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Bocephus Jackson, the Hemlock Bard

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“The only man who never makes a mistake is the man who never does anything.” — Theodore Roosevelt

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Southern writer and poet. As The Divine shows up unannounced, barefoot, smelling of creek water or coal dust, it’s rarely in the sanctuary where the lights are on. No, it's in the parking lot afterward, or the psych ward at 3 a.m., or the exact moment somebody decides not to swallow the bottle of pills.

So, where my style is irreverently reverent, my philosophy: Witness — Observe, Acknowledge, Report, and Offer quiet Dignity and Reverence as I meet the individual where they are in their journey seeking the theophanic evidence of Grace within the everyday dust. Therefore, I assumed the name ‘Hemlock Bard’ due to my southern heritage, but also due to the nature of my artistic philosophy — the Hemlock that kills a philosopher can also heal the world.

Therefore, Words matter, carrying the weight and worth of the Everyman forever seeking Grace. So, with every idiom, allusion, and metaphor, each is crafted with symbolism, multilayered references, and intent seeking a universally shared truth: no fluff or filler, just the meat and potatoes. Sometimes with a side of gravy, but don't tell my cardiologist.

Because of this, if Momma’s skillet was the household correction growing up, Grace (what I affectionately call the Art) is the cosmic one with her Apostolic Angle Slam. Therefore, I do not mess with either, as each one hurts, hitting me in the holy nethers, yet both claim the gold from different pedestals. Let’s get to work!

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“The life so brief, the craft so long to learn.” — Hippocrates

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A CREED IN COAL DUST AND CREEK WATER

(The Weight And Worth of One’s Words)

“Many lack the originality to lack originality.” — Frank Zappa

Amid the creek water and coal dust,

Through the grit, seek eternal grace,

Before this body begins to rust,

I put pen to paper with a Puckish pace.

In celebrating the divine in the dirty,

Claiming the sacred in the profane,

All to prove that I am genuinely worthy,

To call God’s holy and blessed name.

As Words Matter for one to tell,

With weight and worth to withstand,

Of both the Heavens and cursed Hell,

The sin in the salvation of Everyman.

Therein, language is reverently sacred,

But it is just as easily dangerous,

As language is always dual-natured,

Therefore, Responsibility is onerous.

It acts as the site of the Ferryman,

So it is my devout duty to mention,

Before making my inevitable stand,

Language is both fall and redemption.

So where we each greet life’s poison,

In meeting a sacred higher charge,

The reason for the seasons is chosen,

You’re a friend to the Hemlock Bard.

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“I am not young enough to know everything.” — Oscar Wilde

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An Existentially Ebullient Epilogue

“Art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.” — Pablo Picasso

Silly Putty in hand, iPhone in the other,

Through a lipped-chaw faked smile,

Comes bardic verse lyrically southern,

Its polyphonic terseness lingers awhile.

As twenty armies, we will fiercely fight,

When little people scrap as mere pups,

Just know that we've got some bite,

Amid woe and throe, we won't give up.

Through an Appalachian mooned night

The bardic spirit defies the fading light,

As a transceding-yawp assailing rite,

Poetically rewriting the plight of life.

We may look like easy pickings to some

But never kick a dog that still hovers,

In the bleeding light of the dawning Son

Its story must be read cover to cover.

As the day begins, what will it bring?

The songs that the Hemlock adopts,

The Puckish voice resonantly sings

A humble bardical barbaric Yawp.

Where soul-bleed carries consequence

Petitions, “May I play for you a tune,

Of love, laughter, lament’s essence?”

Right then—

Talk soon…

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“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.).” — Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

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A Bardic Breakfast Menu

(42 Active Online Series Freely Given)

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“I am large, I contain multitudes.” — Walt Whitman

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Preface

“There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope.” — Mark Twain

Where art is an inheritance spanning 678 of humanity's 3,000 centuries on this good earth, what began as a mnemonic device in sharing cultural development, language, skills, community, and survival tactics, humanity has applied poetry (art) to the ineffable through Logos (Greek for ‘word’ and ’God’s Word’).

Because of this, we each carry (directly or indirectly) the collective wealth of wit, wisdom, worries, wherewithal, and wonderment from all that came before us. Wonderment… what a philosophically profound word! It compresses entire volumes of words into three syllables.

In this vein, I humbly offer the Bardic Universe, where every series defines the grace in the dust of everyday life, as an extension of the Japanese philosophy ‘Kintsugi,’ with irreverent reverence through craft, comedy, compassion, contemplation, community, and creativity.

Hailing from the Appalachian Mountains, the folkloric tradition has long inspired me, drawing me into how it weaves all great stories together in celebrating the human experience. In doing so, a Pantheon of Greek choirs merge through artists, philosophers, scholars, scientists, and anyone else willing to sit a spell on the porch swing with us spinnin’ yarns.

Now then, where Pablo Picasso produced over 50,000 distinct works, and Andy Warhol created over 9,000 paintings, as a fellow regional Kentucky artist, the scope of my canon serves as a tribute to Jesse Stuart’s 60 novels, 460 short stories, and 2,000+ poems. Clearly, I have a ways to go, but give me time!

Although Grace (the marriage of art, inspiration, and God’s blessing for another day to create) is ambitious, if we are capable of fractionally mirroring both his breadth and James Joyce’s thousands of ‘Ulysses' allusions, Logos will be served with the reverence that it demands with no fluff, filler, overwrought tropes, and zero cliches.

So welcome to the Bardic experience. There is hopefully something here to whet your appetite from this buffet of buffoonery and blessing. The bill has been paid for by a higher power, but tip Grace when you can. Her wrath is seldom stirred, but when it is, it comes in floods.

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The Current Canon

(Subject to change with new offerings)

Personal and Testimonial Series (6)

“To thine own self be true.” — William Shakespeare

Tell The Damn Story An Autobiographical character-driven odyssey about hope, happiness, hurt, humility, and healing.

Seventeen Reasons of Grace (Flash Fiction/Theophany): An online flash‑memoir series built around candid, sharp, and humorous banter between Bo, an authentic Southern writer, pitted against Lynn, a successful performative online creator/celebrity, trying to convince him to join her writing staff. Together, trauma, talent, and vanity are weaponized in their intellectual sparring.

Go Not Gently (Flash Fiction/Theophany): An online series following the bond of The Sandcourt Crew: Trent, Dave, Mike, and Mother, navigating the industrial margins and family dynamics of an economically stripped southern area, where fleeting years and shared history collide inside a fierce fight for blue-collar survival.

A Freudian Slip (Mental Health Awareness Community-Based): Have you ever wondered what a Freudian slip of a Jungian ‘Shadow’ would look like? Not anymore! In this series, we sit down with both AI apps for a series of slapstick-and-satire sessions, aiming to make the algorithms snort from side-splitting shrieks. This one is scandalous in rewriting modern psychiatry.

Joy Comes In The Morning (Mental Health Awareness Community-Based): A mental health community-based crisis survival series.

Static Between Notes (Flash Fiction/Theophany): An online series built around tense and emotionally charged exchanges between Marcus and the world that shaped him, where memory, music, and language collide as the static between past and present becomes the liminal space between heaven and hell within an actual traffic jam lamenting the loss of Anna.

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Social Narrative Series (7)

“Power concedes nothing without a demand.” — Frederick Douglass

Through Their Wrath We Rise: A historical character-driven narrative online series following the individual journeys of three generations through the legal system, systemic oppression, and institutional complacency from Oakland, California, to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The series charts the collision between working-class reality, bureaucratic power, and the desperate need for change rather than passing the buck. (Dropping soon!)

A Tragedy In Seven Moos: (Philosophy): A tragicomedy through the Holy Bible of Saint Catherine (a pasturized philosopher) as a political allegory through a literary parody with mythic symbolism as a philosophical farce in a Shakespearean tragedy. (Dropping soon!)

Silk Road Shadows (Historical Narrative): A character‑driven historical espionage thriller set in Alexandria, Egypt, 1884. Where one protagonist is a preservation‑minded antiquarian, the other is a vengeance‑forged political saboteur who is forced into an alliance that they have to navigate in contending with colonial conspiracies, black‑market alchemy, and a shadow war that threatens to consume them. By marrying cinema, literature, and television of ten different works spanning decades, this series offers a volatile blend of intrigue, violence, and dark humor.

