Redacting Eddies

_______

“The only man who never makes a mistake is the man who never does anything.” — Theodore Roosevelt

_______

Southern writer and poet. As The Divine shows up unannounced, barefoot, smelling of creek water or coal dust, it’s rarely in the sanctuary where the lights are on. No, it's in the parking lot afterward, or the psych ward at 3 a.m., or the exact moment somebody decides not to swallow the bottle of pills.

So, where my style is irreverently reverent, my philosophy: Witness — Observe, Acknowledge, Report, and Offer quiet Dignity and Reverence as I meet the individual where they are in their journey seeking the theophanic evidence of Grace within the everyday dust. Therefore, I assumed the name ‘Hemlock Bard’ due to my southern heritage, but also due to the nature of my artistic philosophy — the Hemlock that kills a philosopher can also heal the world.

Therefore, Words matter, carrying the weight and worth of the Everyman forever seeking Grace. So, with every idiom, allusion, and metaphor, each is crafted with symbolism, multilayered references, and intent seeking a universally shared truth: no fluff or filler, just the meat and potatoes. Sometimes with a side of gravy, but don't tell my cardiologist.

Because of this, if Momma’s skillet was the household correction growing up, Grace (what I affectionately call the Art) is the cosmic one with her Apostolic Angle Slam. Therefore, I do not mess with either, as each one hurts, hitting me in the holy nethers, yet both claim the gold from different pedestals. Let’s get to work!

_______

“The life so brief, the craft so long to learn.” — Hippocrates

_______

A CREED IN COAL DUST AND CREEK WATER

(The Weight And Worth of One’s Words)

“Many lack the originality to lack originality.” — Frank Zappa

Amid the creek water and coal dust,

Through the grit, seek eternal grace,

Before this body begins to rust,

I put pen to paper with a Puckish pace.

In celebrating the divine in the dirty,

Claiming the sacred in the profane,

All to prove that I am genuinely worthy,

To call God’s holy and blessed name.

As Words Matter for one to tell,

With weight and worth to withstand,

Of both the Heavens and cursed Hell,

The sin in the salvation of Everyman.

Therein, language is reverently sacred,

But it is just as easily dangerous,

As language is always dual-natured,

Therefore, Responsibility is onerous.

It acts as the site of the Ferryman,

So it is my devout duty to mention,

Before making my inevitable stand,

Language is both fall and redemption.

So where we each greet life’s poison,

In meeting a sacred higher charge,

The reason for the seasons is chosen,

You’re a friend to the Hemlock Bard.

_______

“I am not young enough to know everything.” — Oscar Wilde

_______

An Existentially Ebullient Epilogue

“Art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.” — Pablo Picasso

Silly Putty in hand, iPhone in the other,

Through a lipped-chaw faked smile,

Comes bardic verse lyrically southern,

Its polyphonic terseness lingers awhile.

As twenty armies, we will fiercely fight,

When little people scrap as mere pups,

Just know that we've got some bite,

Amid woe and throe, we won't give up.

Through an Appalachian mooned night

The bardic spirit defies the fading light,

As a transceding-yawp assailing rite,

Poetically rewriting the plight of life.

We may look like easy pickings to some

But never kick a dog that still hovers,

In the bleeding light of the dawning Son

Its story must be read cover to cover.

As the day begins, what will it bring?

The songs that the Hemlock adopts,

The Puckish voice resonantly sings

A humble bardical barbaric Yawp.

Where soul-bleed carries consequence

Petitions, “May I play for you a tune,

Of love, laughter, lament’s essence?”

Right then—

Talk soon…

_______

“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.).” — Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

_______

(The Sixth Borough Stone Sacrament)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_________

Preface

“If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” — Woody Allen

From existential laments as psalms,

To the fig fruit of faith in foreskin,

Seeking salvation as our balm,

We labor in Dante’s layers of sin.

On tracks where vagrants slept,

Cursing fate and Grace again,

God listens while Jesus wept,

And so this tribulation tale begins…

_________

“The sacrilege in my unholy love of the human condition is made holy hellraising through sinfully delicious humor, as a sacramental scrotum joke seeking salvation.” — Bocephus Jackson

_________

Act I: The Fig Phoning God

"Bo?! Where the hell are you? I can barely hear you..." Lynn questioned.

