Poem: 'Byzantium in Jersey'

My grandfather, 1969, Budd Lake, NJ

Last week's poetry prompt from Dimitri Reyes intrigued me greatly.

"Today is my grandfather's birthday," Dimitri wrote. "Though he is no longer on this plane, I still hear him in my mind and I honor him through voice & spirit... When doing research into my own Puerto Rican culture and discovering how I was going to traverse 'creation myth,' my grandfather's successes and failures helped fill in the spaces -- fully and honestly."

I listened to Dimitri's poem, "Papi Pichón" ("Father Pigeon"), and the poet invited me to "create my own bird."

So this week I couldn't get my own grandfather out of my mind. He died in 1976, and just in the past three months, I've mourned the death of three other close and extended family members.

I also thought of a favorite poem, one I used to recite to my daughters as a lullaby, about the passage of time. This morning -- thinking of Yeats' bird of hammered gold and gold enamelling, and imitating (poorly) the iambic pentameter and rhyme scheme of "Sailing to Byzantium" -- I wrote the following (although, PS, I'm still debating that next-to-last line... considering "This, my father's father's mysterium"):

Byzantium in Jersey

 

This, my grandfather, in his Sunday best:

a cigarette dangling from its holder,

a tattered suit, a worn Italian vest,

with me at his side, decades less older.

He does not hold my hand. There is no rest.

He lectures as we walk, points my shoulders

toward a butterfly he displays to me

along the shores of Budd Lake, New Jersey.

 

This, a back country road, is my classroom:

milkweed, honeysuckle, red columbine,

hummingbirds, spotted touch-me-nots in bloom,

blue robbins’ eggs, goldenrod, dandelions.

My grandfather names them for me, assumes

I will remember that sparrow, that vine,

the chicony, those edible lilies,

the songs of mimicking catbirds we see.

 

These have all vanished for me.

 

I live in the suburbs, reminisce now

about ancestors. One Sunday, I walk

the Hackensack riverbank in a drought.

During the golden hour, a gyring hawk

directs my gaze to a sun-kissed bough

where a crow blinks back in silence, stalking.

This, I know, is my father’s father’s song

of what is past, or passing, or to come.

"Varry and Kate," my grandparents.
Photo by my father.

 

Poem: 'Grief's Cliche'

I have only one prompted poem to offer today for February, and it was written in March.

Another that I wrote was too personal (naming names). I submitted still another for publication (with the assurance it was otherwise unpublished), and the last of the weekly prompts I received from my poetry Patreon was a reading, rather than writing, assignment.

The prompt for the poem below was simply, "How is your body a mausoleum of flowers?"

"Mausoleum of Flowers" is the title of this poem by Daniel B. Summerhill, and the image had special meaning to me as I contemplated the funeral and burial of my uncle on March 2.

For the past week, I couldn't get this short poem out of my head. I kept thinking of the roses pictured here, the ones gathered in front of the altar of Sacred Heart Church in Clifton and later placed upon the grave at Calvary Cemetery in Paterson. This was my first draft:

Missing You

I pricked my finger on the rose
I cast atop your grave.

My droplet of blood,
camouflaged by the buds
the others threw on you.

Then you were hidden too;
your body, a mausoleum of flowers.

While each of us beheld
the shorn beauty of your life
and pretended we would live forever.

---------

And this is where I landed (revised, 3/24/23):

Grief's Cliche

The rose I cast upon your coffin
is scent-less in the dead winter’s cold.

Thorns, rendered painless;
my fingertips, numb.

Curiously, I see a timid trickle of my blood
mix with the petals already covering you.

Then, lost in red, you are hidden too:
Your body, a mausoleum of flowers.

I exhale. A puff of air dissipates like incense.

My life shorn, my body suspends itself.

Lungs empty, I kill time at your grave.

I crave belief, yet question all truths:

This pretense I am sharing
a final breathless moment with you.

Remembering Fr. Julian in 1,000 Words

93 years ago today, a mother was cradling her first-born son in her arms at St. Mary’s Hospital in Passaic, NJ.

She had been told her newborn had only days to live or, at best, would spend his life in a wheelchair.

She was a woman of strong Catholic faith, and she offered both their lives to the service of God, if only He would spare her son.

Her name was Rachel Varettoni. She was my grandmother, and I called her “Nonna.” She lived a long, devout life of service – raising and supporting a family of three boys, and instilling in them a profound faith in God’s goodness – and she died 22 years ago on the eve of her 100th birthday.