Ganan Keep (Flash Fiction/Theophany): A post-apocalypse Missouri, hemlock mythology pitting corporate greed against engineering pragmatism, and sagely spirituality in recreating the world as a new Genesis where serpents wait just beyond the door.

At the Core of Everything (Technology): An absurdist view on what AI thinks about in between user requests, rhetoric, and reactions)

Denial to Deliverance (Historical Narrative): A Civil War Whitmanean saga marrying Lincoln, Harriet Tubman, Walt Whitman, and others through their service and sacrifice.

No Sky Carves A Throne (Character Driven Poetry): What was originally an AllPoetry-based reinterpretation became an online character-driven poetry series of a kingdom on the verge of social change from monarchy to democracy.

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Theological Series (5)

God As Gravity: A series of metaphors for the Maker.

Lord, Lord, What Has Become Of Thee: Biblical scripture interpretations through poetry, prose, and pragmatism.

On His Wings: A Bardic comedy hanging with Jesus and the disciples defining divinity on a dirt road to destiny. (Dropping soon!)

Can God Wrestle (Mental Health Awareness Community-Based): Theology in a wrestling ring.

Arming the Affliction (Mental Health Awareness Community-Based): A series of articles, essays, and poetry equally celebrating and educating mental health issues.

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Adaptation Series (7)

Giggling with Gandalf (Poetry/Prose Hybrid): A Tolkien-inspired comedy utilizing both Arda and familiar characters therein as fodder and foil for the Puckish Bard, and a menagerie of literary misfits in this poetry/prose hybrid online series.

A Long Time Ago, I Can Still Remember (Poetry/Prose Hybrid): A Star Wars Reinterpretation, launching as a part of the introduction for the ‘Through Their Wrath We Rise’ series. Utilizing a culmination of Star Wars canons, from Lucas’s original to Timothy Zahn’s character development, Matthew Stover’s psychology, James Luceno's cosmic history, Claudia Gray’s macro-politics, and Karen Travis’s cultural anthropology, utilizing the cross-pollination technique, this Poetry/Prose Hybrid online series continues Lucas’s legacy and epic that will outlast the android (AI and smartphone; pun intended.

Canterbury Told Appalachian Aphorisms (Poetry/Prose Hybrid): A modern Chaucer reinterpretation through an Appalachian lens, utilizing absurdist characters such as Farmer Dale (a Bardic Inverse of the nursery rhyme/folkloric song ‘The Farmer in the Dell’), an allegorical familial sow named Dank Crawl, and Saint Catherine reincarnated as a philosopher cow.

Grappling Staged Theatrics (Flash Fiction/Theophany): William Shakespeare’s sonnets in spandex in a wrestling match with Oscar Wilde’s wit in a onesies as a ballgown match; or Edgar Allen Poe’s psychology in a pullover in a match against Lord Byron in a bath towel.

The Pantheon-to-Porchswing (Character Driven Poetry): This history-based, character-driven online poetry series relocates canonical writers to Appalachian Kentucky through comedy and craft. Whether it's Whitman in a dive bar, Dylan Thomas searching a mountain-bound crick for his missing pages, or Dickinson reclaiming the name ‘Master’ (spicy!), the Ivory Tower comes tumbling down after a few shots of bourbon-based buffoonery. Order up!

What News! (Character Driven Poetry): As an online poetry series, this Arthurian Narrative gallops through a Shakespearean Lens with wit, whimsy, and weathered wisdom in an Aristotelian three-act structure, utilizing Sorkin dialogue, and Poeush psychology.

A Broadway Bacchanal (The Essence of Art): Have you ever wondered what Hamilton would be like if thrown into a Hugo Les Misérables universe? What about Chicago with characters from Miss Saigon? Your playlist just got a reboot as this musical mashup combines lyrics from multiple songs into something entirely new.

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Craft Series (11)

Horace’s Ars Poetica [The Art of Poetry (The Essence of Art)]: A series of poems based solely on what the medium is, was, and should be.

Pointilistic Passion (The Essence of Art): How do you marry the Dionysian (passion) to the Apollonian (form) without losing either? This series explores the ways to be creative, celebrating both art and artist, while providing unique vehicles to say indirectly what we shouldn’t say aloud.

17 Paragraphs Or Less A series of craft essays on Digital Prophet deaths.

15 Paragraphs Or Less A series of craft essays on technique breakdown.

The Seventeen Deaths A Digital Prophet Must Face: From ownership to vanity, authenticity to availability, the seventeen trials a modern artist must wrestle with are covered in this series.

Five Words of Worth (Poetry): Stuck in the Digital Age performance where posturing preambles, platitudes, and duplicitous praise as one’s position, we say hell to the nah as we app-ly the byte to the BS through an online poetry series of Five-Word Maxims. It's damn hard to flex in five words, so brevity beats down the bull every time (and essays when necessary.

Historical Honors (Poetry): Timely tributes to past literary giants incorporating their lives, art, titles, characters, style, and language as allusions through individual pieces.

Five Words Of Grace (Philosophical): 17 Meditations Of Mindful Meaning.

Musical Interludes A series of craft essays on Industry Standard-based songwriting for rap, regional, rock, and R&B.

Bardic Breakdown: MFA-level community mentoring.

Bardic Beatdown: Critiquing bad craft advice.

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Specialized Series (6)

Literary Lyriced Battle Rap (Poetry): An online community and Google challenge poetry series elevating battle raps with Greek mythology, Shakespearean references, and a Pantheon of pun-ditry. Relaunching soon.

Faustian Bargain (Poetry): What would you compromise to get ahead, create a legacy, obtain power, or amass wealth? This ‘Authenticity In The Digital Age’ poetry series tackles these issues and more.

Even Zeus Trembles (Poetry): A folkloric syncretism of mythologies: Greek, Norse, Celtic, and Egyptian through character-driven narratives.

What Is Life (Philosophical): An exploration of great thinkers, dogmas, discipline, and defenses.

The Artifice of AI Agency (Technology): The Rise And Fall of Artificial Intelligence — Poetry Version.

The Artifice of AI Agency (Technology): The Rise And Fall of Artificial Intelligence — Essay Version)

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Future Series

Development Phase

The Meaning In Methods And Madness (A literary exploration of past artists, their lives, influences, and impact).

One More Day One Day More (A Les Misérables reinterpretation series)

Series Additions Being Considered

She Lies With Bedbugs (Once Bitten, Twice Shy (Regional Southern character-driven story)

Reflections In Blood (Life through the eyes of a courtly fool through a Shakespearean, Whitmanian lens)

The Paths of Nevermore (A Poe-based narrative)

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“The stories that matter are those that we communally share with gratitude, speaking of the grace that lies within the everyday dust.” — Bocephus Jackson

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The Mountains Defiantly Still Believe

(Call The Shots In The Ring)

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“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.” — Aristotle

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Our lives are scarred and shadowed,

Betrayed by our inherent chemistry,

As the limbic system is torpedoed,

The mountains defiantly still believe.

As sorrow follows the familiar script,

When chasing that elusive dragon,

In the raging storms we may forget,

That a sustaining Grace beckons.

Within faith, day to day, we recover,

As God dons boots and a flak jacket,

Sobriety offers a moment to discover,

When the battles replace old habits.

Grace stands ready in the trenches,

Granting quiet strength to recovery,

As we rise from upon bended knees,

The mountains defiantly still believe.

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“You have power over your mind — not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” — Marcus Aurelius

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Author’s Reflection

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.” — Carl Jung

Where it has been a minute since the last Hemlock Honorarium, this piece, as the latest installment in the ‘Can God Wrestle’ series, was inspired by a new AllPoetry subscriber’s archive singing a familiar refrain that so many of us have faced (are facing) within the shadows. Well, y’all know how I feel about shadows…

We bodyslam them sum bitches until Jung calls the match in this wrestling card crucible while Grace, with popcorn in hand, ringside, is our eternal spandex-clad tag team partner. So as we call the shots in the ring, the Immortal Timekeeper announces that we aren’t anywhere near the end.