"I'm on the subway."

"What?! Speak louder, dammit," Lynn yelled.

"I am in New York City. Hang on... Ma'am, do you mind? Whatever you are eating is dripping on my pants," Bo stated, attempting to dodge the fragments. The subway car was packed wall-to-wall.

"It's a fig, asshole! And you can move..." The woman said.

"Fig? They're out of season, aren't they?" Bo pondered.

"Listen, mister, either move or shut the hell up! I am trying to eat. Don't make my diabeetus flare up!"

"It's pronounced 'di-a-beat-tees,' Ma'am," Bo responded.

"Boy, if you don't shut the fuck up and let me eat, I am gonna go Wilfred Brimley on your ass!" She yelled.

"Marine, western, or Cocoon?" Bo quipped.

“What the damn hell? Boy, you better stop testing me…” She countered.

“I was just gauging which version of Brimley you meant. He was a Marine, western actor, and started in the movie ‘Cocoon,’ ma’am.” Bo suggested playfully.

As the woman side-eyed him, Lynn’s voice screeched through the phone like a banshee. “Bo! What the hell are you doing in NYC?”

“Easy, Lynn. I am here for the convention.”

“A circumcision?! Bo, speak up, dammit!”

“Da fuq?! Lynn, why in the name of a bris-bound Baby Jesus would I need a circumcision?”

“Bo… Bo! I can’t with you today.” Lynn yelled over the speakerphone.

“Son…” The woman stated, her mouth full of fruit. “I know a mohel. It's almost the close of day, but I can text him for more time. He’s on 69th Street down by the JNF building.”

“JNF?”

“Yes, the Jewish National Foundation. But if you hit the Hungarian church, you’ve strayed too far. So turn back,” she stated.

“Bad neighborhood, ma’am?”

“For the Purgatory transfer, switch to the six sixty-six train at the Hell’s Kitchen stop,” screeched through the subway’s PA system.

“…Son, in these dark times, you can never tell. Just walk with God…” The woman sighed, feeling the weight of her own words.

[BLACKOUT. TRAIN SCREECH.]

_________

Act II: The Allusions Of Grace

“Wait…” he said after several minutes of idly staring out the window. “Surely you aren’t the messiah!” Bo exclaimed with a devilish smirk.

“Boy, are you touched in the head?” She questioned, eyeballing him profusely

“Touched? Like the ‘Shining,’ ma’am?!” Bo questioned.

“Wait, that’s a movie, right? People in masks having illicit sex. You know that God flooded the earth for less, child. Next you all will be out here for a bit of the old "ultraviolence.’ Lord help us then.”

“Oh, there was flooding, especially in the Director’s Cut. Giancarlo Lui’s Caligula would have blushed. Anyway, right director, but you are merging three films into one like some ‘Allusionary Almighty,’ ma’am.”

“Ah, yes, the mind does that when my sugar dips,” the woman said nonchalantly.

“It's cool, I understand. But damn if it doesn't make for some wild folkloric fornication…” Bo confided.

“…Yeah, some milk would cure that. But ‘Eyes Wide Open?’ More like a box office closed tighter than a pair of Pentecostal panties…” The woman criticized.

“I don't know about that. I’ve heard they are pretty good snake charmer… But seriously, you said I was touched?!” Bo stated with an ironic smirk.

“Yes, touched, damnit! By an unholy demon… Reminds me of Mary Magdalene. And don't call me Shirley!” She exclaimed.

“…I don't need a messiah, Magdalene, the Marx Brothers, a mohel, Mel Brooks, or a fig-eating subway minister. I’m not Jewish!” Bo responded.

“That's good. Neither do I. Not with the prices on transit fare. Thirty pieces of silver, my Aunt Fannie! Forget Judas, Peter would deny Jesus over an E-Z pass and a street corner pretzel!” The woman stated wanly.

“Did you just marry a MetroCard to the Messiah, ma’am? You are the Jackie Chan of jargon…” Bo wildly exclaimed.

