The squirrel cries, because it is autumn.
The oaks drop their acorns: the walnuts;
The chestnuts. I see upon them, a shape
Which perhaps an unknown prime
Can calculate---I know not. Yet it is.
That shape, like a leaf, can correlate
To a logic that can reach to something higher.
Why? I don't know... it seems God's
Universe is constructed with logic.
To say that is why I believe, it is the starting point.

I

I sit in the court:
They wave the Rainbow Flag at my face.
They say, "Your comment caused,
"Yes, it caused, this poor Zir
"To die. You have no regret, do you?"
I, undisturbed, say, "My freedom
"Is worth more than their life.
"I did not mean to offend like so.
"I never found where she lived,
"Sent assassins to her home,
"Ruined her livelihood,
"Teased her in such a manner.
"I only said it was a sin
"And the ruination of society."
They cut off my head.

II

I sit in the court.
They parade my previous offenses in front of my face.
They say, "You committed this offence
"And you feel no more guilt.
"Do you not regret your sins?"
I, undisturbed, say, "My joy
"Is worth more than my grief.
"I suffered enough for this,
"And paid my debt.
"I did my penance, now let me be happy.
"I never will claim to be a good man.
"But, I will claim that I have a right to joy and peace.
"I have shed too many tears;
"And my tears have been shed. Let my grief be pacified."
They put me in prison for life.

One is self taught, experienced past his passions:
The other is angry, and spitting his venom.
The autodidact with the wisdom of the sages;
The angry one with very little wisdom.
He wrote for 20 years.
He went to school.
Two writers, two separate roads.
And he ballooned in popularity in a few months
For the prestige his art school gave him.
Yes, the autodidact understood...
Talent is curated by how much money you can spend.
Yet, the autodidact knew something about the world
And outgrew his agitation.
Now, he is sad, mourning a world that loves its artifice 
And not the raw creative power of a fertile mind.
The autodidact a failure;
The agitated poet a success.

I've always noticed there are two two types of helpers. Those who do a task for you, or try to manage you, and those who simply allow you to do the task yourself.

Recently, I met a young man who was interested in learning from me the Gospel. I dialogued at the park the entire Bible, but then we began a lengthy text conversation. And I realized, "I am not this man's Rabbi." Who is Rabbi? We can essentially stifle someone by giving them advice. I remember a psychotic woman telling me that I would grow into a horrible human being, because God disapproved of my writing. And that psychological impact has stunted me... though I continue writing, as I feel in my bones it is what God called me to do.

There is nothing you do for someone, by trying to tell them what to do, or how to do it. Life is a learning experience. We are not Christ, wandering the hills, and preaching sermons. We are not a Catcher in the Rye. Even a pastor, or any teacher, has the capacity to try to manipulate their students to learn what they want to learn. We are not prophets, warning of dangers we do not know as our very curse could be the danger itself, instilling in a stable mind our own doubts and failures.

However, upon reading Ezekiel, I stopped, and opened up my book in Egyptian Mythology, and went to the exact page I needed to understand what Ezekiel meant. An act of providence. And I've noticed words do not cultivate reality, but rather what we say to someone sticks with them a lot longer than we think. An encounter we may never remember, may  be a core memory for someone else.

Therefore, I've noticed my didactic method, is simply to write my essays, my poetry, my fiction...  but in means of teaching someone, there's less that needs to be done, beside going over the hardest part of learning. Which is grammar, syntax, punctuation, vocab lessons, PEMDAS, how to do something safely. There is no benefit, doing a task for someone else. The best teacher is life itself.

There are safety tips; there are lessons on rudimentary fundamentals. That is what a teacher does, is give the student the capacity to read, write, do math and the general knowledge experience to broaden his or her horizons. The teacher teaches the student to observe. Rather than instructing, he makes an example by doing it the right way, so the student does the same.

I just told this fella to read the four Gospels and learn it by heart, and if he went further, I'd tell him to read Paul. For we must have Jesus as our Teacher. First and foremost. Jesus is our corrective lens, His life and ministry. We need the Spirit to comfort us, and give us patience. The Spirit for wisdom. That cannot be taught in a classroom. The student must be willing, first, and the teacher must understand their job is not to tell the student what to do. For we are not a teacher. Instructed on the fundamentals, the learner will seek out the knowledge themselves.

Thus, a teacher is more a guide, like Virgil, navigating hell with Dante, and then purgatory. And Beatrice is our ideal, which gets us into paradise. We experience with the teacher, and he tells us what it means. But that is all. Perhaps? And indeed, Jesus is our Virgil, and the Spirit is our guide. So the more, what does man instill in the learner? Only the tools they need to teach themselves. To inspire curiosity, and the thirst for learning. To be enthusiastic, and show them the things they need to see. To tell them what a thing is and be a vehicle for explaining what is obscure. Not to do the learning for the child. Not to do the task for the student.

I work five hours a day
And find the secrets of God.
I  peer over every tree 
And every flower, to know.
I discover the groundwork
Of math, master the Bible.
Learn; diagram a sentence.
Study history and art.
Learn theology and know
A thousand things. Write proverbs
Write novels, short stories, poems
Essays, novellas, epics.
I read the classics, and can
Fluently comprehend  them.
I studied politics, and
Economics, and theories
Of literature, and then
Literary devices.
I know the moon, the sun---stars
And seasons. Time by flowers.
I write in perfect meter,
Rhyme, but it is only a
Hobby to you looking in.
The world dies, do you know?

He sits across from Adam and his wife,
And he says, "Oh, to write is laborious;
"It takes an hour for every line."
An hour for every line.

Secretly, he knows. It takes a few moments
To but write it, yet an entire lifetime
To catch the muse.

That is why the poet secretly labors over every line.
He does not. It is rather spent a lifetime to make it.