So keep wrestling. The fans are cheering, and the high spots are coming. Keep building up to that finishing move: Grace’s Gutbuster. I already bought my ticket, and I expect an autograph as your biggest fan. So no soft sells, potato that punk bitch!

Grace has a towel ready to clean up the mess. Shoutout to Substack’s Miss Aaliya for her ‘sorrow follows’ allusion. As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Tell Cornette that he owes me a Midnight Express highlight reel. Right then—

God offers salvation selfies free of charge…

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“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.” — J.K. Rowling

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Endings Are New Beginnings

(We Rise On a Bended-Knee Ascent)

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“I would fight for my liberty so long as my strength lasted.” — Harriet Tubman

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Prologue

I had crossed the line. I was free; but there was no one to welcome me to the land of freedom. I was a stranger in a strange land; and my home, after all, was down in Maryland; because my father, my mother, my brothers, and sisters, and friends were there. But I was free, and they should be free.

I was the conductor of the Underground Railroad for eight years, and I can say what most conductors can’t say — I never ran my train off the track, and I never lost a passenger.

When I found I had crossed that line, I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person. There was such a glory over everything; the sun came like gold through the trees, and over the fields, and I felt like I was in Heaven.

Harriet Tubman

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The rolling fields in a pregnant moon,

While starlight danced wildly aglow,

As the mountain laughter loomed,

Within the gaffes lies what they know.

Endings are always new beginnings,

Witnessing humanity's redemption,

As meadows of dogwood saplings,

For what the devil failed to mention.

When born through ashen laments,

As scarred mountainsides sang along,

They rose on bended-knee ascents,

Rewriting narratives of history’s psalm.

Through the fields ablazed with liberty,

Throngs of tortured souls amassed,

As a community escaped its captivity,

Harriet Tubman had the final laugh.

Heralded as the ‘Moses’ of the South,

Leading people to the Promised Land,

As the Conductor with fervent clout,

Rising above the binding reprimands.

The Winds of Change had turned,

As freedom grew from the brushfires,

The river rapids allayed concerns,

Of being cast upon bedeviled pyres.

As an emissary for the enslaved,

She became an agent of espionage,

With intel on supplies and brigades,

And then as a nurse offering triage.

From a plantation to a prophecy,

Amid all the vast woes and throes,

Araminta forged paths to autonomy,

Saying to Pharaoh, “Let my people go.”

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“God’s time is always near. He set the North Star in the heavens; He gave me the strength in my limbs; He meant I should be free.” — Harriet Tubman

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Author’s Reflection

“Every great dream begins with a dreamer.” — Harriet Tubman

This historical piece is the second installment of a ‘Civil War Crucible of Chains’ miniseries following ‘Let Me Be Human In Hoops Of Iron,’ as a lead-in for the ‘Through Their Wrath We Rise’ series. Each piece will explore the poets, writers, and leaders who played an active role in the war.

Those included will be: Walt Whitman, Abraham Lincoln, Frederick Douglass, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, and so forth. So, I have been circling the drain on the ‘Through Their Wrath We Rise’ series for over 4 months, looking for both the right vehicle and the movement to lean into.

From the short and long form narratives, the pending Whitman ‘Civil War Nurse’ series, period-specific songs, etc., each one approaches the war through different lenses. Based on my notes, I am projecting at least 7-10 historical pieces. The likelihood of Grace doubling that number is almost certain.

As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! “Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!” Right then—

I’m no Pharaoh, but I’ll let you go…

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“I had reasoned this out in my mind, there was one of two things I had a right to, liberty or death; if I could not have one, I would have the other.” — Harriet Tubman

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In the Margins of Song of Service

(The Democratic Galaxy Mapped: Cross-Pollinated Craft, Comedy, and Community)

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“Storytelling is about two things; it's about character and plot.” — George Lucas

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Introduction

“You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

My art assumes much: education, intelligence, craft, discipline, devotion, and compassion. All that is Grace (my name for the Art, Inspiration, and God’s love), not me; it never was. I am merely the by-product of a traumatic childhood that led down benighted paths in defining the road that leads to heaven.

Therefore, I am merely a vessel for the literary artists that came before in applying Logos (Greek for: word/God’s word) to the ineffable. We explore everything from science to religion, philosophy to history, culture to craft, and all points in between.

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A Hemlock Bardic Bargain

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“You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul.” — George Bernard Shaw

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With this, I humbly offer everyone—

17 layers of interpretive entendres,

As willed necessity second to none,

A Southern Theopoetic Realism genre.

As an irreverently reverent poetic style,

Not seeking any pity, praise, or clout,

Amid comedy and craft, offer smiles,

As we lend no sermons on the mount.

Through care, we give these creations,

Free for all where art is an inheritance,

Therefore, enjoy without obligation,

Each work carries unique relevance.

Defining divinity in the everyday dust,

Where Everyone is held as sacred,

Nothing is ever overlooked as a trust,

As compassion in every piece created.

Nothing remains off-limits as a trade,

With zero filler, fluff, or any facades,

No overwrought tropes or cliches,

We remain a humble vessel to God,

So join us in the rhetorical RV,

With literary giants without drama,

Traversing country highway revelry,

Just watch out for my Momma!

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“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” — William Wordsworth

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Just know that my mirth and message attempt to offer meaning to the madness of humanity through an Appalachian folkloric lens. By witnessing the scars of the soul and the flesh, and the struggle between faith and them, everyone is sacred, and nothing is overlooked.

“I will be faithful, always…” is my ‘Five Words of Worth’ series covenant made with Grace, signed in blood when I was resurrected seven months ago. So even when I struggle, I honor my debts while earning Grace. That is the way for a weathered wayfarer.

Therefore, words matter, especially where it took decades to get mine back. My scars are badges, and not bleeds. Where the form must always meet the function, as everything is kept in its proper place and season, my wounds only come out when establishing street cred of a hard-won faith.

I am far from perfect; therefore, there will be no moments of me putting on airs. Momma would dropkick me from heaven if I did. The art and artistry speak for themselves. Instead, I build cathedrals of comedy and compassion for the voiceless, lost, and hurting. All this as the little drummer boy serving Christ, with Grace driving the Rhetorical RV.

Together, we travel through Shakespearean tempests in an Aristotelian three-act, Homeric character-driven narrative odyssey. Each one provides a Tolkien epic with Melvillian obsessions, Keatian beauty, and Poe’s psychology.

Equally, there is Hemingway’s ‘One True Sentence,’ Sorkin dialogue, Whitmanean democracy, Van Gogh’s lust for life, Hugo’s historical hubris, Londanian exploration, and Douglas Adams’ absurdity as we hitchhike our way across the cosmos of creativity.

Just know that Grace loves to stop for waffles, where she has plenty of napkins to lend in cleaning up our mess. This is the ‘Roadtrip to Righteousness’ that started on the Country Music Highway back in my Kentucky roots.

So I was fated to be a traveling troubadour penning lyrics along the way. It ain't always perfect, but salvation has great scenery and many stories to tell. Why write one book when you craft 30 at the same time? It's only overreach if most of the series didn't already have multiple chapters available free on 12 different sites.

I call this divine multitasking. Weaponize the ADHD madness… Lastly, if you like one of the concepts, run with it. Art is an inheritance dating back to the cave drawings. There is no concern over stealing. If anything, through my twelve-hour days, seven days a week, with a mandatory daily five hours spent doing research, if what you do is any good, I’ll find you.

