swirl around her feet
And run
To the tranquil sea, beneath the terrace where the vines meet.
She is often inclined
To find
Her desires
In sacred dreams.
Her passions are those of chaste, refreshing, cooling fires,
Guided by her reason
Endowed beyond the wisdom of every time and place,
Of every world, of every season.
Nothing, no one, save
For God Himself
Possesses such a lovely face
Whose expressions are light, yet sometimes grave,
Grave as in solemn,
For there are many souls she wishes to save.
She frequents earth and purgatory,
And in the latter, where the flames torment and lave
She wipes the sweaty brows
Of the suffering Saints.
And she often allows
Their punishments to cease,
Long before their time,
Ages before their due release.
She often graces the dawn with celestial paints
When cathedral bells chime in the western wood.
And she loves to say
When the consecrated pray
In their cloisters of rapture,
Clad with lindens, willows, yews and birch:
'God Bless The Holy Roman Catholic Church! -
Its eternal truths be praised! '
She cares very much for Jerusalem,
Where she was born and raised,
And she is anxious for Israel to acknowledge her Son.
She opens petals, one by one,
Merely by caressing them in her little garden-close,
In the corner of her spacious Court.
The scent of her beauteous body
Is of an immaculate, dark-red rose.
And the rhapsody of her flowing voice
Is bestowed to transport
The hearts of all the blessed,
Enraptured without a choice,
To the highest realm in heaven, of music, art and rhyme
Where The Magnificat is sung
Beneath the dome of God's Cathedral,
Far beyond the realm of time.

Submitted: Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Edited: Thursday, April 18, 2013

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- John Lars Zwerenz

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