Poetry

Morning On the Way Home

I was on my way home.

I had wrestled with the cold
winds of dark, and disappeared into
the nothingness of those shadows
which devour lands and seas while
eyes and mouths are shut like doors.

And, emerging from that great void of
night—as veils of slumber were lifted
in the bright ascent of red dawn—
I took to a wayward path by call of the
beacon that shined forth in the East.

East, whence the champion of light
silently rode to conquer sweet Soir.
And Earth, great as she be, called the
shroud of shade to her other face.

I stood upon her back as she turned—
as her great weight tumbled forward.
Slowly, the golden disk reached higher
into the powder-blue dome above.

I watched as the horizon bowed.

Poetry

Steortian

I began with a spark—a jolt—a
leap. Stars were born in that
instance. Some have called it
dawn and alpha, origin
and source.
It was then I was born—long
before I rushed to Earth.
There, far off at the edges of fleeing
space, or time—whatever it is named,
whence I came.
I am of the word.

I had come and gone, again,
from her womb
where my soul was there bore.
I passed through a series of sycamore
doors, wreathed with
chrysanthemum and lilies—
then suddenly awoke,
jumped from my sepulcher, and
fled—alarmed—
into the deep black
to gaze upon her silent face.

There, I began to move
closer to her—cautiously—
as not to startle her.
She did not have eyes, nor ears,
nor mouth, nor nose—
and yet she breathed, undulating
in endless night.
And she was full—
full as a cornucopia at harvest,
filled with skies and mountains
and oceans and fires spilling out
from her.

I saw a lizard scurry
across the craggy, crinkled
bronze crust
that was wilted in thirst.
I saw the unchanging moon
leap from waxing and waning
over the elderly pines of the
deep greenwood.
I watched, and I listened,
and, growing more curious—
she lured me toward her.
I tumbled into her womb
once more.

As she breathed out death
to breathe in life
I began again,
as the seasons,
as a spinning top, as a carousel,
as the tides rose and fell
as
they always did.
Creatures stirred in the shadows.
Everything was new.
Everything was old.

Thought

Each day, and every experience, is an opportunity to practice discipline, honesty, humility, positivity, confidence, mindfulness, and all the other virtues that captivate the heart, stimulate the mind, and enrich the soul. It is only by this willing and conscious endurance that we may begin our way down a path towards righteousness, honor, and—at long last—wisdom.


 

Poetry

Yield

Let me yield to you,
As falling leaves yield to the sweet autumn winds,
when wordless whispers tell of hills undressing.
As the silent dawn yields, broken by the
song of a lonesome mourning dove.
Let my yield to you,
As the setting sun yields when Earth turns her back,
and so sends the moon to reflect his light.
As the thick blankets of fog yield to
the crisp bright of ivory morn.
Let me yield to you,
As water yields when it tumbles from the
towering mountain rocks, to gather
beneath the bluffs in its pools.
As the rills yield to the river.
Let me yield to you,
As lovers, in their passion, yield their flesh
before the seraphs that stand watch.
As the will of love yields the soul
to the bosom of its object.
Let me yield to you,
As the mind yields helplessly to weighty slumbers,
the vessel of the body anchored in the night.
As colors yield to the grayscale, and
rest in the shade of the globe.
Let me yield to you,
As gentle plains yield to high mountains, where
the stretched earth reaches for the heavens.
As boulders yield to moss and vines that
grow upon their old, cracked faces.
Let me yield to you,
As blossoms yield in summer afternoons, under
a blank blue scene where winged things fly.
As the long arms of the white sycamore
yield to the gentle breaths of God.
Let me yield to you,
As all must yield to age, when the body
grows frail and souls grow wise. And as far
to the western horizon, before the black,
this heart will yield to yours
in the fading light
evermore.

Poetry

A Wilderness

I felt the rough palms of those laboring hands,
      hands that supported me and showed me each way.