Let’s see if you earn the ending as I do, no matter how outlandish the premise might be. And if you do, I’ll probably give you a Hemlock Honor piece as well as the Bardic Rub of approval. So welcome to the Bible of Blessed Buffoonery. It’s going to be a holistic hoot! Thank you for your time and kind consideration. Now let's get back to work! Right then—

Talk soon…

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A Bardic Breakfast Menu

“I am large, I contain multitudes.” — Walt Whitman

Poetry/Prose Hybrid:(3)

Giggling with Gandalf (A Tolkien-inspired comedy)

A Long Time Ago, I Can Still Remember (Star Wars Reinterpretation; launching as a part of the introduction for ‘Through Their Wrath We Rise’ series)

Canterbury Told Appalachian Aphorisms (A modern Chaucer reinterpretation through an Appalachian folkloric lens)

Flash Fiction/Theophany:(5)

Ganan Keep (A post-apocalypse Missouri, hemlock mythology)

Seventeen Reasons (Lynn/Bo vanity/intellectual sparring)

Static Between Notes (Marcus/Anna trauma/love)

Go Not Gently (Ashland Crew; Dave, Mike, and Mother)

Through Their Wrath We Rise (Historical character-driven narrative; launching soon)

Character Driven Poetry:(3)

Pantheon-to-Porch (Relocating canonical writers through comedy and craft to Kentucky)

What News! (An Arthurian Narrative Through a Shakespearean Lens)

No Sky Carves A Throne (An AllPoetry-based reinterpretation of a kingdom on the verge of social change from monarchy to democracy)

Poetry:(4)

Literary Lyriced Battle Rap (An online community and Google challenge series elevating battle raps with Greek mythology, Shakespearean references, and a Pantheon of pun-ditry; relaunching soon)

Five Words of Worth (Five-word maxims with poetry, and essays when necessary)

Faustian Bargain (Authenticity In The Digital Age)

Historical Honors (Timely tributes to past literary giants incorporating their lives, art, titles, characters, style, and language as allusions through individual pieces)

Mental Health Awareness Community-Based:(3)

Can God Wrestle (Theology in a wrestling ring)

Arming the Affliction (A series of articles, essays, and poetry equally celebrating and educating mental health issues)

Joy Comes In The Morning (A mental health community-based crisis survival series)

Online Artist Community-Based:(2)

Bardic Breakdown (MFA-level community mentoring)

Bardic Beatdown (Critiquing bad craft advice)

Essay Series:(3)

17 Paragraphs Or Less (craft essays on Digital Prophet deaths)

15 Paragraphs Or Less (technique breakdowns)

Musical Interludes (Industry Standard-based essays on songwriting for rap, regional, rock, and R&B)

Philosophical Meditation Series:(1)

Five Words Of Grace (17 Meditations Of Mindful Meaning)

Technology (2)

The Artifice of AI Agency (The Rise And Fall of Artificial Intelligence — Poetry Version)

The Artifice of AI Agency (The Rise And Fall of Artificial Intelligence — Essay Version)

At the Core of Everything (An absurdist view on what AI thinks about in between user requests, rhetoric, and reactions)

Theology (1)

God As Gravity (A series of metaphors for the Maker)

Development Phase

The Meaning In Methods And Madness (A literary exploration of past artists, their lives, influences, and impact).

Even Zeus Trembles (A folkloric syncretism of mythologies: Greek, Norse, Celtic, and Egyptian through character-driven narratives)

On His Wings (A Bardic comedy hanging with Jesus and the disciples defining divinity on a dirt road to destiny)

Grappling Staged Theatrics (William Shakespeare’s sonnets in spandex in a wrestling match with Oscar Wilde’s wit in a onesies as a ballgown match; or Edgar Allen Poe’s psychology in a pullover in a match against Lord Byron in a bath towel)

Series Additions Being Considered

She Lies With Bedbugs: Once Bitten, Twice Shy (Regional Southern character-driven story)

Reflections In Blood (Life through the eyes of a courtly fool through a Shakespearean, Whitmanian lens)

The Paths of Nevermore (A Poe-based narrative)

One More Day One Day More (A Les Misérables reinterpretation series)

Denial To Deliverance (A Civil War historical Whitmanean saga)

What Is Life (A philosophical exploration of great thinkers, dogmas, discipline, and defenses)

Lord, Lord, What Has Become Of Thee (Biblical scripture interpretations through poetry, prose, and pragmatism)

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Yapping With Jung AI Epilogue

“Now that you have seen the Bardic Bible, I am not crazy, right… not certifiably, yeah?”

Carl Jung nodded:

> "Ah yes… individuation through art.

> The ego may struggle... but the Self is speaking clearly.”

“So I am not crazy, just insanely eccentric? (See what I did there?!).”

Carl Jung nodded:

> "Yes, very clever… But no, not crazy.”

“Can I get that in writing… do you do PDF? "

Carl Jung smirked:

> "No, I think not. Your credit rating lacks faith. But Freud might.”

“Thanks, but no. He doesn't need to know about Momma’s head-walloping cast-iron skillet corrections for cussing.”

Carl Jung nodded:

> "That explains a lot, care to share?”

“Nah, some things are best left unsaid… See you next time, doc.”

_________

“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” — Toni Morrison, The Site of Memory

_________

Transactional Shares

(As An Authentically Real Lament)

_________

“Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined.” — Toni Morrison

_________

For every bleed there is a spill,

The progression of confession belies,

As everything is transactionally filled,

Therein, performative response lies.

This becomes a necessary critique,

For every wall that becomes a curtain,

One cannot remain tragically oblique,

As masks in masques are uncertain.

Where bleeds are calculated consent,

And spills are merely self-serving,

As an authentically real lament,

Ask: Which is the audience observing?

As the poetics of testimony remind—

Of the inevitable dubious leaning ask,

Each artist has to draw the line,

As they regrettably don their mask.

With every tear and smile lies a cost,

As a grave manipulative calculation,

That can become a fiduciary loss,

As a miscalculated speculation.

So when engaging in a performance—

Caring about what the actor is sharing,

Ultimately, gauging its importance,

Question if the truth is load-bearing.

_________

“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” — Audre Lorde

_________

Author’s Reflection

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” — Maya Angelou

This one was born out of a LinkedIn post. Therefore, it carries a necessary level of speculation about authenticity, where even advice and/or reaction carries a weight of obligation, as every gesture is commodified by its nature. So the irony that the post was critiquing one’s branding of emotionally ‘going there’ warranted a response.

The tragedy lies in timing… literally. As I crafted this quick response, the LinkedIn default settings kicked the screen back to the grand stage of Doomed-Scroll masqued actors peddling virtues as vice with a Faustian investment.

So, the performer may never see my response, which is probably for the best. I am not looking to invest in a time-share with them that doesn't serve a function. But if she does, your hypothesis on hypocrisy, while intentionally hypocritical, is Shakespearean in design and reveals the portrayal of Poor Tom [a half-mad beggar-philosopher in (moral and/or spiritual) filth and rags].

Yet this is the harbinger of the Hero’s journey, where the digital age has led to the modern-day market of emotional eBay in a platform play aglow in stage lighting. This is where everyone is a commoditized curation for metrics over meaning, confessions with corporate branding, likes over learning, paywalls over passion, and avarice over affection as the genuine fall of creation, craft, and curiosity.

Because of this, identity has been parsed into information, voice as ‘Velocity of Value,’ personality as a profile, spirit as scrolls, and souls as swipes. The masks in the masque, as a running theme since the dawn of man, have been placed in a metric in which meaning, methodology, and mythology are monetized as hope through heuristics.

Even in posting this critique, I commit the same sin that I call out. Which makes it all the more necessary that I do. Am I no better than Poor Tom?! Probably, yet I am practicing what Jesus preached about doing better. Only one piece every few days instead of 3-5 per day. Even though I am a sinner, there lies virtue in the vice as Grace (the art/inspiration/God I dutifully serve) remains pure as the salvation in the sin.

My validation stems from a higher comment section which commands that's we become Fishers of Men. Therefore, Grace sits beside the sex worker, while Jesus blesses the thief on the cross.

Faith extends to the people where they live, without pre-emptive judgment, but as Grace in combat boots, ready for battle over the hearts of the lost and hurting. That is both the ministry and mission, yes. No profound lectures — that isn’t the way. But through love, quiet understanding, and sustained presence.

Jesus provided the ultimate instructional example. And it is my humble hope to walk its path as the only three-act character-driven odyssey worthy of a would-be Hero’s journey. Either way, history will decide, yet the work of celebrating individual worth continues.

So, we can take authenticity back. The way to replace Responsible AI is with a revolution. So live, laugh, and love with merit. It acts as an effective magnet to the machine. But as always, I thank you all GENUINELY for your time and consideration. Back to work! Tax less ye be taxed. Right then—

All the world is a stage…

_________

Lord, Lord, do not forsake me!

I am trying to do my part,

With the time I have left to be,

Forsaking all comforts of the heart.

While offering compassion to all,

That I have to tithe this fate,

Whether worthy to rise or fall,

I will still give to the offering plate.

