Browse Author

Lawrence Fedewa


Faint footsteps follow and fall

there upon the hard, stone floor

reddened and warmed in the sunset glow.

And the patient peaceful footfalls.

clinking rosaries, rustling cassocks

are muted in the misty dusk of prayer

that falls on the shadowed black figures,

that gently lifts them from life

to a dream, a vision,

an ecstasy of light and love.

They wait, and He comes

and He breathes here,

in the somber, incensed soulful stillness

of the twilight cloister.

The Theresa Poems


The warmth of a home cooked meal,

The warmth of a home on a wintery night,

the warmth of a woman’s low singing

— these warm the soul of a stranger

wandering through the cold and snow

whose face and heart have been pelted,

torn and hurt by the ice pieces

which the night outside exhales to cover

his lonely foot prints in the snow.


Come, let me look at thee,

for thy eyes are as evening stars.

Come let me look at thee,

for thy face is as the glory of the heavens.

Come, let me look at thee,

for thy grace is as the nimble morning breeze.

Come, let me love thee,

for thy lips are bidding me to come to thee.


To be alone when the world sleeps,

when noises and labors are past,

when sin sleeps and joy endures –

to think and remember

to plan and to pray –

this is a sacred time.


In the evening all is quiet

and the hearth opens up

and spreads its light

to the open book

and the two are made one

by the power of the Word

which sheds its warming fire on open souls

drinking in the loving open hearth


Somewhere, through all the mist and clouds
Somewhere in the darkness you are there.
The beauty of the sunset and the ocean’s power,
and the horror of tsunamis, tornados, and volcanoes — 
all say that you must be there.

Why all things are alive and strive then die,
why crippled bodies and torn souls hurt and cry;
why men can learn all but “Why”?
and cannot love the shame

and sadness and pain we see
as much as the power and grandeur of the earth and sky —
all these things I do not understand
all say that you must be there


But they do not tell me who you are,
or what you are, or what you want,
or why you have made all this.
So how can I know you know me
care for me, try to save me?
Only the bleeding hands of Jesus,
touching, healing, and changing me,
telling me you want me happy
make me think you know I’m here.
Through all the mists and clouds,
Right here.

Romance for the ages

Through the mist they run,
run to embrace and kiss.
Exploring hands and lips
seek by touch and feel
with a knife-like need
to share a time of bliss.
Bodies entwined,
they become as one,
remembering each the same
as long before the mists became.


                   A part of me, a part of God.                                                      

Sobs of women strangle the heat.

The priest’s monotone – the final stillness,

the spade and the digger and the black earth

for this part of God and part of me.


No more these nostrils quiver full,

no more his eyes will ripen growing things,

no more his hair caressed by sweeping breezes,

nor his fingers light on things and me –

this part of God and part of me.


Walking crunches grass and gravel.

The birds still sing uselessly.

People talk, motors start,

and transient as exhaust smoke

 the memory of this glorious, living part of God,

but this dead, dead part of me.

My Little Brother

In memoriam. Phil Fedewa (1942-2009)

May he rest in peace                                         

A flash of red hair,

a freckle or two or three

a shy smile and crinkling eyes

why Little Brother did you die today?


You were a funny kid

an honest man, a quiet leader

a fearless soldier, a selfless father,

why, Little Brother, did you die today?


Your sons still need you,

your brothers still care from afar,

your sister, daughters, babies cry,

“Why, oh why did you have to die?”

The sun is black,

the wind so cold,

your shadow is here

but you are gone.