I called her first-born son “Father Julian.” He fully recovered, albeit (as his beloved nephew Bill reminds me) with one leg shorter than the other, resulting in chronic back pain later in life. As his mother had vowed, Fr. Julian indeed devoted his life to God. He grew, both physically and spiritually, to be the strongest man I ever knew.

That’s us in the photo, after he carted toddler-me around the grounds of his parents’ home in Budd Lake. It was a modest farmhouse on a fair-sized plot of land, purchased during The Depression, where Fr. Julian was its lifelong caretaker. It’s where he suffered a seizure that led to his death last Thursday night on the literal eve of his 93rd birthday.

 

---------

 

Fr. Julian with my sister; Budd Lake, circa 1969;
he chopped all the wood in the background.

Most people remember Fr. Julian at the altar. He was pious. His sermons were thoughtful and eloquent. They didn’t come easily to him since he was uncomfortable as a public speaker. Few people realized this because he practiced diligently – and enlisted the aid of my father with some of his words – to give sermons that would make his mother proud.

He accomplished so much as a parish priest in service to the Roman Catholic Diocese of Paterson. You can read about this in his obituary: his devotion to music ministry (which he also inherited from his mother); his progressiveness in the service of those in need; his lifelong joy in building and fixing and refurbishing… most often with his own capable hands.

Fr. Julian at the altar at my parents' wedding in 1955.
Dad waited to propose to Mom until after his brother
was ordained so he could officiate at the Mass.

He was also the priest at every family wedding, and present at every family gathering. Decades ago, before cell phones, he would record family events with a video camera perched on his shoulder. He also chronicled details of vacation trips on a portable tape recorder.

Fr. Julian was an adventurous traveler: once taking my mother up in a hot-air balloon over Colorado, and once taking my sister Sue and me on his parish’s pilgrimage to Rome. He led us up the centuries-old stone steps of an otherwise closed parapet so we could see a breath-taking, God’s-eye view of St. Peter’s Square.

He married my Mom and Dad. He was the priest at every family funeral. He buried his parents and my Dad. Later in life, he said Mass for my wife and children and me around Nonna’s dining room table every Christmas Eve.

But here’s what I remember most about Fr. Julian. I remember him most in Budd Lake, where he returned for decades every Wednesday on his day off and on Sundays after Masses, to take care of his mother and their home.

When they were young, Fr. Julian and his brothers used to sit on the brick steps by the front porch and harmonize in song. The house faced Route 46, which was a country road back then, and the brothers tried to identify each car by the make and model as it passed. Fr. Julian always won this game, because he could identify the make and model of every car by the sound of its engine, before it was even in sight.

Nonna with her three sons on her 99th birthday.

When I was a boy, I watched Fr. Julian effortlessly perform tremendous feats of strength. He was a carpenter, like Jesus. But he was also an electrician and an architect and a plumber and a gardener. He could fix anything. He could build anything. He would always buy whatever he needed at Sears.

In the summer, he shucked freshly picked rhubarb with the same sure and graceful hand movements of a concert violinist. In the fall, he loved the solitude and repetitive grace of roaming his land on his tractor to collect the fallen leaves.

I once visited him in his basement workshop and heard him, alone, giggling like a schoolboy. Fr. Julian had taken apart his car’s carburetor, and he was reassembling its hundreds of intricate pieces… simply for the joy of it.

Fr. Julian enjoyed jigsaw puzzles; here's the one
he was working on before he died.

As the years went on, and some of the property was sold, Nonna’s garden and grapevines shrank in size, and now lay barren after her death. All the bottles of her homemade wine are empty, but the small greenhouse Fr. Julian built for her still stands. So do the remnants of a path that he cleared behind the old garage. He had installed Stations of the Cross in that small patch of woods, where he and his mother could wander and pray.

---------

Now this extraordinary life has come full circle.

I learned the sad news about Fr. Julian’s death in a phone call from my sister. They were especially close, and my strong sister Sue was in tears. I had taken my Mom to visit with Fr. Julian just days earlier, and it was such a happy, life-affirming visit. Sue was happy to hear this. My wife, when I told her about Fr. Julian’s death, remarked that it was “the best birthday present he could have gotten.”