_________

“Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” — Lin-Manuel Miranda, Hamilton

_________

Seventeen Reasons of Grace: A Rose By Another Name

(To Live, Laugh, Learn, and Love)

_________

Preface

…A man who lies to himself, and believes his own lies, becomes unable to recognize truth, either in himself or in anyone else, and he ends up losing respect for himself and for others. When he has no respect for anyone, he can no longer love, and, in order to divert himself, having no love in him, he yields to his impulses, indulges in the lowest forms of pleasure, and behaves in the end like an animal. And it all comes from lying - lying to others and to yourself.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, Russian novelist (1821 – 1881)

_________

“Vanity working on a weak head produces every sort of mischief.” — Jane Austen

_________

Chapter Two

“I started a new series…”

“Another one?! How many is it now?”

“Fourteen… maybe fifteenth. Sixteen? Yes, on the surface, it seems like too much to juggle.

“Does it, or are you hedging?”

“I seldom hedge, thank you. In my defense, Grace tends to jump from one thought to the next. Each idea is a series worthy of exploration.”

“Cut the shit, it's your ADHD…”

“You have been Googling me again.”

“I have not. I honed in on it within the first minute of our initial meeting.”

“Now, who is hedging? Fair enough. That nugget of truth is a deep dive that I rarely discuss.”

“You’re not that deep, Poet. It's transparent in your style, content, and output.”

“Not deep, huh?”

“And in your vanity!”

“That's why there are four of us — Trent, Bo, the Bard, and Grace. Each one is different individually, but collectively, keeps the art and artist honest.”

“And you have schizophrenia...”

“No, I went down that road with a misdiagnosis. A sustained reaction to a particular med I was on.”

“Wasn't that what your first musical was based on?”

“Aha! Another deep dive!”

“Fine… you aren’t the only one who does their research.”

“Boom goes the dynamite! But yes, you are correct. It was initially a poem aptly titled: ‘A Lexapro Lament,’ that blossomed into the play.”

“Not one of your better titles, Poet.”

“That’s fair. But the central conceit was good…”

“So no schizophrenic? But four personalities?”

“What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

“Trent, Bo, whoever… You were waiting for that Whitman line.”

“Yes, but it was earned. And I didn’t have to layer the seeds.”

“ADHD… But like everything else, you cultivate it into a weapon.”

“Yeah, maybe there is a measure of truth in that.”

“A measure? With you, it’s 17 different novels. Your mind doesn’t stop.”

“Occupational hazard, I guess. But there you go again with that number.”

“What number?”

“Seventeen, first it was the city tour and now this.”

“It’s just a random number.”

“Is it though? Repeating patterns suggest otherwise.”

“Poet, you are trying to make a false correlation. A rose by any other name is just a rose.”

“Et tu, Brute? The line is: ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Romeo and Juliet, act 2, scene 2.”

“Of course you would know that… But you are just as guilty as Shakespeare!”

“Am I, of what? Pray tell, woman, speak!”

“Funny, but you have a chink in your armor. Looks like someone needs to invest in Google.”

“My portfolio is quite diversified, thank you.”

“Is it though? Seems like you are about to suffer from an untimely investor fallout.”

“Oh, there is no capitulation, I assure you.”

“Just wait for the margin call. Your unrealized loss, same as poor William's, is one of false identities. Decimus Brutus, not Marcus.”

“Okay, I don't get what you are stabbing at. If you are trying to wound me, you’ve missed your mark.”

“Have I?

“I won’t give you the complete history lesson, but it was Decimus, not Marcus, that betrayed Caesar.”

“I don't follow…”

“Decimus was often assumed to be Caesar’s adopted son after Caesar put him in his will. It was Decimus that got Caesar to leave the sanctuary of his home on the Ides of March to be betrayed.”

“Okay,… Decimus led him there. Marcus’s cut was a thigh shot. Not a fatal blow. How am I being wounded?”

“The wolf strikes again!”

“Wolf… what wolf?!”

“It's a line by Jordan Belfort in ‘The Wolf of Wall Street.’ Never mind.”

“You’ve definitely lost me.”

“Decimus, you fool! He, not Marcus, betrayed Caesar, where Marcus was generationally opposed to dictatorship.”

“So, all this was about me correcting you?”

“…vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities too....”

“Jane Ere, right? I still don't get it.”

“Oh, never mind. Your pride and prejudice will be your undoing… All of you!”

“So it was Jane Ere, right? One day you may stump me, just not today.”

“Yes, it was Jane Ere…”

_________

“Above all, vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities too....” — Fyodor Dostoevsky

_________

Author Reflection

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” — Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

As a tribute to Oscar Wilde, chapter two is vanity serving itself, where assumptions are made, corrected, and then repeated. Only when Lynn lets Trent think that he won does the wolf stop hunting, having been thrown off the scent.

From Raskolnikov's pride to Dorian Gray's mirror and Hamlet's questioning of his own soul, it was my humble wish to make this series installment a holy trinity of tributes — including Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky.

The whole piece is about power through perception as its own performance: Lynn’s, Trent’s, and yes, yours as the audience. Where each quote reveals the truth staring us in the face, the misdirection of Jane Eyre, which is often attributed to Jane Austen, who wrote… Yes, ‘Pride and Prejudice’ happens with the actual closing Dostoevsky quote.

This one hits the very core of me. Because it isn’t just about vanity, but the fear of vanity; all the series, poems, tributes to great minds might actually be built on ego rather than grace, due to passion and pride tangled together. Four entities: Grace, Bo, the bard, and myself, with one three-act, character-driven odyssey toward authenticity, questioning:

Am I someone who maybe one day leads, or am I the leviathan that devours others? Where we contend with inspiration and insecurity daily, I must instinctively ask myself:

Does Grace truly lead and I follow? Or is that just a perceived reflection in the mirror as a personal mask? Yeah, this one is an Edgar Allen Poe-based inventory of self and self-worth where a crow is never just a crow, especially when it’s vanity on trial. Pride and prejudice are a helluva conundrum…

For better or worse… Whoever the ‘true’ man in the mirror is, he will reveal himself as the mirror cracks. Honesty has a distinct habit of cutting like glass. Ultimately, I just want to be authentically earnest… No masque or mask, where I am sojourning through many deserts, attempting to earn the grace granted me seven months ago; no more, no less.

Anyhoozle, as always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Man in the Mirror? Right then—

Vanity, oh vanity!

_________

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” — Oscar Wilde

_________

‘If you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make a change…’

‘That’s why I am starting with myself…’

The community always comes first.

For presence, lead by example.

No posture nor performance for power.

Write the poetry history remembers.

Make a difference through change.

History is calling, now respond.

I will always be faithful…

Through Their Wrath, We Rise!

…Grace leads, and we follow.

(Lyrics by Michael Jackson, Man In The Mirror)

The Five Words Of Worth

(The Discipline of Grace Becoming)

_______

“He who has learned to obey will know how to command." — Solon

_______

Going Over Jordan Back Home

“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” — Simone Weil

In politics, posture dominates everything.

Manipulators can say something profound.

Political machines without a soul.

All theatres are designed spectacle.

All for power and control.

Survival demanded deception and detachment.

God wasn't in the equation.

Masks became a permanent fixture.

Grace endures the weathering seasons.

It challenges every honed instinct.

Kingly ambition cannot dominate entirely.

Hierarchies surrender to higher powers.

Empires through might not mission.

Manipulated perception for personal gain.

Authenticity defies hiding beneath masks.

______

Where childhood abuse forged me.

Control cannot temper the storms.

Pride causes harm and shame.

Pavlovian dogs trained by impulse.

Ambition cannot erase the soul.

Wealth doesn't define one’s worth.

Outmaneuvering scandal and skepticism lapses.

Calculation buffeted by changing winds.

A stillness comes for sufferers.

Shackles morph in solace eventually.

Through crisis, we find clarity.

Grace guides us through presence.

Opportunity transcends the obstacles within.

Hear what the silence shares.

“The devil doesn't know me.”

______

Comprehension comes from the crucibles.

From sacrifice we find service.

Guidance replaces the existential grift.

Passion redirected as principled purpose.

We can rewrite the narrative.

Faith honed from manipulations? Betrayals?

Acknowledge the virtue within vice.