“Between you, me, and the Holy Ghost on the High Line, I consider myself to be the Bruce Lee of bullshit,” she said, sitting upright.

“Ma’am, no offense, but you say I’m touched? This right here is nine layers of Dante on the six train,” Bo said with an exasperated huff.

“I don't know anything about that… But listen, there is nothing wrong with being Jewish, son. They have good food!” She countered.

“Ma’am, I can’t. I just can’t…” Bo sighed, shaking his head while rubbing at his temple.

“Next stop Golgotha!” suddenly screeched through the subway’s PA system.

“Now I want some meatballs. They’re hell on my diabeetus, but so good when you cut into them,” she announced.

[BLACKOUT. CASH REGISTER DING.]

_________

Act III: The Seasons of Our Lives

“What the damn hell?! Bo, did she just transition from a circumcision to a vasectomy through a city map?” Lynn questioned, laughing after hearing the whole conversation.

“…Only in New York, Lynn. I’ll be back in Philly in two days. I’ll bring you back a souvenir…” Bo quipped.

“The hell you will, Bo! That's an unholy sacrament if ever there was one…” Lynn announced.

“Don’t worry, Lynn. I’ll wrap it in a holy veil,” Bo countered.

“Wasn't the veil torn asunder, Bo?” Lynn posited.

“Damn Beelzebub in boxers! Not my veil, Lynn… I’d be a southern leper without my stiffy!”

“…That’s it! I’m hanging up…”

“Speaking of my diabeetus, son…” The woman said, still stuffing her face. “What was the name of the guy that used to do those commercials?”

“Leslie Nielsen…” Bo quipped with a full Puckish grin.

“Nielsen, huh? Was he Jewish? Sounds Jewish,” she pondered while pounding another fig into her mouth.

“Much worse, Canadian…” Bo said wryly.

“Canadian, huh? Is their communion wine laced with maple syrup, or bagged milk, you wonder? That's like some SCTV-type shit,” the woman asked midchew.

“…Ma’am, I wouldn’t know. I don't watch television… There’s far too many false prophets on it,” Bo replied.

“Suit yourself, son… In Holy Nielsen Ratings we trust…” She said, making a cross on her blouse.

“Syndicated Into A Second Season of Salvation: An Iron Rod Of Irony, next fall…” Bo said with a gleeful smirk.

“Boy, God almighty help you! You need a coming to Jesus…” she said, returning her attention to the near-empty bag of figs.

“I thought only Pharisees judged others, ma’am…” Bo suggested with a satirical snark.

“Final destination: Heaven or Bust, just mind the halibut…” suddenly screeched through the subway’s PA system.

“…Whatever, God’s kingdom for a three-dollar bagel!” She quipped as she eats the last fig.

[Somewhere within the heavens, God crafts a therapy invoice, stating “Shit! That Hemlock Bard just gave me e-mohel-nal whiplash. But damn it all to hell if he doesn't have a satirical set of figs!”]

_________

“The good Lord gave you a body that can stand most anything. It’s your mind you have to convince.” — Vincent Lombardi

_________

Author’s Reflection

“For art to live, it must intrinsically challenge one's personal bias by engaging both their intellect and essence. Here we find comfort and consideration.” — Bocephus Jackson

What initially began as a chapter in the ‘Seventeen Reasons of Grace’ series quickly evolved into an Aristotelian three-act play. It was born from a theological essay that I wrote. Then a friend asked me to write a story yesterday afternoon, incorporating a subway ride using one of three curated biblical passages, along with a sermon to the passengers. Loving a good challenge as I do, I said ‘bet!’ And here we are…

Obviously, I let the woman be the preacher, telling both a Matthew- and a Luke-based parable about figs. Both of them were about a tree. The first was about it being a sign of God’s Kingdom coming, and the second about it being cut down for not bearing fruit, and Jesus pleading with God for more time.

These weren’t directly the curated passages of Isiah 55:8: “My ways are not your ways.” Psalm: 23:4 “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil.” Or Luke 19:40, “Even the stones cry out.” But through a holy trinity plus one tribute to Leslie Nielsen, Monty Python, the classic movie ‘Airplane,’ and SCTV’s Bob and Doug McKenzie, they are still addressed.

