Archives For Poetry

The Mystic

November 14, 2017 — Leave a comment

Guate 221

Sinking into the softness of the soil,

The mystic meditates on the movement,

Timid and terrible, of trunks and roots,

Shooting up slowly, grasping the ground like

Fingers gripping flesh in the throws of love.


Communing with the muses of water,

He hears the current cleansing the sickness

Of his soul, beat down by intense passion,

Stricken with the sorrow of abandon,

Seared by cauterizing torrents of flame.


There is a wind that chills the sinews of

Broken bones and rattles cold to the core:

The mystic revels in this solemn breeze,

A callous crack like a swift slap across

A face of existential expressions.


Always alone, never alone, never…

Music, epic music, a serenade

Plays from the harp strings of the pastor king,

Resounds from the crystal halls of heaven,

Matches the rhythm of the mystic’s heart.


Best wishes,
David J.W. Inczauskis, SJ

Leaves David pic

(My photo, 2015 at Starved Rock)



It is not death but truth

The chilly breeze reveals,

Lavishly clothing the oak

Before stripping her bare



Beg to be an evergreen,

Striving for the golden mean,

Never shaken but serene,

Bowing not to fate’s routine.



Tell not the young!

Spare them the pain

Of bitter hearts.


Rinse them. Dry them.

Wrap them in white,

And set them free.

Best wishes,

David J.W. Inczauskis, S.J.





“To Drown in Jacob’s Well”


My death came seven years ago, I tell.

He pushed me down the hollow of a well

To drop down depths of darkness straight to hell,

To splash against the waters where I fell.


To drown, to breathe in liquid far from air,

A fate no normal man should ever bare,

Became my fate and shook me with despair:

A place where souls can’t even shout in prayer.


Cold eyes had shut in never ending gloom.

Well’s bottom would become my somber tomb

Had there not been a man there to exhume

My corpse from sure and everlasting doom.


From where he had appeared I could not say,

But time would tell me there he did oft stay

To rescue victims who had gone astray,

To show them once again the light of day.


The well I do regard a holy place

Where sinners find a pouring forth of grace,

Where lovers gaze upon a gentle face,

And outstretched arms await a warm embrace.


It’s my pleasure to share this poetry with you. It comes from my heart.

Best wishes,
David J.W. Inczauskis, S.J.

*My first shot at iambic pentameter

Artwork Above: Sieger Köder’s “Die Frau am Jakobsbrunnen”

Renoir is the painter of the divinized mundane. All is nymph and spirit, ordinary and typical. Impressionism is romantic realism. It is Catholic art, art of the God-man. Renoir’s art is unmediated perception, giving it a quality of pure authenticity.

“The ideas come afterwards, when the picture is finished.” –Pierre Auguste Renoir


“Young Girls at the Piano”

Wavy hair unfurling softly,

Notes of grace are flowing awfully.

Faces fine and gently gazing,

Eyes that glide with voices praising

Look to God in simple truth.


“Alfred Sisley”

France and England differ so:

Tensions thick from long ago.

Frenchmen stop to feel the breeze.

English raindrops fall and freeze.

Painter ruminating.


“Girl Combing Her Hair”

Beauty simple, beauty fair

Beauty resting, beauty rare.

Combing gently, combing hair.

Combing softly, lost in prayer.


“Gabrielle and Jean”

Children, women smile and play;

Men at “work” have gone away.

Love is far the better part

Found in Baby’s face and art.

Best wishes,
David J.W. Inczauskis, S.J.

“They tell you that a tree is only a combination of chemical elements. I prefer to believe that God created it, and that it is inhabited by a nymph.” –Pierre-Auguste Renoir


Paintings from…





A poem written in honor of three great men of the 20th century: Archbishop Fulton Sheen, St. Alberto Hurtado, and Billy Graham…

4 January 2017 A.D.


When the Son of Man comes,

Will He find faith on earth–

Faith of the apostles

Inflamed by their new birth?


When the Son of Man comes,

Will He be crucified,

Or will we simply laugh

And roll our white-washed eyes?


When the Son of Man comes

In glory and in truth,

Will we all be condemned

For false eternal youth?


When the Son of Man comes

To find us numb and dead,

Will we blame each other

Or just blame Him instead?


Now the Son of Man comes,

But we retreat in fear,

Closing off our houses,

Condemning Christmas cheer.


Now the Son of Man comes

If we kneel down to pray,

Not on comfy sofas

But the old-fashioned way.


Find a million reasons

To doubt and hide your face

From the real purpose

And dest’ny of our race.


Inspire in us, O God,

A Pentecost anew

That shakes us to the bone

To savor what is true.


A living flame of love

Ignite within my chest

That I may preach with joy

Your message to the rest.


When the Son of Man comes,

May He find faith on earth,

Spread by holy Christians

Who claim God-given worth.

“Show me your hands. Do they have scars from giving? Show me your feet. Are they wounded in service? Show me your heart. Have you left a place for divine love?” –Archbishop Fulton Sheen

“If we don’t get to heaven, then our life is worth nothing. If we get to heaven, then we will be happy forever. Amen.” –St. Alberto Hurtado

“Courage is contagious. When a brave man takes a stand, the spines of others are often stiffened.” –Billy Graham

Best wishes,

David A.H. Inczauskis, S.J.

American Dreams

January 1, 2017 — 4 Comments


(Looking out onto the Appalachian Mountains)

A poem I’ve written for the new year:

“American Dreams”


Rainstorm flame and playground chalk.
Seaside villas light the dock.
Voices sounding, knuckles knock.
Summer sunset, roadside talk.

Mountain breath and boatside breeze.
Feel the air between the knees.
Pastures pure and yellow cheese.
Castles up in braided trees.

Skyline glow and taxis fast
Whipping left and right then past.
Window glare in cities vast.
Beaches blonde with heat at last.

Cherries red and skies of blues.
Fences white and wooden pews.
Forest falls of yellow hues.
Childhood mem’ries not to lose.

Best wishes,
David Inczauskis, S.J.

Blue is for idealists

October 22, 2016 — 1 Comment


Blue is for idealists

And for the rushing sea,

For our dreamy reading lists

And what we want to be.


Blue is my introspection

That bursts out into space,

And my queer predilection

For a just human race.


Blue is for the young at heart

Who dance on Friday night,

For vagabonds who will start

A journey towards the light.


Blue is more than hues of rays

Darting across the sky:

Blue is the ten thousand ways

To live before we die.


–David A.H. Inczauskis, S.J.


Inspired by a fall walk and e. e. cummings


“i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes”

–e.e. cummings