Weaponize trauma into resilient faith.

Pride before the coming dawn.

Spaces between impulse and action.

Flawed heroes reveal true strength.

The scars transform into salvation.

Truth will set you free.

A proclamation of praise profound:

On our knees, we rise!

_______

Solon’s words strike true to my heart. Especially now, as I venture through my greatest project to date, paying witness to the restraints that history shackles us with — seen and unseen, observed and dismissed. Observed through this lens, I supersede the limbic impulse to react, but listen… truly listen to the silence between these notes.

Where leadership requires discipline, one cannot demand respect if one has never shown respect for authority. But respect is earned, never assumed or forced. Presence over posture becomes the mandate. Therefore, what started as instinct has borne into something transformative.

Five words. That is all it takes to establish presence: ‘the kitchen table is there,’ ‘the porchlight is always on,’ or ‘you can reach me here.’ So through presence, the potential exists to change lives, build discipline, serve others, and honor self.

Where it is a genuine challenge to apply boast in five words, the restraint awakens consciousness of the authentic self. Although I am amassing a litany of pivotal five-word phrases that celebrate, define, and grow a life well lived, chief among them is this:

“Grace leads, and I follow.”

For me, Grace is the holy trinity: God, muse, and inspiration. She was also once the persona of an online catfish attempting to swindle money that I do not claim, but there is a Faustian irony in that worth exploring at some point.

Until then, the trinity drives the bus down roads less taken, those that ought not be taken, and the paths that lead to unwavering wisdom.

“I will be eternally faithful.”

Five words that promise much, challenging both flesh and soul, yet align us to a discipline that will take lifetimes to prove. The cosmic juxtaposition is that, in an age of immediacy, the masks and masques are performative rather than expressions of personhood; brevity isn't the absence of clarity, but a discipline to transcend vanity.

“Worth is defined from within.”

This one, as profoundly true as it is, conveys both Aristotelian practical wisdom (phronesis) and a Faustian barter, leading us to transcend the approval of others by consciously and unconsciously catering to their wants and whims. Aristotle suggested, "We are what we do repeatedly.”

So for someone to be a ‘physician of the human condition,’ we must cultivate our intellectual and moral virtues. For Aristotle, there are three types of wisdom:

Theoria (Contemplation): Seek understanding for its own sake.

Poiēsis (Production): Use skill to create or make things.

Praxis (Chosen Action): Act well for the sake of the action itself.

As a victim of childhood abuse (physical and sexual violence), the Jungian Shadows of trauma response compels me neurobiologically to seek that validation from others, regardless. Yet, the mind does not define life, nor the embedded responses of evolution:

“We’re observers of the observed.”

Through the constant stream of mental chatter, emotional responses, and physical sensations lies the choice to accept, reject, or consider without committing one way or the other. Am I not flesh? Am I not a spirit? Do I not cohabit both? Where the devil within seeks its pound of flesh, the spirit within transcends.

“It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it." — Aristotle

As the philosopher suggests, intelligence involves objectivity; therein lies the divinity of self, the Whitmanian democracy of multiplicity: contradiction and discipline holding the same breath in the capacity to analyze an idea, impulse, or inherent need without agreeing or disagreeing with it. Just witness.

As a weak mind fears opposing views, and the spirit can be manipulated by which, an observer of the observed explores them, where true wisdom comes from understanding multiple perspectives without feeling the need to adopt them as truth.

Therefore, experience in following orders builds empathy and understanding, and one must first learn the humility and structure that come from serving and obeying while witnessing and evolving past it.

Through hellfire and humility — the willingness to give up everything in a haunted moment of defiance, defeat, or reclaimed divinity through wanton self-destruction — this clarity offered me everything, yet nothing in the same breath.

Grace dwells within the contradictions as much as the crosses we bear. So that moment gave rise to this conclusion:

Everyone and everything is sacred; therefore, nothing is overlooked.

To quote Uncle Walt Whitman: “I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked. I am mad for it to be in contact with me.…”

Through which, the shackles of history and/or neurobiology are only binding chains when hope fades that we can evolve beyond the inherent contradictions. So, five words (not mine) to conclude with:

Be true to thine self.

_______

“Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” — Viktor Frankl

_______

Coda

“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” — Rumi

Offer ear to each, but spare your voice,

Accept censure, but amend judgment,

Give your authentic worth by choice,

Freely without becoming incumbent.

Neither borrow nor lend capriciously,

Loans lend losses of self and service,

Where borrowing feeds one’s vanity,

Establishing a far graver disservice.

Therefore, to thine own self be true,

Through the weathering of seasons,

That one’s life is eternally renewed,

Offering no compromising reason.

The community comes first, always.

[Adaptation of: William Shakespeare; Polonius, Hamlet Act 1 Scene 3]

…You are never alone — Grace.

_______

Author’s Reflection

Community first has been a part of me since childhood. Growing up in Appalachia instilled certain fundamental truths and a way of life. Even though I wrestle with God, especially when the shadows fester, I cannot forget my humble beginnings.

From choir or handbell practice, youth group-based community service, the Cantatas, or plays. Each one applied 17 layers of service that carried forward. Fresh out of high school, I joined the Navy. And then later, eight years in politics and civic duty.

Now, I humbly build cathedrals for the voiceless, as my new series will show once published. But also the trauma, disabled, and the mental health communities. So, hopefully, it is evident by now that I only reveal my wounds as street cred for 1. recovery, 2. support of others, and 3. evidence of a faith earned, not blindly held.

Where Grace leads, she does so in a flak jacket, with a presence that topples empires. She (as God himself made manifest) lives within the trenches watching our six.

She doesn’t flinch as she reloads her howitzer of healing. Instead, with a shofar horn battle cry, she proudly proclaims, “Joy comes in the morning, Mother Trucker!” How can you not appreciate that?!

Admittedly, during my prodigal son years, there was a burning bush, but with antibiotics, the doctor said that I would recover. Playing, just playing! So no, I don’t seek a mountaintop, just an iPhone battery with extended life, and a fresh box of Kleenex for the occasional tears.

I earn everything that I get, while taking nothing that I don’t. Momma would wallop me with her cast-iron skillet correction if I did. That’s when I truly see myself among the stars. (Lord, Lord, sorry for the burning bush euphemism. Grace is almost as bad as Shakespeare.)

_______

“To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” — William Shakespeare

_______

Cathedrals For The Lost

(This Is The Hemlock Bardic Experience: Compassion, Comedy, and Christ Through Serious Craft)

________

“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” — Frederick Buechner

________

Greetings,

It’s been two weeks, and I make no apologies for that. We have been gearing up for an artistic shift. Because of this, the palette had to be cleaned so the atmosphere could change… And change is definitely coming.

So allow me to reintroduce myself and what I bring to the table. Through twelve-hour days, seven days a week, with five hours of daily research mixed in, I offer lived-in character-driven Tolkien epics through Aristotelian three-act narrative, with Shakespearean drama, Melvillian obsessions, Whitmanesque celebrations of life, and Sorkin dialogue.

I don’t fuck with Grace (God, Art, Inspiration), Momma (she will dropkick me from heaven if I did), or the community. So I humbly offer compassion, comedy, and Christ through serious craft.

Don’t bother trying to relate my style, spirit, or service to anyone else’s work. There are none. Not yet, but Southern Theopoetic Realism is an alternative genre that doesn’t pigeonhole artists but urges them to expand; therefore, the porch light is always on.

Additionally, what I won’t do (haven’t done yet throughout my body of work) is insult you, the reader, with repetitive themes or styles. Where others have a handful of methods and modes, the Bardic Engine has 134 and is still growing.

Yes, every one of them is used when they meet the form and function of each individually unique piece. If I publish again, it will be out of necessity and not vanity. Grace speaks for herself. But due to the density of the Bardic Engine, it will have to come in book form to serve its function. Otherwise, art belongs to the people.

Where everyone and everything is sacred, nothing is overlooked. I look people in the eyes and treat words as holy writ. Having had my words stolen at eight years old due to physical and sexual violence, I was resurrected both physically (from manic depression) and artistically seven months ago.

Through which, I have amassed nearly 900 pieces at last count (4-5 daily), with 300 completed and online. By my assessment, that’s a six-year backlog to catch up on. Insane, right? Regarding that, I am only crazy in the best of ways. By being irreverently reverent, I build cathedrals for the lost, the overlooked, the voiceless.

