Category: I Eat Jesus

Eucharistic poems

Choking on the Eucharist

I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, but if I were to go, I can’t imagine a better way to go.  -Andy

Choking on the Eucharist

There might be some theology I’ve missed
But if I find my life has to be done
I hope that I choke on the Eucharist

If I’m to end this life without a list
Complete, or even one that has begun,
There might be some theology I’ve missed,

But I’d still welcome a death that was kissed
By the Real Presence of Jesus the Son.
I hope that I choke on the Eucharist.

I wonder if it’s a sin to insist
To die with Jesus and rise with the Sun.
There might be some theology I’ve missed,

If Hell tried to take me, I’d raise my fist
Victorious at the devil who thought he had won.
I hope that I choke on the Eucharist.

I smile at the thought of Satan pissed
If I died at the instant his work was undone.
There might be some theology I’ve missed.
I hope that I choke on the Eucharist.

A Broken Lamp Unto My Feet

A Broken Lamp Unto My Feet

I’ve dropped the lamp and broken the glass
Letting the fire come to mass
Leaving the past to be
Etched memory.

Purifying tongues acquire
Jesus Christ. Our Lord’s desire
Brings us more than we require
From the Holy Spirit’s fire.



On a walking pilgrimage, we washed our clothes by hand
I hurried through the process, but I came to understand
I was cleaning all my clothes so that they didn’t smell,
But I should have cleaned for purity as well.

I wanted to get out the dirt and the grime
Scrubbing away as quickly as I could,
But there was a woman there who would take her time
To clean her clothes the way I knew I should.

Undoubtedly I needed to get the stains out.
That wasn’t questioned in my mind,
The question came when I began to doubt
The cleanliness of clean parts I would find.

The woman cleaned her clothes like I should clean my soul
Letting purity and cleanliness replace
An apathetic nature that spins out of control
choosing “good enough,” instead of gifted grace.

I based this poem on a story Fr. Dave Pivonka told during an episode of Franciscan University Presents.  He writes more on his pilgrimage experience in his book, Hiking the Camino.

Catholic Pickup Lines

Catholic Pickup Lines

Didn’t I see you at World Youth Day?
How about you, me, and a Passion Play?
I always kiss on the lips at the sign of peace.
After shaking hands, we’re supposed to release?

I think the iris’s in your eyes,
Remind me of the little flower.
It only took me 22 tries
Before I found your holy hour.

I need a partner for my marriage prep class,
And since you distract me at mass,
We could get married and stop stalling?
Was my message on your phone your calling?

Wanna call it the March for Wife,
Start a family and be pro-life?
Should I genuflect or stand in line,
‘Cause girl, you look absolutely divine.

Do you have the gift of interpretation?
Or can I whisper sweet nothings in your ear?
Lets start a up a good conversation
Holding theology of your body near.

Was I knocked out by your beauty or slain in the spirit?
I hear you’ve got the gift of tongues, want to share?
I didn’t know my pilgrimage stopped here it’s
Great though to be stuck inside your stare.

We’ll go out after a decade or two
But lets not rush, lets pray this moment lingers.
I forgot my rosary, can I share with you?
You forgot yours? Lets use my fingers.

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Waiting for Signs

Waiting for Signs
(Luke 17:20-25)

Waiting for signs from above
You’re waiting for some dove
To land on your shoulder,
When there’s already a boulder
That’s been moved.
Grooved into history
Making the rest to be

Why do I look for a sign
Waiting for the obvious to be restated,
When the Son already shines
Over an undercomplicated
Heart that I close my eyes to
In hopes that I do
His will and not my own
In the things I’m shown.

“Bring on the lightning
That’s frightening demons!
Bring on the stashes of flashes
You’ve been saving up!”

“Drink My saving cup,”
He point blankly sighs.
The Kingdom’s amidst you
Yet your tongue dries
In waiting
Something you’ve missed
In Eucharist.

Mass Interruption and Tradition

I hesitate to give my son attention
But he’s tapping on my arm while we’re at Mass
I quickly think, “what type of intervention
Do I need to do to help this moment pass”.

Surprised I hear my son so softly say
Non-sensicals that slowly whisp away.
He points up to the altar while his speech
Lands in a language slightly out of reach.

My son just chose to share an explanation,
A mimicry of how I’m passing on
The beauty that’s caught up in revelation,
In tradition handed down after we’re gone.

I wonder if he knows what he is saying
As he whispers sounds of nothing in my ear
And though it’s simply one son’s way of playing
I know tradition’s setting in right here.

Jesus and Cornflakes

My son was eating cornflakes
And I took a flake or two.
This random act of playful theft,
Led contemplation through

A chain of thoughts that circumvent
My normal cornflake thinking
My thought pattern might represent
A drunkard ‘midst his drinking.

My tongue curled inside my mouth
Scraped the caverns of my bones
Starting North and heading south
To flick for food in pearly stones.

Then pressed against the molar
In the back most leftest corner
Sweeping Closest to the solar
Where Christ remains adorner

The food bits flick on out
With Creator from a crater
To the front of my closed mouth
Was my Lord I’d saved for later.

An Early Morning Hour

My mind’s wandering too much
I blink slowly and squinch my eyes
The air is wet upon the touch
The pew feels humid, I realize

My mind is wandering again,
Did you have something to say?
I had things on my mind when
I stopped to talk today.

Imagining Manna

I imagine bread falling from the sky.
Oh Manna, that would be awesome.
Reaching out to raining rye
As angels simply toss ‘em

Out of the giant bread boxes up there.
What if it drizzled soda bread or Naan?
Maybe sticky buns would fill the air
As humidity, until the grain was gone.

The light of the moon’s on a crescent roll
That falls down with bagels and yet
I’ll venture out for a midnight stroll,
Dodging croutons and sliced baguette.

Every time that it’s graining outside
We’d see bread putting on a show.
But what if we solely relied
On flakes of bread falling like snow.


Weathered hands held a white circle of bread,
A papery wafery piece of this world,
But there through transubstantiation was instead
The flashpoint of eternity unfurled.

This form He chose is humble and plain,
Bringing me a moment’s circumspection.
How can this qualitatively contain
The suffering, death and resurrection?