Who Am I?
Who am I?
I speak… how I speak
But there seems to only be falsehood.
Call it Auto Mythology
But my mythology is complete.
The giants are slain;
What were those giants?
They were complexes about not being loved
Being feared, being a bad person.
Now it’s time for the silent,
Whisper of the oboe
To silently steal the show
As peace floods my bones.
I call on You LORD,
All day long;
This talent I love.
Give me my wife and children
And my talent.
I have invested it?
I’ve given the world
Hope, in an age where it is small.
LORD, here is my honest opinion.
It’s time for the mythology to end.
The fields of giants
In my life, that being the torpid
Regrets of my past mistakes
The belief that nobody would love me:
Elisha… I write this.
I feel like I’m in a drawn bath.
Like a wind is brushing against my palm.
This talent I love
For I serve God with it:
I speak wisdom,
I break the clods.
What are the clods?
Struggling to learn my craft
Obtaining true wisdom;
Perhaps, perhaps, some clods I don’t understand.
For I write on this sheath
Believing in the future.
My friend told me:
“We’ll blow ourselves up.”
LORD, you know this is not true.
If a conspiracy is found against me
Let me never see it.
For who am I?
Not Judas Son of James
Not Beowulf the Less
Not the Prince of Scots;
What am I?
I am a writer
Who loves my craft.
And thank you,
Pages of this Sheath,
For being my psychologist.
For accepting me,
When nobody else would.
Here, I feel open and at home.
I feel like I have a voice
And even if only a few listen to it
It’s there for someone to see;
And if someone sees it
They see me.
Slowly moving to the tempest rhythms
Is the time signature of Alabaster Straw
The rooted worth of the wrings
Of torpid bells upon the shining cavalcade.
There, cavalcade of alabaster
Trot through your stables of Alabaster Straw
As the tempest knells ring
For the shooting wars of the brigade.
The Arabian Knights
March through your deserts:
So says the Huns,
Coming back from the war with you.
Meet for the final clash.
The Arabian Knights
Move through alabaster straw
The Cavalcade of one hundred strong.
Ring knell, ring, the repentant soul speaks:
“Alabaster Knight! So comes Attila the Hun;
Ready to war with the Knights of the Desert Alabaster Stone.”
Thus, the Prince of Thieves speaks to me:
“I’m coming for you.”
I do not blush, but reply,
“Here comes the Cavalcade
To fight Attila the Hun;
Yet, the mighty Nethanim march behind me.”
Their war means nothing to the Nethanim
Whose power is high;
Faith brings them power
So crafts cannot prosper against them.
There they are, ten thousand strong
Arrayed in rows:
God’s angels steeped in goodness
As the World,
Attila and the Prince of Thieves
Ready for their war cry.
Slowly moving to the tempest rhythms
There comes the Alabaster steeds
And the Huns in armament against.
Reach for the heavens
Prince of Thieves,
Here’s my army of Angels
Ready to thwart you.
Attila is your equal.
The Nethanim are your fear.
For I am the name you fear:
St. Praise the Wise Praised
Changing Broom Tree Upon a Hill
Diadem of the New Son of Israel.
Fear not my name
Prince of Thieves:
For I have spoken kindness to you.
Thwarting me brings you only pain
I know it: For there are others whose
Interest is in my hurt.
Continue, Prince of Thieves
With thy breeding of thy steeds.
For they are stallions;
I am a Third Order King, of the Sainthood
I abscond my kingdom here on the Earth. Selah.
My Sisyphean Myth Persona
So, what delusion is this
To think I’m actually Judas Son of James?
What delusion is this,
To think there are Kings from Hell?
What delusion is this
To think that Satan has a galaxy ring?
What delusion is this?
It’s just my myth;
Don’t believe it.
That the mind is a seal of all sorts of dreams.
My dreams come here, and I express them free.
My actual life is not so boring,
But painful to speak.
A divorced family
Two very tragic sins
And the hope for revival.
Not a spy,
Not a prince
Not Judas Son of James;
A Saint, yes.
Perhaps, I am God’s servant.
Not Cyrus, not a false prophet
For I don’t prophesy;
I don’t claim to have written scripture.
For, if I prophesy, I do so foolishly.
I say this: I’m a lover, a fighter, a rebel
But also a Saint.
Sainthood comes from owning your past
Bearing your consequences
And hoping God can fix all of it.
Just know, friends, just know:
I’m not so deluded as you think.
It’s just fiction: And fiction
Is in part dreams.
The myth won’t destroy me
Because it is just myth.
There are no kings seeking to destroy me:
For what? They don’t exist.
Understand, citizens of the world:
This myth is simply myth.
A myth of Sisyphus.
For I am not Sisyphus
And there is no boulder.
For, world, are you so deluded
To think that there are kings?
Here is this writer’s persona,
Pushing that boulder up the hill
And it falls back upon him
Over and over again;
For he needs a giant to slay.
I don’t; the constant abuse I’ve suffered from peers and family
Is a giant enough. Where are they?
Do they exist? No.
Don’t get caught in this delusion;
It’s just a world I’ve invented
Where I play as a character.
Not me, but a self-insert;
Heroic, bold, but in real life I’m just
As pathetic as the rest of mankind.
So, who do I put forward?
Me, or this? I’ll be Stan Lee
My Persona Peter Parker
And Judas Son of James my Spider Man.
Upon the halls with Beowulf
There stood Unferth, of course
There stood Unferth and Beowulf
So here is the story of Little Mead.
There he drank his honey wine
And listened to Beowulf boast
So once our hero was finished
Little Mead called a toast.
But Unferth took to table
And gave his cacophonous cry.
There Beowulf challenged him
With a story for all times.
But Unferth spoke no goodness
And Beowulf was left aghast
Until Little Mead, that scrawny fellow
Took Unferth to task.
“Unferth, thou silly soul
Doth thou not see he?
His muscles are strong
His hair is long
And his sword reaches
To his knees.
For, what warrior are you
Unferth, who ever fought that Grendel?
Me, I know my smallness
For it is to I that Beowulf is lended
So Beowulf will fight the demon
Within this hallowed hall
And that Grendel will be defeated
When Beowulf’s war cry is called.”
Then Unferth, big and mighty
Shodded up his girt
And he began to spake of Little Mead
To his very hurt.
“What has thee, Little Mead
Done so mighty brave?
I see your scrawny form
And your sword easy to break.
What is this? Damascus steel
Nay, t’is only bronze.
Your sword is weak
Your flesh is meek
And I have killed many sons.
Giants and warriors innumerable.”
Beowulf, hearing the fight, took to table with might
And then said to Unferth, these faithful words it’s true:
“Unferth, thou art a silly man, to think thy talk is good
For a giant you slayed? Then Grendel you would have two.
For so you speak so bravely, yet this little man has heart
That he looks to his heroes, and encourages them by far.
For if I could have jumped a furlong, I now could jump twain
And If I could slay a Giant, Grendel’s arm I could now break.
Grendels we all know,
And Unferths are very gay;
Yet Unferth is more intolerable,
For he speaks what no brave man would say.
For a Beowulf is strong, but a Little Meads are stronger.
A Little Mead encourages the mighty
And gives them courage to fight a little longer.
For, Little Mead would die against Grendel this is true.
But, the very fact of the matter is, so very much would you.”
Neifert, B. K. My Collected Writings. Kindle Direct, 2017.