So mission accomplished. Just know that Nielsen will be back again as the subway woman now named ‘Leslie Magdalene ’ in what will be the 52nd active online series, ‘The H-Line Between Heaven and Hell (Subway Sermons and Sacramental Scrotums), where MetroCard heresy becomes a path to perdition banter from the "rocks that cry out” over the blasphemous bagels on Broadway.

Just don't ask to see her naked guns. Magdalene’s mohel may accept Venmo. We will have to be patient, holding fast to faith to discover this truth. But be sure to leave a tip! Lastly, hopefully you got that the metaphorical meatballs were Bo’s sacramental scrotum. As Mel might say, ‘The best life lessons come wrapped in genitalia joke. The Greeks knew it, and so did Shakespeare.’

So it was a fitting ‘Blazing Saddles’ nod to Hedley Lamarr, and the closing dance scene as an homage to Mel Brook. Anyone up for brisket? Too soon… As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work!

…I am going to hell in a vasectomy bag for that ‘Rocks cry out’ Bardic biblical reinterpretation…. Vasectomies and holy veils for everyone! I’ll see myself out. Right then—

Faith may sometimes stink, but it is placed in a fisher of men… Oy Vey!

_________

“Preach the gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.” — St. Francis of Assisi

_________

(Shall I compare thee to a broken update?)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

__________

“Cry ‘Havoc!’, and let slip the dogs of war.” — Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

__________

Why did Shakespeare use ‘Et tu’ instead of ‘Et toi?’ According to Suetonius, a Roman historian, Caesar's Greek phrase: “Kai su, teknon?" was translated into Latin by later writers. Where translation is treachery by committee, Grammarly has become the newest conspirator. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

[Autocorrect suggestion: “Shall I compare thee to an earnings report?”]

Every suggestion it makes is another conspirator stepping out from among the shadows. Whether patched or the latest victim, Grammarly has worked itself from an overpriced blessing into an enduring burden, where the son of a beast offers daily hallucinations and erroneous autocorrects. “Friends, Romans, countrymen… lend me your ears!”

[Autocorrect suggestion: “Friends, 1994-2004; 10 Seasons. RomComs, Countrytime Lemonade… Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer!]

This is a tragic lament of every writer as AI technology presents far more flaws than features. Of nearly 100 AI models field-tested and used over eight months, only three remain structurally viable as post-creation editors. “To be or not to be. That is the question.”

[Autocorrect suggestion: To correct or not to correct—that is the question?]

In producing 3-5 literary works per day, 7 days a week, within a couple of months, each model suffers Caesar’s fate through endless bleeds. So much for them sounding their Whitmanean yawp across the rooftops…

[Autocorrect suggestion: Yelp Review — #1769 That ‘Slap Chop’ guy gives off Andy Dick vibes. I am going to call my congressman and Chris Hansen over his “You are going to love my nuts” line. Love the product though! It does wonders for juicy sausages. And don't get me started on what it does to heavy melons!]

…Grammarly is presently exsanguinating in another window presently. For what limited features the app offers, reliability justifies(?!) the cost. “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times…” But now?

[Autocorrect suggestion: Alas, power yogurt. Check expiration date.]

Every word typed morphs into a linguistic autocorrect of hallucinated hubris rather than actual grammatical errors. The correlation is that Caesar suffered due to his ambitions, whereas Grammarly has yet to achieve any victories, large or small.

Its saving grace is that the market is a Shakespearean tempest of compromise, where form rarely meets function. Every editor shares the same core complaints: an overabundance of forced em dashes, translation inconsistencies, and sanded-down language. As the Cassius of code, I want to break Prospero’s staff over its server.

[Autocorrect suggestion: “Papa John's coupon — Buy one get one free with a yearly online subscription: $169.99.”]

Grammarly exceeds this with repeated authorial rewrites mid-sentence. But the greatest betrayal, where McCarthyism is alive and well in the digital age, lies in the syntactical restructuring of prose or poetry that ultimately leads to an AI-flagged warning from the very app that causes it.

