Inhalations

If asked why I depend on what’s unseen
instead of what is solid, in plain view,
I say that all life does, and what I mean
is we need air, invisible but true,
and just as I need air that is transparent,
I need, for life, what some say isn’t there
because it isn’t readily apparent
though it be real and vital like the air.
As air sustains life on the earthly sphere,
I breathe a faith in Love that never fails,
as vital as the planet’s atmosphere,
a Love, invisible, the soul inhales,
for on this world, from beautiful to squalid,
we need what can’t be seen, not just what’s solid.

Untitled

Mario A. Pita

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Bandit

O, Love, when doubts assault me like a robber
of all the peace that with Your help I built
my soul is full of wounds because they clobber
and leave me only with a sense of guilt
because my faith has not been strong enough
to overcome that most destructive bandit,
and I wish that I could have been more rough,
so when it tried to come, I could have banned it.
O, Love, though I am weak, don’t let doubt steal
my faith in You on which I build my life,
because deep down I know that You are real
though bandit doubt assaults as with a knife.
O, Love, though I am weak and full of faults,
protect me when the bandit, doubt, assaults.

Untitled

Mario A. Pita

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

Leaks

In spring, my bedroom sprung a gushing leak,
that soaked, before I knew of it, my bed,
discoloring the ceiling to a bleak
and moldy, peeling menace overhead.
And I who look for meaning everywhere,
look for significance in even leaking,
for we’re surrounded though we’re unaware
by meaning we may find if we are seeking.
But what this leak could mean is still unclear,
though I relate it to my ailing soul,
since into me has leaked a doubt and fear
like now the rainfall gushes through a hole.
The landlord now will come to fix the roof.
O, Lord, repair my faith that needs no proof.

Untitled

Mario A. Pita

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Solar Pluralism

The trees don’t disagree about the sun
and argue over whether it’s for real,
and we who grow toward a different one,
a sun that we can’t see but sometimes feel,
should likewise simply grow and not dispute
about the unseen light to which we grow,
and, each in our own way, produce our fruit,
and reach to light we can’t yet fully know.
For arguments don’t turn the buds to leaves
the way that only light and warmth can do.
It matters less what each of us believes,
as long as we agree that light is true:
as trees won’t say the sun does not exist,
it makes no sense to be an atheist.

DSC_0840

Mario A. Pita

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Context

My life is like a word within a book
and has a meaning in and of itself,
yet if at context I don’t have a look,
or leave the volume sitting on the shelf,
I’ll miss the meanings in the greater whole,
the meanings vastly larger than my own,
and I will also miss what is my role
within that wholeness that remains unknown.
This truth is obvious, yet I forget,
as I plod on from one day to the next
and focus on my worries, and I fret;
I’m just a word within a larger text.
I’m just a word within a book of verse:
an epic poem called the universe.

10-06_027

Mario A. Pita

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Domes

The dome of my small skull is dwarfed, Love, by,
the dome that’s overhead – of blue,
or gray, or stars – a freckled sky –
as is my mind a speck compared to You.
Yet often I live mostly in my head,
although the mental room is minuscule,
when I could live within Your world instead
and not remain a skull-sequestered fool.
But my imagination, like a gull,
soars from the confines of this little dome,
this fragile, mortal firmament of skull,
and senses bring me back to Earth, dear home.
A life lived in the head may soon grow dull.
A universe unfurls outside the skull.

Untitled

Mario A. Pita

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Skipping

Although I wear a tie like businessmen,
I skip along the street as though a child,
not fifty years of age, not even ten,
and even twirl as if I have gone wild.
The people passing by me often stare
and smile or look puzzled at my skipping,
a sight that in the world is likely rare,
or think perhaps on drugs I must be tripping.
But this for me is soulful exercise
that makes me feel I am a kid at heart
though in a grownup’s elegant disguise,
but full of joy and awe as near life’s start.
We’ve got to be like kids to go to heaven,
so Jesus said. I skip as if I’m seven.

Untitled

Mario A. Pita

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment