1. The Merciful Man

He walked along the brush,
Feasting on the currants
Off the trees. His enemy
Sought to trap him, it's sure.
Yet, he mercifully moved his feet
And forgave: For why throttle
The man who stole, when you owe
Hundreds of Talents of Gold?
Thus, he prayed for mercy,
For a righteous man shall receiver her;
He who is merciful shall receive mercy
So the Beatitudes say:
And upon the path were a perfect fish
A bass, just recently died:
The heron stood on the pier
And probably dropped it in flight.
He picked up the fish, a trophy of a catch!
And threw it back into the pond.
For, it had died of its own
And was not lawful to eat.

2. The Tree of Life

Imagine if you would,
A Hickory Nut on the forest floor
With a little rotted piece
Concaved on its green husk.
And consider the vines
Beneath its shell, where the fruit
Once sat protected.
Now, imagine, this shape
Were designed by a logic
And that logic described perfectly
The physics of something else.
Or the logic that was used to solve it did.
Consider that Hickory Nut,
Its very shape like a curve
Its volume or surface area or a line within it was the logic
That would describe the very physics of something in our world.

Now consider, a formula that is as a tree
Shifting in time, a Date Palm,
Flowing in the wind.
It bends and flows;
Consider that tree, there
Swaying in the breeze
Is another form of logic,
Its very volume and motion
Used to describe an advanced form of physics.
Can you? Just for a moment?
Understand, it's like the tree of life.

3. Silence

Jerusalem, you whore, imperious:
Stay quiet, my love.
Write your thoughts,
But be as a mime and cheer people
With your love.
Just be quiet.
I am like Jerusalem. 

4. Holy Bias

I read, in 2004 even,
That Athanasius did not
Write the creed.
Yet, in St. Gregory's writing,
There is mention of him writing
Down such confession,
And giving it to an emperor.
Thus we can conclude,
That French monks
Wrote down the creed
By direction of the extant document,
And then canonized it.
Many things go unnoticed by scholars
Just like this: But that is the division needed,
And it is a Holy Bias.
For a little faith is necessary to hold all things.

5. They

I take my notes in verse, understand:
Creatively reflecting upon the hearts of man:
Spenser is barred from the canon
By angry children and college mammon.
"They" is not a conspiracy of the left;
It is what the markets want, and cleft
They do a trailblazed path...
All so all forget the past.

6. The Preacher

The preacher preached a sermon
On Marcus Aurelius. The Impasse
Is the way... you move it, you go over it
You climb under it, you go around it.
Then, he said, "With God there is a way,"
And, "The brethren say, but God says differently." 
Then he said there was work to be had everywhere...
The brethren say.
But God says differently. 

I walk the narrow path,
I see all things go against my favor.
Is failure sign of God's disapproval? 
I think the Thyatirans were poor
And so were the Anabaptists.
What the preacher worshipped was the economy.
His fortune, and you heard it in his voice.
I am a writer.
"The brethren say, but God says differently." 
Those were his words.

What is the true impasse?
Do I go under, over, around, through, move it?
They say, so it is,
"The brethren say, but God says differently."
They are like Lawyers, attaching burdens too thick to carry
And won't even lift it themselves.

I recall why there was a revolution fought,
In Hackcock's own words:
The British would not let commerce
Be had, for they would not suffer
A man his livelihood.
Who shall fight my revolution?
It is only mine in words.
You, preacher, can lift me up.
Or you can push me down.
I recall many martyrs who died
At the hands of idol shepherds.
"The brethren say, but God says differently."

I recall Christ crucified, 
I recall Jeremiah put in prison,
I recall John Bunyan in long imprisonment,
I recall Hans Brael whom the rats ate his food and his clothing rotted off his flesh.
I recall 3,000,000 killed by Spain,
11,000,000 killed by Rome,
And untold killed by the Orient, for records of such things aren't kept.
"The brethren say, but God says differently."

You have the power to unyoke me, and my captivity.
But, you rather strengthen it with falsehood.
"The brethren say, but God says differently."

7. 121 Martyrs a Day

Recall, during Rome, they played games with death.
It was to appease the gods, and Christians were the victims.
121 Martyrs a day, for 250 years, that is the number.
Believable, don't you think, now that you consider?
For if there were no victims, the gods got angry,
Therefore the blood must have been the oblation.
Across many territories, the games were played,
A country the size of our United States.

8. The Conversation of the Martyr

"There is no God, dude, it's all a lie." He shrieks with joy.
The martyr sits in silence,
"By the time you're finished, and the hell you create
"They'll cry out for God, and He will answer."

9. Dark Age

So few read, and it becomes 
The rite of the privileged.
They speak of demons:
I give you demons to read about.
No, not literal...
What they've always been.

10. The Daisy and Aster

The daffodil is
The first flower, in springtime;---
The aster is last:
The yellow nosed daffodil;
The aster a mauve daisy.

Springtime the yellow daffodil blooms first;
In the first days of fall, the aster, last.
The Phlox and Chicory still bloom; also
The Hardy Hibiscus. Yet I speak, so!
The wildflowers are nature's timepiece.

11. Work?

Work comes in different forms---
The bearded Country Man
Reads books, and tells his thoughts.
He gets paid. I listen to him.
But, I feel the judgmental
Glare of my Earthly sire
Over in the dining room.
"You are doing fake work."
No... I am not. I am listening
To a thousand voices
So mine can be well informed.
Someone must, or we'll all
Be ignorant.

12. We All Come to the Sacred Book

We all come to the sacred book;
Each of us carves out a sacred nook.
Wars are made, challenges accepted---
The liberal and conservative spar.
The Conservative reads his Transcendentalist;
The Liberal reads her Postmodernist;
The Doctor reads his Modernist;
The Lawyer reads his Historian;
Another lawyer her Best Seller;
The CEO reads his Philosopher;
The Economist reads his Capitalist;
The Rebel reads his Marxist;
The Philosopher reads his Logician;
The Feminist her Mythology;
The Christian his Theology;
The Muslim his Tafsir;
The Asian her Mystic;
The Hindu her Vedda;
The Atheist his Existentialist;
The Author his Sages.

This writer listens to them all
Like Mr. Whitman, able to believe.
Listen to all the different things
People say. And you shall gain
Some insight.
He thinks the smallest voice should have their say;
For all wisdom is bound in the many voices of history.
Not just the scholar, or the sage,
But the folk and the radical, too.

13. Hark!

The fool slips in through the cracks:
He repeats verbatim what you said back.
Oh! It is not in your own words, thou fool!
I know, how I know, thou art an unthinking tool!
Pry as you might, into my secret things:
Just think on them, that is all I wean.
The man said to me just the other day!
A story has truth, even though it is fay!
For hidden in the untruths of life
Hidden in its inexactitudes,
Is a fortune of gold, if you like:
You shall see all wisdom that is true
If you search for it, hidden in their clues.
Listen for the truth that wends their life;
What is it, let wisdom be thy wife.
Know, Jesus of Sirach said,
Business continued shall one day be made black from red.
For that is the secret to my wisdom it's true:
I listen to all, and even you.

14. Circular Logic

In straight lines we go,
Infinite chains of infinite causes.
No effect having being,
For to have being is circular.
Thus, no one knows.

©2026 B. K. Neifert
All Rights Reserved

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.