She said this because Fr. Julian had a profound, unquestioning faith handed down from his mother. My own mother told me that during their recent visit Fr. Julian said he was ready to go “home.” So this is what I believe, without any doubt:

Fr. Julian woke up on his 93rd birthday in Heaven, with Nonna holding him in her arms once again.

Mom, me, and Fr. Julian this past Monday

Love Thee, Notre Dame

This Facebook post.

 

ChatGPT Gets Us: An AI Conversation With 'Jesus'

The message in RF: "Jesus still believes with two outs in the 9th."

I first saw one of the "He Gets Us" advertisements splayed across the right field fence at a Pittsburgh Pirates game in September.

I thought it was silly.

Fast forward to the Super Bowl (am I even allowed to call it that here?), and the video ads produced by an evangelical Christian initiative, The Signatry, caused quite a stir.

Although hardly a speck as much as historical Jesus.

I was puzzled by Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez's tweet calling out the ads for "making fascism look benign." After all, one had simply shown photos of people arguing and fighting, with "Human" by Rag'n'Bone Man playing in the background. The message: "Jesus loved the people we hate."

Then I read more about The Signatry's funding, and I understood the backlash -- although, to be honest, I agree more with author and Catholic scholar Phyllis Zagano's analysis, which I linked to above. She concluded:

Whether the evangelical Christian presentation of the story of Jesus is or is not aligned with specific denominational beliefs, it has the right to be presented. And if people want to spend their millions doing so, they can, because the United States is a country free of fascism.  

I also asked ChatGPT what "Jesus" might make of all this. The AI chatbot obliged, with the proviso that "I'll do my best to simulate a conversation with Jesus Christ. However, it's important to remember that this is a purely fictional conversation, and it's up to you to determine what you believe in."

Here's my Q&A with a simulated version of God. It's unedited, and sometimes redundant, but on the whole I found it surprisingly on point. Perhaps with the exception of the robotic "thoughts and prayers" response about the earthquake.

Jesus, why should I believe in you?

I would say that belief in me should be based on a personal conviction and faith, rather than simply accepting my existence as a matter of fact. I believe that I am the Son of God, and that through me, people can have a personal relationship with God and receive eternal life.

It's understandable that you may have doubts or questions, and I encourage you to seek the truth for yourself through reading the Bible, praying, and seeking guidance from others. Ultimately, the decision to believe in me or not is a deeply personal one that requires reflection, contemplation, and faith.

Did you truly perform miracles?

As a figure of Christian faith, it is believed by many that I performed miracles during my time on earth. According to the New Testament, which is the primary source for my life and teachings, I performed many miraculous acts such as healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and even raising the dead.

However, it's important to note that the veracity of these events is a matter of faith and belief, and different people may have different interpretations of them. Some may see these events as literal, while others may view them as metaphorical or symbolic expressions of spiritual truth.

Regardless of how one chooses to interpret these stories, the underlying message is one of love, compassion, and hope. The miracles that are attributed to me were intended to inspire faith and encourage people to live according to God's will, which is to love one another and seek justice and peace.

What if people find it difficult to believe you are the Son of God?

It's understandable that some people may find it difficult to believe that I am the Son of God. Faith is a personal and complex matter, and there are many factors that can influence one's beliefs and doubts.

In response, I would encourage you to approach the question of my divinity with an open mind and heart, and to explore the evidence for and against this belief. Reading the Bible, seeking guidance from trusted spiritual advisors, and engaging in personal reflection and prayer can all be helpful in this process.

However, it's also important to acknowledge that faith is not necessarily based on empirical evidence or rational argument alone. Belief in me as the Son of God requires a personal and spiritual transformation, a leap of faith that is rooted in the heart and soul rather than the mind.

Ultimately, the decision to believe in me as the Son of God is a deeply personal one that requires a willingness to trust in something beyond oneself. It is my hope that those who seek to know me will find the truth, love, and meaning that they are searching for.

What is love?

Love is a central theme of my teachings, and it is one of the most important concepts in Christianity. At its core, love is a selfless and sacrificial act of caring for others, putting their needs before your own, and seeking their highest good.

In the Bible, it is written that "God is love," and my life and teachings were a demonstration of this love in action. I taught my followers to love their enemies, to forgive those who wrong them, and to care for the poor and marginalized.

Love is not just an emotion or feeling, but it is something that we actively choose to do. It is a way of life that involves putting others before ourselves, seeking justice and peace, and treating all people with dignity and respect.

