The Door

The Door

I wait
I feel the grain of the wood, touch the faded stain of years past
I lean against the smooth surface
And press my cheek against its edge

I wait
Emptiness, the sound of silence far too loud
Nothing stirs, no echoes of life
My cheek still rests against the smooth wood

I wait
Still no sound, still no life, still I wait
I begin to dance, a dance known to countless generations before me
A dance designed to appease nature

I wait
I no longer care for little details
My dance begins to grow, the urgency to complete it rises
Fiery impulses fill my body; I close my eyes and dance with more fervor

I wait
Hungry I am now to complete my dance
This fever inside me spreads until I can barely contain it
I shout, “Are you almost done in there? I really have to pee!”

My Pretty Fox

My Pretty Fox

She baits and taunts me while she walks.
This temptress muse, she laughs and mocks.
I watch her dance under marquee.
She flaunts her lust and lechery,
And I prepare to hunt my fox.

She tries to run, but like a cox,
I steer my prey, my pretty fox.
Her screams and cries fill me with glee.
She baits and taunts.

And when it's done, my pretty talks,
And seals my fate with iron locks.
With all her lust and lechery,
Fate cursed her with impurity.
Now know her I and know death stalks
She baits and taunts.

Bated Wit or Dillusioned Banter

Bated Wit or Dillusioned Banter

How much I mean it when I rue regret!
Too late, my conjured comments of such wit.
To be admired by my peers, but yet
I turn around, alone the stairs I sit.

If only I could rewind time for naught,
I would not be alone on empty stair.
The perfect riposte that my tongue hath caught,
Hath passed my lips too late for friendly care.

“Your mother is a hamster,” yes it's true!
“Your father smelt of elderberries,” ha!
But none of these shall know my peers' review,
Nor shall they look at me with wondered awe.

But yet a smile doth creep across my face;
I know next time these words shall be my mace.

To Those Who Fought on St. Crispian’s Day

To Those Who Fought on St. Crispian’s Day

To those who fought on St. Crispian’s Day
Shew me thy scars that I may praise and laud.
Strip off thy sleeves that I may curse the day
I held my manhood cheap for but a-bed.

That day, that fair day, that glorious day
Found brother’s blood, shed for an honour’s share.
Their names, o’erflowing cups, in mem’ry stay,
And name that day with those who tip-toed there.

The gentled vile do show their wounds and laugh
That they were numbered at Crispian’s feast.
And crown-filled purses convoy far the chaff
Who have their passports made for vigils ceased.

But though I own no feats on Crispin’s Day,
My son shall ne’er forget their memory.

The Circle Round

When my niece was little, she used to call the spinning chimney caps “circle rounds”. We all got a kick out of it and thought it was really cute. I use the term today to iterate a concept Bruce Lee talked about when he said, “Before I learned martial arts, a punch was just a punch and a kick was just a kick. When I studied martial arts, a punch was no longer just a punch and a kick was no longer just a kick. Now I understand martial arts, and a punch is just a punch and a kick is just a kick.”

I had a very interesting conversation with a catholic priest today. It was at school, and I had just gotten out of class, thinking very deeply on this whole God thing. I don’t know, something inside of me sometimes feels like its starving for a spiritual fulfillment. I look at things like consciousness, and I just don’t understand how it can possibly exist without being a manifestation of something greater. Whatever we think we understand about it, and however flawed it may be, it still is. And what IT is, is still a topic of endless debate. Many call consciousness an emergent quality of a complex system; but, is not the universe incredibly more complex and vast? Would not a vaster and more complex system manifest a higher emergent consciousness? Granted, this would not be immediately observable, and would still call into question if this consciousness could or would still be aware of itself or its parts. A lot of unknown variables to say the least, but it is something to consider or at least work with.

Is this drive inside me for some kind of spiritual connection a human condition, or was I moulded for such based upon my upbringing? If the former, why do some not have such a drive? If the latter, how can I be rid of such pervasive conditioning? In any case, something the catholic priest said was very interesting. He mentioned something called “mysteries” and explained these mysteries as the things above and beyond what we can know through our reason but can still be accessible by other means. It is perfectly reasonable to know that there are things beyond our senses; it is interesting to understand what modalities might be involved with their discovery. All I know is that while there are still a great many things that I consider absurd with Catholicism, this priest has given me something to ponder.

It seems as if I may be participating in a circle round. When I was Mormon, a spiritual experience was just a spiritual experience, and a spiritual connection was just a spiritual connection. Now that I am an atheist, a spiritual experience is no longer just a spiritual experience, and a spiritual connection is no longer just a spiritual connection. Who knows, maybe I might one day understand “martial arts” to complete the circle. All I know is that I’m not anywhere near done my journey.

I think I'm facing a paradigm shift. It's nothing really significant, just a sense of being okay with who I am and what I might accomplish. I hope it's not just some ephemeral feeling. I think I'm starting to unshackle some of the chains of perception about myself. Time will tell though.