Inspiring Faith and Creativity & Exploring the Arts through a Spiritual Lens
By Charles A. Coulombe My past remarks on the possibility of Charles I’s sanctity awoke something of a hornet’s nest. Not surprisingly, Ordinariate folk in particular were harshly divided, and a number of English-speaking cradle…
~ by Charles A. Coulombe I say the world is dreadful and dark, which cause some, perhaps, to remark,that I must be a horrid Manichee,all caught up in duality.But not all is bad that…
~ by Charles A. Coulombe I have spent the years of my existencewith a blood-induced persistencein a strange New England of the soul -Poe or Lovecraft cast the role.With the old familial band,I have lived…
Medieval romances generally fell into four categories: the Matter of Rome, which dealt with such classical heroes as Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar; the Matter of France, whose tales were inhabited by Charlemagne and…
~ by Charles A. Coulombe Weeping there, the Mother stands abovethe altar at Soledad,ebon-draped, inside that valley wherethe very wind is sad.And its blowing through the mountainslike the cries of souls long crushed,tells the tale…
~ by Charles A. Coulombe In midst of all, have I learned at last,present is embedded in the past.Sages say that the tree is bentas the seedling is, by nature, sent. Hunting, riding, friends I…
I ride the King’s highway, wherever I go,relentless, regardless of friend or of foe.Ye ghoulish horrors that prowl by night beware or be tasted by sword-blade so bright. Though wild, deserted, this province I sing,belongs…
Oh Father, thanks for making menot as that two-faced Pharisee!He gives alms and rings a bell.I give none, but wish folk well. He fasts for holiness in men’s eyes.I feast on all that money buys.He…
The woods are deep, and still resoundwith trumpet blasts and calls of hound.The huntsman’s quarry, stag and fox,elude his chase through rills and rocks. There! A wolf crawls from his lair,out for the deer, he…
‘Tis twilight in New Bedford-town, and all is still and deep, the day from that old Yankee town has left and gone to sleep. all is quiet on the wharf, gone are sounds of day,…
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