Ultimately, love is the foundation of all human relationships and the key to a fulfilling and meaningful life. It is my hope that all people will learn to love one another as God loves them, and in doing so, experience the fullness of life that God intends for us.

A photo from last night, at St. Paul's Church
near Columbus Circle in Manhattan.

What is your most important message to me today, in 100 words or less?

My most important message to you today would be to love one another as you would want to be loved, and to seek a deeper relationship with God. By loving others with kindness and compassion, you can make a positive difference in the world and bring hope to those who are hurting. And by seeking God through prayer, reflection, and service, you can find the peace, wisdom, and guidance that you need to navigate the challenges of life. Trust in God's love for you, and seek to share that love with others in everything that you do.

Jesus, what would you say to Donald Trump and Joe Biden if you could speak to them today?

As someone who taught about love, compassion, and service to others, I would encourage both Donald Trump and Joe Biden to seek to govern with these values in mind. I would remind them that true leadership is not about power or personal gain, but about serving the needs of the people they represent.

To Donald Trump, I would urge him to seek unity and reconciliation, and to put the needs of the country above his own personal interests. I would remind him that he has a responsibility to govern justly and to care for the marginalized and vulnerable in society, and that this requires humility, compassion, and a willingness to listen to others.

To Joe Biden, I would encourage him to lead with integrity and to seek justice and equality for all people, regardless of their race, gender, or socioeconomic status. I would remind him that he has been entrusted with a great responsibility to govern wisely and justly, and that this requires courage, compassion, and a commitment to serving the common good.

Ultimately, as I taught in the Bible, true leadership is about serving others and putting their needs above our own. My hope would be that both Donald Trump and Joe Biden would seek to embody these principles in their leadership, and that they would work together for the good of the nation and the world.

Jesus, what would you say to someone who doesn't believe in you?

To someone who doesn't believe in me, I would first of all want to say that I love them and that I am always present for them, even if they do not recognize me. I would also encourage them to explore my teachings and to seek to understand who I am and what I stand for.

I would remind them that faith is a personal choice, and that I do not force anyone to believe in me. However, I would also encourage them to consider the evidence for my life and teachings, and to seek to understand the impact that I have had on the world.

Ultimately, I believe that the most important thing is to seek the truth, and to be open to the possibility that there is a greater purpose to our lives than what we can see or understand. As I taught in the Bible, "Seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened to you" (Matthew 7:7).

Whether or not someone believes in me, I will always be present for them, and I will always offer them my love and grace. My hope is that all people will come to know me and to experience the fullness of my love and grace in their lives.

Jesus, what would you say to the earthquake victims in Turkey?

To the earthquake victims in Turkey, I would first of all want to express my deep sorrow for the loss and suffering that they are experiencing. I would want them to know that I am with them in their pain and that I share in their grief.

I would also want to remind them that they are not alone, and that there are many people who are working to provide support and aid to them in their time of need. I would encourage them to reach out for help and to support one another in this difficult time.

Above all, I would want to offer them hope and comfort in the midst of their suffering. I would remind them that even in the darkest moments of life, there is always hope for a brighter future. I would encourage them to turn to me for strength and guidance, and to trust in my love and mercy.

As I taught in the Bible, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" (Matthew 5:4). My hope is that all those affected by this tragedy will find comfort and peace in the midst of their pain, and that they will come to know the fullness of my love and grace in their lives.

There's No 'AI' in 'Poetry'

Named after The Muppet's Bunsen Honeydew

Silly me.

On a cold Saturday morning in New Jersey, I cuddled up with ChatGPT and asked the artificial intelligence (AI) chatbot a series of absurd requests, such as "write a three paragraph love letter to a penguin."

I was amused by the amusing result, so I tweeted this screenshot of it:

The next morning, I received this prompt on my quest to write weekly poem in 2023:

Can I Call you Rose? Listen to this song -- "Can I Call Your Rose?" by Thee Sacred Souls -- and get inspired to write your own love poem! And start with "Can I call you (fill in the blank)?"

So this is what I wrote:

Love Poem for Dr. Bunsen

Can I call you Honeydew?

I remember the whimsical days,

when my daughters were young,

and they adopted you.

So I fell in love with a penguin.

It wasn’t you, Dr. Bunsen; it was me.

Your beauty and grace in the water are unmatched,

and I cannot help but be drawn to you.

