My Father's Saints

Pinching prayers into the polished beads Of rosary in hand They stand in row after row A sea of souls Bowing at the Basilica' s beauty Tearful and joyfully rejoicing The relics of saints Set before their searching eyes To spy a souvenir Of divinity declared On the backstreet bend Of a seaside town My father woke early and often Sat by the statue of St. Jude In sunlight serenity Speaking truths his heart held with relevance Sure there was a heavenly reward For the faithful life he led And at home in a carved out corner Of a room blessed with belief He, proud to display a makeshift alter Where miracles grew from no explained reason My mother had her reservations But later in life resolved to receive The Deacon' s weekly visitation And put her fate into the highest hands Before she entered out of her pain And beyond the life left behind For her children to confess Is less about fear, more about faith In the pocket of pants Silver medallions Scapulas strung from dressing room mirrors Candles and bibles, prayer cards and crosses All relegating a compassed path To a greater understanding of what Cannot yet be conceived But benefically believed I know of miraculous mending Without question... I have angels and answers And reflection And on this day when St. Peter's Sqaure Basks in pageantry and processions To the pontiff' s anointing and appointing Recognizing the good in the common man I think of my father as one of those good men And then, of my father's saints