They see a shape upon a screen,
A boundary measured, sharp and small,
A box of miles, a cube defined,
With finite length and structured wall.
But like the blue box in the storm,
Or nesting dolls of painted wood,
The outside is a gentle cloak
For depth that can’t be understood.
For look closely at the coastline’s edge,
Where rivers turn to starlight swirls,
You dive into a single drop
To find a thousand hidden worlds.
And in the deepest, quiet space,
Buried within the patterned trace,
A perfect baby universe
Reflects the Father’s starting place.
This is the map of how we live,
The spark of bird, the breath of man,
Each soul a wave of energy
Returning where it first began.
Into the great and golden cube,
Where rest and vibrant rivers meet,
An endless territory wakes
Beneath our unencumbered feet.
And just when every world seems full,
The Master takes the cosmic pen,
To fold the fabric back once more
And bid the new earth start again.
A tapestry of worlds in worlds,
Where life expands and never ends,
And every soul that passed to peace
Deep in the fractal grace ascends.
It's Free Potential
As An Exploited
Singularity.
On.
And It's A
Win-Win
WIN.
CUZ
IT
WILL!
WIN.
-Gray Squirrel
09-04-2026
An empty chair kept moving closer
each time I moved it somewhere I couldn't see.
I dragged the chair into the corner,
but found it beside me the next morning.
I blamed the wind, the floor, the house,
anything I could blame instead.
Some things follow you without moving;
some things wait without being asked.
One night, I turned the chair around
and found old marks carved into the wood.
I didn't remember putting them there,
but I knew I'd seen them before.
So I carried the chair outside
and set it down where the grass was tall.
For once, it stayed where I left it.
That night… I didn't bring it back.
I thought the chair was following me.
It wasn't. I was the one bringing it with me.
This poem serves as an example of the paradox of tolerance.
I open the book,
its pages soft with human breath;
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
The spine holds more voices than mine,
each one insisting on its own truth~
I open the book.
Every chapter welcomes difference,
every margin invites dissent;
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
Every sentence leans toward mercy,
even when mercy strains and thins~
I open the book.
But tolerance has a shadow;
some ink cuts deeper than truth~
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
I turn the last page and see:
the cost of tolerating every voice~
I open the book.
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
You do not need a riverbed to drown.
The drought is carried deep within the chest.
There is no water in this quiet room,
Yet sudden silence floods the empty lungs.
The drought is carried deep within the chest,
A cracked and ochre basin of the mind.
Yet sudden silence floods the empty lungs,
And absence brings a current of its own.
A cracked and ochre basin of the mind,
Where reaching for a memory builds a sea.
And absence brings a current of its own,
The sheer starvation rising like a tide.
Where reaching for a memory builds a sea,
You gasp for breath in perfectly dry air.
The sheer starvation rising like a tide,
The devastating weight of being alone.
You gasp for breath in perfectly dry air,
There is no water in this quiet room.
The devastating weight of being alone—
You do not need a riverbed to drown.
The heart is a wonderful thing
when in control and on fond
path – the heart is a fickle-thing,
sometimes confounding
its fore and aft – the heart
is a fierce competitor, when
afire, fearing not God nor Devils --
the heart is a repentant thing, a
foolish thing, Victor and Victim
of its own undoing. The heart,
its own praise and excuse…
a fruit tree~ with a dangling noose.
Free will is a choice: to yield or to strive.
It rewards the decision, solidifying the path: to yield or to strive.
God bestowed this on us all, yet we call Him a tyrant
because it feels unfair to have only two choices.
Our lives are not ushered by hollow guarantees.
We are granted a gift—of necessary choices.
Yet we stumble in the dark, following our own hearts—
knowing they can err, misled by our own impulses.
But beneath the mistakes, a quiet awareness remains—
pure, simple, and formless.
That is where the search ends, and where humanity finds peace.
So, the question remains: How will you decide?
A paradox is an entryway~
one that disappears the moment you walk through it;
somehow, though, you still end up
on the other side.
It is a question answering itself
by refusing to answer~
a mirror that reflects
only the act of looking.
Call it truth wearing its coat inside out,
logic tying its own shoelaces together,
hiding meaning in the very place
it claims cannot exist.