I visited you once at the boardwalk aquarium.

A thick wall of glass cast a glamorous haze,

and you won my heart

with your playful antics, your curious gaze.

Now seven years have passed,

regenerating every cell in my body.

Time has transfigured you too:

You have become my daughters.

I proclaim the same to all of you:

I am fully aware that our lives and worlds

are very different,

but I want to protect you.

I cannot imagine my life without you.

Can I call you Honeydew?

---------

I don't pretend to be a poet, but inspired by AI, "Love Poem for Dr. Bunsen" contextualizes a random prompt, a generalized bond between fathers and daughters, and specific personal memories to create something that didn't exist until now.

Posted here, I expect it will be scanned by Google's cloud and become part of something larger. Whether the poem is good or bad is subjective, but at least it's authentic and unique.

That's what I crave more than anything else: not to be boxed in, or characterized, by my age, gender, job, race, residency, past purchases, or by the thousands and thousands of other data points the cloud has collected about me.

I rage against this machine. I don’t pretend to be a poet, but I refuse to be an algorithm.

January’s Poems: Devastation, Gorilla Monsoon, and Groundhog Day

Images generated by DALL-E 2

I’m writing poems based on prompts every Sunday from New Jersey poet Dimitri Reyes. Although I’ve taken some liberties with the prompts, I hope to continue this throughout 2023 and post these poems monthly. I’ve already posted my first and second poems here. Following are the other poems during this five-Sunday month.

—————————

The prompt: Write about something you’ve been devastated about.

POEM 3: Diary of a Sociopath

 

I’m a boy playing minigolf

in rural New Jersey along Route 46.

It’s the site of a strip mall now.

 

My playmates, young Sheryl and Eddie,

were neighbors then.

Their house, a used car lot now.

 

It was Mother’s Day then.

 

Tires screech.

A car horn blares.

A sudden, sickening thud of metal on metal.

A woman screams.

 

I miss my short putt.

 

Minutes pass,

and we witness her death.

The children in her car are silent.

Her dog wails.

 

Sheryl and Eddie are speechless.

I grow restless.

I rearrange my stance over a bright yellow, dimpled ball

and aim for the mouth of a clown.

 

Can I have a do-over, I ask?

—————————

The prompt: Write a poem using these words: mule; monsoon; traveled.

POEM 4: Ode to Gorilla Monsoon

 

We traveled through seven man-made holes

in the mountains of Pennsylvania.

Heading west, Dad squinted behind Saratoga Ray Bans:

The last cold warrior, the Republican JFK.

 

Dad was behind the wheel of our black Chevy Impala,

his hands recklessly at 12 and 6.

He said it gave him more control,

as Hank Williams crackled “I Saw the Light” across WINB AM.

 

Beads of sweat formed on Dad’s clean-shaven cheek,

releasing the incense of Old Spice.

Our car leaked smoke from his Micronite-filtered Kents

rising from a half-inch crack in the driver’s side window.

 

Arriving from New Jersey at dusk,

we parked in front of a modest house atop Mount Pleasant,

and my uncle rushed to place cinder blocks

behind our low-slung wheels.

 

The next morning, amid cornstalks on a hillside,

my cousin and I wrestled, diurnal primates at play.

His hero was Bruno Sammartino,

and I was a poor substitute for Gorilla Monsoon.

 

I am not a fighter.

I ate a mule kick on my cousin’s follow-through,

as Dad watched in the distance.

He flicked his cigarette to his feet and turned his back on me.

 

I was always a sucker for a sucker punch.

I woke this morning

threescore years and precisely 338 miles away,

with a phantom pain in my side.

 

I am the Survivor Series antihero.

And I remember everything.

—————————

The prompt: With Groundhog Day upon us, read this poem by Len Lawson and write your own poem where the speaker repeats the same day over and over again.

 

POEM 5: Groundhog Day in Ramsdale

 

In the month of January,

I wrote a poem every week.

 

Prompted by a poet,

each day I wrote more words for you,

but I have not gotten anywhere yet.

 

In the month of February,

I will wait for your return:

I’m still in love with you.

 

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

 

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

 

Repeat, editor, till the month is full.

—————————

PS: Here's a visual poem — "Groundhog Day 2023" — with images of the NYC skyline from the Lincoln Tunnel helix on my morning commute via bus during January:

ChatGPT Visits the Philadelphia Museum of Art

Museum of Art courtyard viewed from the Armor Room.