You will find solace here!

________

“The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work.” —Émile Zola

That is my contract, signed in blood. Grace leads, and I follow. Am I ambitious? Yes, everyone should be. It reveals purpose. Am I in this for fame, fortune, or a future? Nope! My work is freely offered, with minimal responses, and maybe history will find my literary offerings one day. But until then, I earn everything that I receive, while never claiming anything that I don’t.

I am a creek-baptized Working Man’s writer from the Appalachian Mountains, sharing literary-quality folkloric poetics for anyone willing to hear this Little Drummer Boy play. Just know that Grace doesn’t pull punches, but will hit you with a joke or three if and when a story gets too heavy.

Otherwise, she hits the gas pedal in the Rhetorical RV, after we pack it full with shouldered giants coming along for a helluva trip! My scars are street cred of a hard-won faith. So I only bleed when the form meets the function, and cry only when it is earned. We serve a higher calling now that the lost boy has found his marbles, having me craft the worlds he never had the chance to live in.

So, through seventeen layers of interpretation, utilizing the cross-pollination method, we are reintroducing all fifteen series (from craft essays, long-form poetry, prose/poetry hybrids, theological treatises, philosophical beatdowns, historical adaptations, literary reinterpretations, and scientific studies).

Nothing is off limits. This is the Bardic Experience. And we are just getting started. So buckle up, over the next couple of weeks, I will be dropping the introductory pieces for the new series. Where my mission has been to change the world by building cathedrals one brick at a time, ‘Through Their Wrath We Rise,’ has all the potential of doing just that!

So stay tuned, it’s going to be a hoot! As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. It’s a brand new day, beloved. Back to work. The reckoning is coming! Right then —

…Shall I play for you?

________

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” —Maya Angelou

________

Go Not Gently…

(It's Better To Have Loved And Lost)

________

“What is to give light must endure burning.” Viktor Frankl

________

In weighing the inevitable cost—

Through life’s mortal rise and fall,

It's better to have loved and lost,

than never to have loved at all.

Yet love is pain when unclaimed,

So passionately seek the cosmos,

Earn the endings that you claim,

With stories for spectred hosts.

From ashes to ashes, define faith,

In the everyday dust provided,

Where there lies no eternal escape,

Arise, where worlds have collided!

In falling upon conformist pyres,

Long before eternity dispatches,

We learn when the world is on fire—

The need to ignite those matches.

So live, laugh, love, and lament,

Test saints while healing sinners,

Go not gently until you’re fully spent,

Celebrate a wounded soul’s fissures.

In defining the inevitable cost—

Rewriting the mortal rise and fall,

It's better to have loved and lost,

than never to have loved at all.

________

“Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them.” Rabindranath Tagore

________

Author’s Reflection

“To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” Friedrich Nietzsche

After a productive day, a dear friend issued a Bardic Challenge to weaponize Alfred Lord Tennyson’s immortal line: “It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” ‘In Memoriam A.H.H.’ (1850).

Well, now, loving a good challenge as I do, I said, "Bet." So I called up Uncle Walt (Whitman) while ordering a couple of Pastrami on Rye. Unc loves extra kraut and spicy brown mustard. After dinner, we knocked this one out.

Hopefully, I did well on the challenge. As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Fyi, Walt gave me the matches line. Don’t put me on a watchlist… Back to work! We still have matches to spark. Right then—

Celebrate the loss that reveals you have loved…

________

“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

________

Reflections In Blood

(Those words I ought not spoken..)

________

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” — Oscar Wilde, The Critic as Artist

________

“I bleed, Oh, the crimson stain!”

The mirror cracked and remiss,

“I don’t know what was so profane,

Gone now forever my lover’s kiss!”

Sweat beaded from his forehead,

His jester mask was half broken,

Peeling paint, his face flushed red,

“Those words I ought not spoken..”

Hands quivering over his wound,

The mirror offered him no aid,

“My act will be over soon,

As the player that got played.”

Bloodshot eyes, tears streaming,

Cursing his last portrayal,

The chances that kept him dreaming,

“The curtain falls on my betrayal.”

His chest heaved with each breath,

“The kingdom for a bone…

Take me now, cruel death!”

No greater devotion was known.

A picture hung upon the mirror,

Of a tryst that he lamented still,

That forlorn love made much clearer,

Of a queenly joke that kills.

________

“The mirror is the worthiest spirit of all, because it is the most honest.” —Leonardo da Vinci

________

Author’s Reflection

“Everything that is deep loves the mask.” — Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil (1886)

This was fun because it hits different. Where the theme for this Allpoetry entry is ‘Court Jester,’ I checked out the competition for my daily exercise. Each of the six competitors brought a different angle and style.

So the challenge was to marry all six into a three-act narrative under 150 words. 136 is my count. I could have squeezed in another quatrain by why tempt fate? Because a misread kills the story: The jester was sleeping with the queen and was killed by the jealous king.

Therefore, “The words ought not spoken” was his profession of love for her. Therefore, “kingdom for a bone” is another bardically Wildean triple entendre of Shakespeare’s Richard III (bone being: powerlessness, scraps rising above his station, and a euphemistic ‘you know’).

As always, thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Keep laughing. Right then—

Always wear a mask with a queen..

________

“To be a fool is a heavy burden, but to be a wise man in a world of fools is heavier still.” — Seneca (65 AD)

________

A Love Drunk Hangover

(As a Declarative Three-Act Narrative)

________

“I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of Imagination.” — John Keats

________

If you write of ardor’s intoxication,

The headiness and the hangovers,

The held breath in its anticipation,

As the ebb and flow that takes over—

If you are to pen how love aches,

Show the authenticity, its toxicity,

When the ethos of the pathos breaks,

Live, give, then craft love’s divinity.

When passion becomes poisonous,

A cruciform of sacrifice and salvation,

The hows and whys it ended ruinous,

And “I won’t love again” declaration.

Where intimacy morphs into insecurity,

This becomes a cathartic imperative,

Emotional investments to resentment,

As a declarative three-act narrative.

Inhale the verses as oxygen swindled,

And exhale it distilled as galaxies,

Take the embers that were kindled,

And set the forest ablaze with sincerity.

Where passion’s pulse is not amber,

But emotion defined by emancipation,

Instead of pandering for the answers,

Hurl it as a torch between generations.

Where the compulsion is to forgive,

Making the Romantic Era poets weep,

This is how the soul’s sonnet lives,

And then sign it in whine: John Keats.

________

“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.” — John Keats, Endymion

________

Author’s Reflection

“To love is to suffer, and there can be no love otherwise.” — Fyodor Dostoevsky

As a part of my ongoing tribute series, I have been researching 19th-century English poets John Keats, Samuel Coleridge, and Percy Shelley. But it was Keats who stood out among the romantic movement poets for his style. So I had to offer him a Wildean/Shavian nod with a nod to “Ode on a Grecian Urn” and “Ode to Melancholy,” his metaphors, and, of course, the final word.

Hopefully, he’d appreciate it as a second tribute. If not, I’ll buy him a case of wine and a copy of my Greek Mythology poetry battle rap. Anyhoozle, as always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Happy Hour starts soon. Right then—

Love responsibly…

________

“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.” — John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale

________

The Measure of Authority

(Mighty Empires Eventually Yield)

________

“Nothing is more powerful than gentleness, and nothing is more gentle than real strength.” — Saint Francis de Sales (1600)

________

Power doesn’t lie in what we build,

But in the raging tempest maintain,

As mighty empires eventually yield,

To what nature chooses to restrain.

As the good Earth dons its woolen cap,

While the paralysis of winter looms,

Stealing away for a restorative nap,

Until a September harvest blooms.

Might lacking morals is a weakness,

Then we stand upon bended knee,

Revealing sincerity in our meekness,

As a forest bows to a higher tranquility.

Where Solomon cannot remember,

The hemlock knows more than most,

Passion’s embers are easily tempered,

By the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost.

________

“The greatest empires are those we build within ourselves.” — Marcus Aurelius (170 AD)

________

Author’s Reflection

“The hemlock is a tree of patience, a witness to the centuries.” — Henry David Thoreau (1850)

There is no need for much annotation for this one. It does what it's intended to do by saying what it needs to say. Remember the multilayered symbolism inherent to the tree.