If “All the world's a stage,” as a writer, we live and die under the auspices of this Scarlett Letter….

[Autocorrect suggestion: “All Smashburger locations now offer delivery. “Don’t forget to get an order of our garlic rosemary fries. They’ll give you gastric flux, but in the end, everything will flow like a Shakespearean sonnet!”]

If Grammarly is to be a worthy emperor over other editors, it has to earn its riches. For now, it is but a courtly jester flagging errors that are much ado about nothing, forcing autocorrect as it likes it.

[Autocorrect suggestion: Do The Right Thing; a Spike Lee film (1989)]

Otherwise, die, Caesar, die! So, “brother, help me.” Because these errors are driving me to Lear’s madness, someone call 911 and get my shotgun loaded with Oxford Commas. It's time to go Hemingway on the algorithmic antagonist of the modern artist.

[Autocorrect suggestion: “And to the strength, so go the length/Thinkin' you are first when you really are tenth/You better wake up and smell the real flavor/’Cause 911 is a fake life-saver. Public Enemy; '911 Is a Joke.']

Ugh!! ...Beware the Ides of March... No daggers wielded but deception, no swords, but flagged stanzas, good morrow Grammarly, March brings bad tidings…

[Autocorrect suggestion: Schedule conflict. Resend Iran invite?]

Veni, vidi, canceled!

…So sayeth Poor Tom.

__________

“I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.” — Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

__________

(In Angst and Ardor Untold)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

__________

"You must write every single day of your life... You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes." — Ray Bradbury

__________

Write, damn you, write with soul,

Pen the page with love and tears,

In all the angst and ardor untold,

You’ve weathered through the years.

Rage, damn you, rage upon the page,

With the eddies and essence within,

That carried you forth to this stage,

This is where genuine art begins.

Bleed, damn you, bleed, never spill,

One’s catharsis, and the other craft,

Sharing without seeking requires skill,

A difference of laments and laughs.

Live, damn you, live, celebrate life,

Assail each day with play and hope,

There’s more to experience than strife,

This is how we learn to cope.

Love, damn you, love, in abundance

Love yourself honestly in this plight,

Upon clouds in this mortal dance,

And then, only then, sit and write.

Make it real, honest, and complete,

Tell the stories you needed to hear,

Of how to overcome personal defeat,

That will stay with people for years.

__________

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." — William Wordsworth

__________

Author’s Reflection

"What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure." — Samuel Johnson

We choose which hills are worth dying on, yeah? Eight months, 50 active online series, and 1,041 pieces ago, I formally came back to the literary community after 20 years lost to PTSD-derived manic depression stemming from childhood abuse.

Where every finished piece, nearly 400 at this point, is freely distributed online, my goal then is as it remains now: serve the community, no matter the cost. I never preach and rarely take an authoritarian position. It isn't my place, nor do I want it to be…

But I cannot serve the community if I passively dismiss all the PASSIVE POETRY being offered as art. Where everything is sacred, I refuse to overlook others or their artistic offerings. So that is the motivation for this piece.

So, make me see what you see, feel what you feel, and live what you live. That's the difference between asking others to check out your art and commanding their attention. But even if you don't build a large audience, you'll realize you don’t need one.

The validation that we all seek becomes internal, rather than external. And that moment right there, you instinctively know that you crossed the divide from shouting into the void to listening; from an artist to an artisan, where the craft tells you how well you are doing.

You’ll get there. So keep faith as you grind those writing sessions. And until Grace, as the art, inspiration, and God’s blessing for another day, starts singing to you, hit me up. I offer judgment-free support and bad jokes, too. Proud of you!

As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! The forge is hot. Right then—

Talk soon…

__________

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." — Anaïs Nin

__________

(The Journey Ends if We Don't Begin)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

__________

"The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore." — Vincent Van Gogh

__________

As a supernova blazes within the soul,

And the cosmic threads are sewn,

Rage, play, assail each day whole—

Forever seeking out the vast unknown.

Our journeys end only if we don't begin,

Otherwise, the seas define our legacy,

Seek the divinity that's held within,

As a rhythmic rite and ritual revelry.