And the strangest part:
the more you try to solve a paradox,
the more it solves you.
Humans dream with infinite desire,
yet earth is bound in finite stone.
Scarcity reclaims what hope imagines,
and struggle rises to make it known.
Toughness builds a fleeting joy,
resilience sparks the fire of will.
But surrender waits at every corner,
a silent whisper, standing still.
Power is seized to bridge the gap
between longing and nature’s law.
Yet crowns dissolve in empty hands,
and truth of death is what we saw.
Life flickers — a fragile flame,
a gift once given, then reclaimed.
At times a blessing from the skies,
at times a chain that binds and drains.
And in this journey, I met a woman,
her presence carved into my fate.
But time was never on our side,
so love was left to hesitate.
Sometimes I curse the gods for this,
for burdens placed upon my breath.
Yet sometimes I thank them quietly
for beauty born inside of death.
Even gods in ancient texts
are swallowed by the mortal line.
For beauty lives in impermanence,
and love survives by what must die.
And still one life cannot contain
the endless weight of what we are…
"Another day, another dollar;
a day late and a dollar short."
Here summer comes early.
Mostly, it never really leaves.
Here there are fresh-faced
children -- but they will change.
Boys will ripen to close
copies of their fathers --
those many sullen somber
silent men. Girls will mimic
still their mothers, aging
early in summers' petulant,
pervasive, potent green.
Here hopeless men will not
expose, in words, their griefs --
since there will always be only
the harsh monotony of each
tomorrow's changeless green.
Around sun-reddened weary necks
hang heavy burdens, weighty worries
never lessened, the endless summer's
cruel paradox: how such paucity
of hopeful human spirit festers
in the midst of profligate abundance,
this all-enveloping, overgrowing green.
Not too long ago
Cogito, ergo sum
I think; therefore I am...
In the digital age
Electronic devices full of spam
An infinite number of scams
Focus fickle, energy leaks;
dark thought clouds are released.
If we be he our presence seeks,
which demon needs to be appeased?
Far’s an illusion of what near is not,
The tangible touch trumps the dearest thought.
Distance exudes an alluring appeal,
But Here and Now where the passion is real.
Oft too familiar, lurks in a blind spot -
Dear and near of what distance is not.
Beware the catch 22
You're damned if you don't, and damned if you do.
Take a drug so cancer won't restart
Side effects give you a congestive heart
Thin the blood so a stroke won't begin,
Internal bleeding and you just can't win.
I got a wolf by the ears
Can't bite me yet, but I'm shedding tears.
When I let go, he'll take a bite
I'm losing my grip, I'm turning white.
You're sorry for those single Mothers
Didn't have husbands, just "significant others"
So you subsidize them with taxpayer billions:
Now more on welfare, about six millions.
You need the cops to pursue a story, to prove you're not mad
But the story is extreme, so no investigation will be had.
Between a rock and a hard place, you're stuck in a bind
I don't blame you for going out of your mind.
You need experience to get a job, but there's a Catch22
Without a job, can't get experience, so what can you do?
Life writes riddles that are hard to circumvent
The path you thought was straight was crooked and bent.
Turn to the left and the trouble grows,
Turn to the right and the same wind blows.
So you laugh a little, though you really feel blue:
That's the strange world of Catch-22.
(Remember that no one can assail, but Christ the Candlestand, can remove that candlestand, and can rip that veil, even as Hell will not prevail from His attack.) Matthew 16;18
(“For we can do nothing against the truth, but [only] for the truth.” 2 Corinthians 13:8)
Christ is referred to as both Lion and Lamb (Revelation 5:5-6). In Him is peace (Isaiah 11:6). He will bring about peace as we struggle (with Him at our side, as our Guide) being conformed from the “old man” to the “new man”. Romans Chapter 6
[1] Revelation 3:20
[2] John 8:58
[3] John 10:11; 1 Peter 2:25
[4] Malachi 3:2
[5] Haggai 2:8 Douay-Rheims 1899 American Edition
[6] Galatians 6:2
[7] Psalm 119
[8] Psalm 23:4
[9] Ephesians 5:15
[10] Isaiah 11:10
[11] Colossians 3:1-11
[12] Matthew 16:17-19
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