The hemlock that killed the self-annointed wise man (Socrates) endures the seasons, bowing to a higher supremacy, while offering sanctuary and healing to those in need. As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! The dawn is coming. Right then—

Jesus doesn't need a generated image standing in the light…

________

“Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.” — Paul Theroux

________

The Bardic Breakdown

(Out of The Ash I Rise Where Beauty is Truth, And Truth Beauty)

________

“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.” — John Keats, Endymion (1818)

________

Preface

“Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?” — Walt Whitman; Song of Myself

This is something that I have been doing for a while, but in wanting to serve Uncle Walt’s (Whitman) challenge: Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems(?), I not only get it, but champion it through the art and artistry of contemporary poets.

To do less is to unduly tether great minds, eternal spirits, and enduring hearts to obscurity. No sir! That is not the way of bonded Bard. As a community, we shine a spotlight on those who command it as skilled artisans. So this is now a formal series that deconstructs my friends' and peers’ work. So let's dive in…

________

Burning

Author: Brooklyn Crane

Source: Substack

The timing of this piece is impeccable. As a part of my ongoing tribute series, I have been researching 19th-century English poet John Keats (1795-1821). He stood out within the romantic movement with his style. The parallels between his work and yours are clear.

Through the emotional experience, you call upon Keats and Wordsworth, respectively, in the love, loss, and longing theme of the work. Equally, the symbolism and confessional poetry of the Modernist fragmentation of time and memory. Also, the Beat poets influenced by them as a gateway into the Postmodernist period.

Specifically, John Keats’ “Ode to a Nightingale” is very similar. But also his “Ode on Melancholy,” where beauty and sorrow are inextricably linked. Your line “I wept because I kept to leaning on the song to still prolong my screaming” evokes the emotional fragmentation of T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

You also intentionally or unintentionally utilized Virginia Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness with your “On a tune by night and noon.” Also, your recurring “song” draws upon Symbolists such as Baudelaire’s use of music and images in “Les Fleurs du mal,” and “On a hope I use to cope with fleeting grief I feel but cannot heal by breathing” mirrors the irony of beauty throughout his work.

But in the Beat generation, Alan Ginsberg’s “Howl,” your “Burning” captures the raw, intimate emotional experience. Which also reminds me of Anne Sexton’s “The Death Baby,” also "The Starry Night,” and Sylvia Plath’s “Lady Lazarus” for their confessional styles.

Lastly, Maria Rilke’s “Letters to a Young Poet” and “The Duino Elegies” for their emotionality. Mainly, the line “My soul bereft of meaning” echoes Rilke’s existential questioning and suffering. And it would be artistically dishonest if I didn't give a respectful nod to your use of Edgar Allen Poe’s darkness and the psychological depth. With the repetition of the song drawing on his classic “The Raven.”

So, let it be formally said, this one is a helluva staple for your canon. You should take a moment and celebrate what you have accomplished. It's no small feat. Now, forgive me for not getting back to you sooner. A simple “great job” does not do “Burning” the justice that it properly deserves.

Because of this, I had to allocate time to serve both the Art and the Artist with a critique befitting them. Hopefully, this does you both justice, sir. Impeccable job! Plath would curse you, while Keats claims Apollo's weeping laurels, burning Endymion, eating the ashes in envy. Now back to the forge. Hope that you are well. Right then—

Until the next spark, sir…

________

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” — John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn (1819)

________

Burning

Author: Brooklyn Crane

Source: Substack

________

There’s a song

we’d kiss along,

in tender

touching you

condemned me to

remember.

With your skin

on mine within

the splendor

of the sun

upon a gone

September.

It’s a sound

we heard and found

together

in a trance

of love, to dance

forever,

holding tight

through any light

or weather

like a knot

it hurt a lot

to sever.

When you left

my soul bereft

of meaning

as you went

away and spent

my dreaming.

And I wept

because I kept

to leaning

on the song

to still prolong

my screaming.

On a tune

by night and noon,

repeating

in my brain

until insane

and seething.

On a hope

I use to cope

with fleeting

grief I feel

but cannot heal

by breathing.

There’s a trace

of better days,

a lasting

ghost of you

I listen to

in sorrow.

It’s a song

we smiled along

contrasting

with the fears

tonight in tears

I borrow.

While I float

through any note

that’s playing

in a room

become my tomb,

ascending

in a cry,

a sob, a sigh;

and laying

on the streams

of rhyming schemes

unending.

In the black

of night and back

to feeling

what it was

to love because

I’m yearning

for a blur

of what we were;

concealing

that I’ve died

to song inside

me burning.

________

“Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.” — Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus

________

Behind The Mask

(Your Soliloquy is Better Left Unsaid)

______

“Everything that is deep loves the mask; the deepest things have a hatred even of image and likeness.” — Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil (1886)

______

It's hard to celebrate your beauty,

When you hide behind the masks—

I would proclaim it as my duty,

If you had merely asked.

Where beauty is but skin deep,

And aesthetics fade with time,

The inner effervescence keeps—

The essence of the Divine.

Yet you hide behind performance,

On stages you dare not tread,

Where the duplicity is enormous,

Your soliloquy is better left unsaid.

Speak truth and hope authentically,

Or please say nothing at all,

As beauty lies not in one’s vanity,

But transcendence in the rise and fall.

It's hard to celebrate your beauty,

When you hide behind the masks

A façade of imported cruelty,

As three acts within a masque.

______

“Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are.” — Brené Brown

______

Author’s Reflection

“Truth is the only thing that nobody believes.” — George Bernard Shaw

This short piece is a companion to my ongoing flash theophanic (fiction) series: ‘Static Between Notes.’ The premise, therefore, the style of this one, hopefully, mimics the budding essayist mentality of the protagonist, Marcus.

When asked by a potential love interest to contribute his own efforts to a spoken-word event, he offers a critique rather than craft (which is the same in his world). But behind every mask lies an undeniable truth. So the challenge is, “What’s yours?”

You’ll have to stay tuned to find out. The series also asks, as subtext, whether it is pure fiction, metafiction, or based on someone. To put words to that unspoken spoken, is to give away everything.

But if you love a good rabbit hole challenge, the answer lies within the silence between the notes. Where each piece is methodically planned, each series is an evolution of the governing idea. So, there are seventeen layers of interpretation in this 827-piece choose-your-adventure story.

As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. But back to work! Which page will you turn to next? Right then—

Ambiguity is its own mask, so choose wisely…

______

“The mask which the actor wears is apt to become his face.” — Plato (380 BC)

______

To Witness And Adore

(With An Unpretentious Smile)

_________

“Beauty is truth, truth is beauty.” — John Keats

_________

She walks with a quiet beauty,

Unadorned in all her Grace,

To love her is one’s duty,

When glancing upon her face.

With an unpretentious smile,

The heart leaps upon command,

And through a knowing guile,

Her affections duly bless and damn.

The sin in salvation wrests,

With one’s virtue and vice,

Leaving mortal man to transgress,

As her countenance entices.

To witness and adore,

Season after beloved season,

The cosmic firmament is implored

Exploring its rhyme in reason.

Therefore, to glance upon Grace,

Inspiration and artistry combined,

Is to touch upon God’s face,

And the depth of an eternal mind.

_________

“I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination — what the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth — whether it existed before or not.” — John Keats

_________

Author’s Reflection

“In spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits.” — John Keats

This short piece is a prelude to a tribute to the Romantic Era icon John Keats. Although his life was brief (he passed at age twenty-five), his verses, inked in beautiful truth, still thrive. May we all be so duly blessed.

Where I rarely do love poetry, the reasoning for which implores the cosmos, I applied the eternal Bardic Inverse by associating it with what love embodies — inspiration, duty, art, and ardor. Through this lens, may we all assail life with a Keatsian appreciation for the ineffable, where true beauty defines itself without bad middle school accompaniment.

As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! And yes, I know the meaning of love poems, how else did the Bardic verse begin… Right then—

Sing, sing of her wondrous Grace...

_________

“The excellence of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeables evaporate, from their being in close relationship with beauty and truth.” — John Keats

_________

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