The Trackless Path

Dogmatism is dead.

Well, no it's not.

But it is dying.

And it is because of the internet.

Fewer and fewer people are interested in creeds.

They do not want to be pitted against their neighbor for a trifle.

And they seek out the truth they need for its own sake.

They do not need you to tell them what it is.

And so, to them, your Master of Theology degree

Is worth the paper it is written on.

For they can see past all that

To the thing that unites

If they choose to,

Look that is.

And more and more, they are.

They want the truth that helps, that's all.

And most, I think, are content to keep their differences to themselves.

And I believe that it is a good thing

That the dogmatic are rendered

More and more impotent.

And yet, they rage on,

Insistent that theirs is the only truth, the only way.

But sooner or later, that spirit will die away with the brightness of His coming.

There you are

Reading this 

Like peeping Toms.

Intruders.

Prowling round my soul.

Pulling away the curtains,

Tearing down the walls,

Storming the gate.

And yet it was I 

That let you in.

Opening wide my chest

To wrap you up,

Blessed ogler.  

Sacred intruder.

Hallowed guest.

Here - bear away my finest.

Take the candle sticks as well.

Leave me barren 

But for the sweet perfume

Of one who wanted, prized my finest.

Two threads of a tapestry

Touching Once

But Eternally knit into the same cloth we are.

For in the spoils

You bear away the sacred cup

From which I drink.

Can you bear to drink

From wells of sorrow?

Can you dip the cup 

Deep into the cauldron

Where boils like acid

The scourge and the affliction,

And then fly away like the bluebird

Deep, Deep into the sacred wood,

Far from human tracks,

Where shadows deepen,

Like portals to the mystic plane?

Beware the spoils

Of men who've lost their fear of death.

Beware the spoils 

Of him who courts the thief.

For if he who prizes more your soul

Than all his richest treasures

Suffers you to carry off his valuables

Do not be surprised 

When that same spirit 

Fills your own house

And makes it his own.

Yours and his of course.

But his none the less.

And there you are 

Reading this poem

Like peeping Toms?

No.

Like next of kin.

Here - pull up a chair.

Sit by my fire.

Drink deep the cup

Warm and sweet.

There now.

That's right.

Off to sleep.

Sleep well my child.

The bitter gourd

Will wait for another day.

But tonight we dwell safely here.

Deep, Deep within my heart.

Where none can hurt you.

Stay a season if you must

Or a year 

Or a life time

From we are of the same cloth,

Two threads of a tapestry,

Touching Once

But eternally knit,

You and I.

There was the stone age

And then the Iron age.

After that came the middle ages

And then the industrial age

And the information age.

And there are those who claim

That the next great age

Is the Augmented age:

The age when AI will tie us all together

With augmented faculties.

It is a manmade Utopian ideal

To which many of the brightest minds

Are bending their wits at present.

But the augmented age will fail.

It is too complex for man to handle.

It is a leaning tower of Babel.

And when it falls,

Confusion will follow in its wake

And from the ashes will then rise

The last great age of man:

The age of gifts.

And for those with eyes to see,

The seeds of this last great age are being planted even now

In the hearts of those who choose to live by the gifts of God and man.

It is the only Utopia there ever was or ever will be.

I will win

Because I will suffer

Longer than you.

But there is no ill will 

In the winning,

Nor shame in love's loosing

When loss is gain.

Beat away! My chest

Longs for your fists

Clinched tight.

Every ocean needs a shore or crag

To beat against, 

And I have nothing else 

More pressing.

Beat away!

Beat away! My breast

Longs for your fists

Clinched tight.

Till the day

The day when they've 

Worn themselves out in beating.

And you fall like the meteor

Down, down...

And crash upon my breast in defeat.

Beat away!

Beat away! My breast

Longs for your fists 

Clinched tight.

There is no ill will

In the winning,

Nor shame in love's loosing

​When loss is gain.

​Only the lesser part of Truth can be bound up in a book.

The greater part must be revealed by the Holy Spirit.

It is the sealed portion promised

To all those who have faith

Like the ancients.

It is too early to spin a poem.

Too early to know whether it is good or bad.

Too early to care.

It's here, I suppose,

That I wish I were something more

Than a poet.

Something useful or brave.

Something efficient perhaps,

Or strong and powerful.

Like one of those

That stand at the helm of industry.

Dear God - save me from that!

But then at least, 

I could pretend that I was wanted.

Then I would stand with my head erect

And beguile myself into believing

That I am respected

For something more than

What they use me for.

Then, I would feign that my friends 

Were friends forever.