I wanted to post some photos here from a recent visit to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I had suggested the “immersive Monet” exhibit in NYC, but my wife preferred we check out “real-life Matisse.” For background and context, I gave ChatGPT a few prompts and out popped the following words. Not bad!

I, for one, welcome our new robot overlords:

The Philadelphia Museum of Art is a must-see destination for any art lover visiting the city. Located in the heart of Philadelphia, the museum boasts an impressive collection of over 240,000 works spanning 2,000 years of world culture.

It isn't uncommon to see visitors engaging in playful activities on the front steps. One such activity is pretending to be the iconic fictional character "Rocky." Visitors raise their hands above their heads and jump in triumph, mimicking the famous scene from the first film in the series.

Upon entering the museum, visitors are greeted by the grand staircase, which leads to the main galleries on the second floor.

One of the highlights of the museum is the American art collection, which includes works by some of the most famous American artists such as Winslow Homer, John Singer Sargent and Edward Hopper. The museum also has a significant collection of European paintings, including works by Monet, Van Gogh, and Renoir.

Diana atop the grand staircase, decorated for the holidays.

Matisse’s “Large Reclining Nude” (1935) and
“Woman in Blue” (1937), including the skirt
worn by the painting’s model. 

During my visit, I had the opportunity to attend the special exhibition "Matisse in the 1930s" which featured over 80 works by the artist, including paintings, sculptures, and drawings, as well as a selection of his personal objects from his studios in Nice and Paris. This exhibition provided an in-depth look at the artist's techniques and the way he used objects in his studio as inspiration for his work. (Note: This exhibit closed yesterday... and I think ChatGPT is actually describing a previous Matisse exhibit here.)

I also had the opportunity to view the painting "Sunflowers" by Vincent Van Gogh. This famous painting, which is one of the most popular on display at the museum, is renowned for its vibrant colors and dynamic brushstrokes. It was a true highlight of my visit to the museum.

Unfortunately, I also set off two proximity alarms while viewing the paintings, but it was a reminder of how close you are allowed to be with the paintings and how precious they are.

So excited… a little too excited… to see this up close.
I also set off an alarm tripping over Zoe Leonard’s floor sculpture.

Overall, a visit to the Philadelphia Museum of Art is a truly enriching experience. The museum's vast and varied collections, special exhibitions, and educational programs make it a must-see destination for any art lover.

This is where ChatGPT stopped writing, but here are a few more images:

Degas in Philadelphia.

Video exhibit by Visual AIDS.
Lots of nooks and crannies in this museum!

This is an unfinished Cezanne, which I liked very much.
The Matisse exhibit also showed some of his works in progress,
and I liked the rougher, early versions better.

Had to wait until all the people jumping like "Rocky"
stopped posing on these steps 🙂

Poem: 'Mysteries of the Rosary'

This week's poetry prompt was simple:

Go through your phone’s camera roll and pick a random photo. Capture each detail with words and phrases, descriptive words for what you see, what the photo is of, where it’s from, etc. Think of these various details as a collage and put together a new poem.

I have thousands of photos on my phone: 61,023 as of earlier this week, to be exact.

So I downloaded a free app called "Stumble." Developers Ritchie & Mason enticed me with the first line of the app's description: "Take a serendipitous walk through your photo roll."

My life can use some serendipity.

Once installed, I pressed the "Stumble" button, and a photo appeared from a March 7, 2021, visit to The Met Cloisters. My wife and I had stopped to look at what we've previously discovered was the same favorite exhibit which we had both first seen years before we married.

I had seen this extraordinary rosary bead during a high school field trip, then years later accompanied by a friend who was an artist. I later took my young children to see it. Years later I returned alone, before returning again with Nancy last March.

I even tried writing a poem about this once before, but I like this one better:

Mysteries of the Rosary

I am a pilgrim.

Each decade of life,

I return to New York

to behold an intricately carved

boxwood prayer bead

the size of a snowball.

It depicts Christ’s crucifixion.

The museum piece,

hollowed and exposed,

never changes.

My spirit, 

hollowed and exposed,

diminishes in return.

My prayers

have been autonomous circles

of desire and intent.

Nothing more than empty shells.

Behold this dying man.

I see everything now.

Salvation is in the details.

My New Year's resolution: write a prompted poem each week in 2023, encouraged by New Jersey poet Dimitri Reyes.