Men of God - by Tomas Martin, OPD

The litmus test for men of God is love.
No man who claims to be a man of God
will consciously or habitually act without love.

Men of God will not judge or reject others.
Men of God will reach out, in love, to all people because
they are in love with all people---especially those who are
lost or suffering.

Men of God will defend the weak, the sick, the poor, the homeless,
and especially the ones who don’t know what this life really is.

Men of God will not harm children, whether they are children because
of age or because of spirit.

Men of God will love and defend the dignity of all women, regardless of anything.

When men of God fall into sin, they will repent and return quickly to love,
not ever lingering apart from love.

Men of God will always forgive and be merciful.
Men of God will contribute to the art.
Men of God will produce fruit that is love and it will endure.

.

Men of God will never die, unless they choose to.

.

The artwork presented - Gulf Stream by Winslow Homer

On Weeds and Men - by Tomas Martin, OPD

Why is a weed a weed? …and who decides?
Is a weed ugly? Does it smell bad?
…and who decides that?

Can something be a weed in one garden
and a beautiful flower in another?

What gives us the right to judge nature?
Does God? If so, why do we not judge
all nature as good? What makes bad, bad?

Weeds and men are similar in that they are judged.
So men judge things and decide they are weeds.
After all, if men are judged isn’t it only fair that
they have the right to judge?

If men can be burned, isn’t it only right that they
can decide what is weed and to burn the weeds?

Justice must be served, I hear them say.
So if something is judged as a weed, shouldn’t
it be burned?

Some call out for justice…
fighting for the right to judge
because they were judged.

fighting for the right to kill
because they were killed.

fighting for the right to burn
because they were burned.

So burn the weeds because fair is fair, right?
But then I ask, who did the weed judge?
Who did the weed kill?
If the answer is no one, why kill the weed?
If the answer is someone, who will be killed
for killing the weed? When will it all end?

When will judgment and killing end?
…when we stop treating men like weeds and
when men start acting like flowers.
Only then can we live in a garden free of
ugliness. I don’t see any weeds.

The artwork presented - Peasant burning Weeds by Vincent van Gogh

Who are You? - by Tomas Martin, OPD

Who I am is who you love. I am love and
I am love's unending race.
I am the look of love on love's own face.
I am the glint of light at the heart of love's embrace.

I am love's own light and love's own dark.
I am what love is and what love's not.
I am the shepherd in the field of
love's own ark. I am the sheep on the
hill of love's own secret mark.

I am what you expect and what you don't.
I am love and what love's not. I am what I am,
and I am what you forgot.

I am all that love can hold and all that can hold love.
I am your mother, father, son.
I am you and I am me. I am all that you hope
and all that you see.

I am your security in the dark of the night.
I am the reason that wrong becomes right.
I am in your heart and still I am not.
I am in your dreams and I am the dreamer.

The artwork presented here is 'Starry Night' by Vincent van Gogh

The Lazy River - by Tomas Martin, OPD

On ships of rubber filled with air,
riders float away.
Their troubles far from heart and mind...
Their dreams before them and not a care.

Through crowd and heat they wade and wait,
for their chance to be carried round.
They loose themselves in restful waves,
forgetting sight and sound.

When at the end they've flowed and reached,
to attendants standing, they hand their boats
and wrap themselves with towels as coats.

Now walk they again in Summer's Sun,
their rubber boats passed to another one.
Walking again afreshed and renewed,
they search the ground for the next adventure
to be pursued.

And when from walk and heat, again they tire,
the Muses's call their hearts will hear
and to the lazy River again aspire,
to rest again, carried away,
where trouble and time give up their sway.

A humble gift to the Muse, Calliope