It seemed natural, the bridges that appeared
      at my feet as I sauntered along, a wondering child

gazing into wandering skies. I stumbled through
      time, in the procession of days, to unknown heights—

following the paths they cleared for me.
      Through the dense fog, the carved curves of the thicket

led me to these rolling pastures. I knew not
      the weight of life, ‘til it was my own hands that grew

marred and callused. Once, under a black blanket
      dressed with silver suns, I suddenly felt life in every shadow.

Alone, I watched the glowing eyes of coyotes reflecting
      the firelight. Lost in open fields, I inherited a wilderness.

I move onward down each nameless path these
      laboring hands clear away, day by day. I gaze into the

rippling streams that run through the hills, and I wash my face.
      Some strange figure kneels before me resembling my father.

Non-Fiction

When Humans Study Humans

If the goal of a philosopher was not only to inquire about the nature of life and the universe, but to discover concrete, testable truths, he should have been a scientist or mathematician. Discoveries in the hard sciences are no less revelations of truth than those sought by the persisting philosopher; they illuminate the unseen mechanisms that hint at how the universe works. But rather than focusing on the world of humans—a world comprised of emotions, personalities, spiritualities, etc.—these hard sciences exist in a realm of numbers, elements, and matter. And just as the pioneers of mathematics, physics, chemistry, and other hard sciences worked with a relentless diligence to discover scientific truths that are both testable and replicable, this same diligence can be found in the soft sciences, such as psychology and sociology. In the social sciences, philosophies regarding ethics, morals, values, and other “truths” of the human condition are now and shall ever be of great study. These soft sciences have made discoveries, crafted theories, and perform frequent studies for the betterment of the world at large.

But unlike the consistent, replicable world of mathematics, the social world is highly dynamic and fluid. This makes the study of the social sciences, as well as the political implications of its findings, a basis of great debate by those both in and outside these fields of study—and rightfully so. When it comes to morality, ethics, behavioral norms, and cultural practices, it seems rather bold to state that conformity of opinion should be a goal set by those within the social sciences; yet many within these fields propose that their data is proof enough to establish legitimacy, and that contradictory opinions to such findings are the result of either willful ignorance or wily indoctrination.

Despite the positive advancements in the social sciences, they have missed (or ignored) some important issues. The most concerning of these is that many practitioners, professors, and students in these fields adopt a “hard science mentality” toward their studies, often citing theories, findings, and methodologies as indisputable scientific facts, or “truths”, when they should, in fact, be taken with a grain of salt. Specifically, I will address this issue within the field of sociology.

Poetry

I Am the River

I hear the river, as the river hears me.
   I am the river rolling quietly.
      I am guided by the anonymous banks
   that slither upon the face of the earth.
Swelling, I have spilled out onto the land.
   A torrent, I have devastated beautiful things.

      I see the river, as the river sees me.
   I am the river flowing steadily.
I carry many memories that ripple away,
   absorbed in the reflecting waters.
      Receding, I hoard my treasures in the sands.
   Run dry, I have left the weak thirsty.

I know the river, as the river knows me.
   I am the river moving effortlessly.
      I cannot turn back and I cannot be still,
   for I am always changing.
Maintaining, I was made with ancient hands.
   Open, I have a mouth that seldom speaks.

      Many streams have made me.
   Some run along side me
for a time.
   One day I will end at the delta,
      and I will at last become one with the sea.
   I am the river, as the river is me.

Thought

I think in the end we will find that our will is what carried us through, and through that will, our courage, determination, strengths, and abilities were found.


 

Poetry

Winter Song

You tear the blankets
from the branches.
Bitter, in the sharp moonlight
they are nude and mute.

Quickly! Desperately!
Your harsh hands sweep
the field, the river, the valley,
until all is painted gray.

Snakes burrow with the roots to
escape the frigid forest floor.
The deep dirt is warm,
while the crust whitens.

The hills shiver silently
as a gloomy sun hides all the morn.
Fallen seeds patiently wait,
and are devoured by ice.

Winter is a time for dying,
the cold winds sing.