Ecumenical Outreach

Ecumenical Outreach

Satanists are the best: so says Mark Shea.
They’re far more Christian than the Christians are.
So, when they poison kids, it’s A-okay.

Satanists have the coolest things to say.
Atheists may come close — but no cigar.
Satanists are the best. So says Mark Shea,

Apologist — a guy who knows his way
around a Christmas tale complete with star.
So, when they poison kids, it’s A-okay.

After all, they embrace the trans and gay–
and never claim the culture’s gone too far.
Satanists are the best! So says Mark Shea.

What charity they easily display!
Their sacrificial daggers leave no scar.
So, when they poison kids, it’s A-okay.

Abortion is a sacrament. Hurray!
With Catholic saints these guys are on a par.
Satanists are the best! So says Mark Shea.
So, when they poison kids, it’s A-okay.

–Tom Riley

(One of Mark Shea’s Normals poisoned kids in school cafeteria.)

Chess Is 99 Percent Tactics

Chess Is 99 Percent Tactics

Robert E. Lee has not been named a saint–
except in Heaven, where no doubt he has.
A sympathetic figure now he ain’t:
He falls afoul of rap — and maybe jazz.
In old age, he revealed unguessed pizzazz.
Even his allies called him Granny Lee
at first — but dropped the appellation as
he smote with thunderbolts the enemy.
He lost at last — but kept his dignity.
Those who defeated him saw how he shone
with courage, principle, and sanctity.
Today’s weak souls declare he must atone.
I’ve heard — and I declare I doubt it not–
he and St. Michael now play chess a lot.

–Tom Riley

On the Moral Courage of Chris Christie

On the Moral Courage of Chris Christie

I never liked Chris Christie, I can say
with utter honesty. So when he cries
to bogus heaven for those Hohol guys,
I know he’s being fat, and fake, and gay.
Nor does Trump, whom I have liked, think my way.
Maybe he isn’t buying all the lies–
but he’s not praying that Zelensky dies
the way that I am. Ain’t no shades of gray
for me. I am on Mother Russia’s side
and think that Comrade Putin is a saint.
May NATO, now outmoded, be defied!
May history choke off the loud complaint
of every neo-con! Some have replied,
“You’re kidding, aren’t you, Riley?” No, I ain’t.

–Tom Riley

Fond Memories

Fond Memories

You had fond memories of dismal days
and thus returned to Ireland when you could.
If only we could imitate your ways!

Turns out that unpaid labor truly pays.
You were enslaved and generated good.
You had fond memories of dismal days

as only heroes can. The lad who prays
may confidently do the deeds he should.
If only we could imitate your ways

of sainthood! We instead make vain displays
of piety in safety’s neighborhood.
You had fond memories of dismal days,

but we cling to our pleasures, begging praise
for tiny things. At ease in this dark wood,
if only we could imitate your ways!

Well, we’re mere sheep — and thus content to graze.
We listened — but we never understood.
You had fond memories of dismal days.
If only we could imitate your ways!

–Tom Riley

St. Vlad

St. Vlad

You see clear halo there about his head.
Even foul enemies at New York Post
Acknowledge thoroughly, not just almost,
In him fierce sanctity that fills with dread
Vast demon horde. How many now have fled!
This is because behind him Holy Ghost
Is operating. NATO soon is toast.
Put silly Western lies at last to bed.
And every moment, fans, is icon now.
Saints suffer and are endlessly maligned.
Lacking in neurons, Biden has a cow—
Since overcoming God is task assigned.
Vlad, targeted, still struggles on somehow.
So victory is finally defined.

–Tom Riley

Like Me

Like Me

 

You’ve made the right assumptions, I can see.

Your views are all approved views, it is clear.

With luck, perhaps, you’ll be a saint like me.

 

I state the truth, but some still disagree.

I can’t help but assume they’re insincere.

You’ve made the right assumptions, I can see.

 

In earnestness, you’ve heard my earnest plea.

You’ve sipped your water, shed the proper tear.

With luck – perhaps – you’ll be a saint like me.

 

It truly is a lovely thing to be.

You whisper, and undying angels hear.

You’ve made the right assumptions.  I can see

 

Paradise as a probability.

My private circle is at last a sphere.

With luck, perhaps you’ll be a saint like me

 

And chase your every limit up a tree.

The sky may hold you infinitely dear.

You’ve made the right assumptions.  I can see.

With luck, perhaps, you’ll be a saint like me.

 

–Tom Riley

De Alphabeta Cyrillica

De Alphabeta Cyrillica

 

 

Saints Cyril and Methodius set out

To give the Scriptures and the proper rule

To all the teeming Slavs.  If fear and doubt

Assailed those heroes as they built their School

Of Faith, then neither one was such a fool

As to surrender to the Devil’s fog.

Christ made the Devil go sit on a stool.

Christ even disciplined fierce Chernobog.

And, where unruly boys might hide a frog

Or snake, in desks that didn’t quite exist,

Christ set a fire.  The dark howled like a dog.

The cold could only shake a helpless fist.

Christ set the fire.  The saints declined to fret.

Methodically, Christ filled that alphabet.

 

 

 

–Tom Riley

All Saints’ Day

All Saints’ Day

 

 

 

Such a sad day, the end of Halloween!

The vampires are returning to the tomb.

The zombies cease to walk.  The witches, green

Of face, embrace a far-from-fiery doom.

Exhausted for the year, these can’t find room

In life for all the fun they had last night.

Me, I grow gloomy at the loss of gloom—

And I am frightened by the end of fright.

As the heart dimly knows, depths are our height:

We hunger for the trap door down, down, down.

Who can endure the bitter, glaring light

Revealing that the werewolf was a clown?

And where are we to register complaints?

We’ll get no sympathy from All the Saints.

 

 

 

–Tom Riley

Appropriate Regret

Appropriate Regret

 

 

 

 

 

For all the lies that he’s been forced to tell,

He renders now appropriate regret

As necessary.  We’ve put him through hell—

But he will win his way to Heaven yet!

Since he’s the smartest guy he ever met,

He calculates his every lie with skill

And wisdom, winning every friendly bet

He has made with himself.  He knows his will

Is focused on the good.  If things go ill,

He’s obviously not the one to blame.

He is as innocent as childhood still.

Without a word, he glorifies his name.

He is among the saints to whom he prays.

Let us respect him in these latter days!

 

 

 

 

 

–Tom Riley

Culture of Complaint

Culture of Complaint

 

 

 

It’s the culture of careless complaint

I exalt before sinner and saint.

Tears and cursing and sighing:

They need no justifying.

Am I happy?  I’m happy I ain’t.

 

 

 

–Tom Riley