And pretend that they loved me

For something more than my success.

We'd roam the golf courses

Discussing things of no import.

My home and office would be full 

Of well wishers

And I'd spend my money

On useless gifts

Knowing all the while

That they'd ruin them in the end.

But we'd play the bluff.

And have a great time of it

While it lasted.

One thing for sure,

I would not sit at five thirty in the morning

Wondering at the silence,

Letting it move upon and around me

Like dark natives

Deciding the fate of their captive.

I wouldn't spend my days

Staring out upon an unseen world 

That looms like fairy goblins

And fretting all the while

Over those

Who don't believe in such things.

But I suppose 

That a man must be something.

And in the absence of all that

Which I might have made of myself,

Had I been strong or efficient or useful,

That I'd might as well say what can be said

While it can be said,

Be it good or bad.

And content myself

With the approval of the fairy folk.

Would to God 

That they would let me

Get to my breakfast!

​Writing takes time

But publishing takes longer.

And it's all work and I rejoice in it.

However, there are many things

That I desire to say in the days that I have left.

And the less I spend my time on publishing,

The more time I have to write.

And so I am going to try to outsource.

I figure that the cost to publish one of these short thoughts

Is probably about five dollars, maybe ten.

I am still in the process of figuring that out.

But for the sake of simplicity, we'll call it five.

Therefore, If you would like to sponsor an episode

By sending me a fiver,

I would greatly appreciate it.

My Venmo account is thetracklesspath.

And my Paypal account is [email protected].

All of the funds will go toward the cost of publication, however,

I pray that you will consider adding 50 cents for me.

A little change that I can spend

To support the ones I love.

God bless you always,

TheTrackless Path

Who are you?

A story tell.

Buy why do I ask?

You are cold stone.

A token is enough 

To start imagination

And perhaps cloudy perception 

Is clearer than plain sight.

Somehow this one a century deep

Shines brighter than those not ten years dead.

But a year gone

Is plenty to silence ingratitude.

Their silence speaks to me here.

And my steps slow…

Listen heart. 

Bow soul.

And there from down beneath the sod,

Deeper than six feet down,

Their music plays.

It is the old sacred song, 

The song that only silence sings

Because it is too sacred for words.

It is the song of children at play

And young men working,

The song of factories and farms,

Of babies nursing

And mothers laughing,

The song of painful shyness

And bold proposals,

Of wise old women

And foolish young ones.

It is the song of painful wrongs

And tearful reconciliations.

It is love and hatred.

It is pigheaded fools

And spineless pushovers.

It carries the full hearted chorus of the triumphant.

And the fearful hiding strains of the defeated.

It is Sunday picnics

And family reunions.

It is the touch of another person.

It is kindness.

And hurt.

It is devotion.

And treachery.

It is…

The life song.

And here it plays most clearly.

Apparently the dead know something of life,

For they sing to me here.

But I must go now.

I cannot linger all day at temple.

For the sacred song awaits my own refrain,

And I must write my own lines 

Before my day of life is through.

I thought that for this edition of the beggar's bowl,

I would speak about my plans for retirement.

First of all, I do not intend to retire

Since I love what I do.

But if the day ever comes

That my body is too old to work,

And my fingers too knarled and ugly to write,

Or if my voice gives out and I am unable to speak the truth that burns within me like an unquenchable fire,

Then I will beg. 

And I will pray for those who help me.

That is what I will do for those who choose to let me live another day.

That is my plan.

And in the meantime, I will practice.

I pray that you will consider helping me in my work.

And if you can find it in your heart to give me fifty cents,

I will do my best to spend it wisely

In the loving of my family

And in the necessary expenses of my calling.

And for those who do,

Thank you. You will be in my prayers...always.

And here are the places that you can contribute:

Venmo: thetracklesspath

Paypal: [email protected]

The Falling Leaves of Promise

They are moving out, one by one,

From the system that promised so much

And now cannot deliver the pleasure that it promised.

And as they do, they leave chaos in their wake, prescious chaos...

Like the heat that beats down upon a smoldering mass of leaves.

I always loved the Fall, so silent, so pure.

So reminiscent of a thing I couldn't place,

Accept in the memory of other cool and dying days,

And in the precious recollection of childhood feasts of love,

Of family, and of all that exists when work is put away

And we remember what we were working for.

And perhaps that's what they are doing,

Going home to the reason,

Forsaking the scream of getting more

And choosing family over the press and pressure.

If so, then I look forward to the dark and fertile soil

With which God will plant his garden

In the Spring that follows

His Long Winter.