Secure the mast when tempests come,

As a weathered vessel is seldom lost,

So hold fast when becoming undone,

Our faith extends through the cross.

The universe plays a wayfarer’s tune,

As the starry skies alight our passage,

A procession of progression assumed,

We manage through life’s damage.

Time and tide won’t wait to set sail—

When we idle about within our falters,

The course is true, so we cannot fail,

As the Fisher of men walks on water.

So set the sails toward the gales,

And ride the waves without waiver,

As we set about blazing new trails,

We were already granted God’s favor.

__________

“We must free ourselves of the hope that the sea will ever rest. We must learn to sail in high winds." — Aristotle Onassis

__________

Author’s Reflection

"What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?" — Vincent Van Gogh

This piece is a continuation of today's daily writing exercise, ‘The Hours Saved.’ Both of which are based on Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem ‘Ulysses.’ It is pertinent to note this as a chief example of how Grace inspires the day-to-day process.

Whether a concept, a stanza, or even a simple word: an essay, poem, song, play, joke, or character-driven series can be born from it. But where this is true for a dutiful Bard, it infinitely remains truer for every aspiring and/or established artist. Creativity is a vast ocean to be readily explored.

Whether sailing it or fishing it for a prize, dock only when resting. And your journey needs to be unmoored by expectation or demands from outside forces. Realize that you have no anchor tethering your capabilities. And know that most of the time, the journey is its own reward. So cast your nets wide, and be patient. The feast will come.

What doesn't happen today can be tomorrow’s bounty. Either way, you are blessed with a gift and Grace to explore. Most don’t, but you do! As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Try a different bait if nothing else, maybe cornflakes. Right then—

Just be wary of being cat-phished...

__________

"If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up the men to gather wood… teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea." — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

__________

(Life is Defined By One’s Wonder)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

__________

Preface

"What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare." — W.H. Davies

"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.

“So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

J.R.R. Tolkien

__________

"The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature." — Joseph Campbell

__________

Little remains but the hours saved,

From eternal silence, something more,

As a debt that cannot be waived,

Amid rise and fall, fate settles scores.

Having lived a life from the page,

As the possibilities were torn asunder,

Courage doesn't pass with age,

Where life is defined by one’s wonder.

Forever roaming with a hungry heart,

And a spirit that cannot be bridled,

Each day brings a refreshing start,

That dissuades a life from being idle.

As this aging soul yearns in desire,

Following knowledge as a sinking star,

Before succumbing to a grave or pyre,

These mortal feet will travel far.

Find your passions within cities of men,

Climates, councils, and governments,

Look past the woes and throes of them,

In each lies the Grace of the firmament.

To breathe is life piled on top of life,

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

Weathering seasons of mortal strife,

To do otherwise is the greatest of sins.

In offices of tenderness and pay,

Of common duties, strive not to fail,

Our treasure is not in an earthly wage,

Less consumed by the sirens of hell.

Thunder and sunshine aren't opposed,

But moments that paint the seasons,

Grasping the truth of where glory goes,

In comprehending the divine reason.

To strive, to seek, to find, not yield,

Work nobly, as more may yet be done,

As we labor planting seeds in the field,

Watch out now, we've only just begun!

__________

"To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." — Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Ulysses

__________

Author’s Reflection

"I am a part of all that I have met; yet all experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untravell'd world." — Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Ulysses

This piece is an amalgamation of Lord Tennyson's poem ‘Ulysses.’ It is one that I have been wanting to modernize for a while, but everything in its season. Awoken early this morning, Grace, as a culmination of art, inspiration, and God’s blessing for another day to draw breath, said, “today.”

She has a habit of doing that. So where she leads, we follow. It keeps us honest, humble, and out of trouble… typically. So today's writing exercise is a fitting tribute to Lord Tennyson, in which Ulysses lies within each of us, seeking the wonder of each day.

As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! We have worlds within worlds to discover. Right then—

Does anyone know how this damn GPS works?!

__________

"It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live." — Marcus Aurelius

__________

(The Nights That Say "Let Me See")

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_______

"God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh." — Voltaire

_______

Act One

"So tell me, does this quest involve singing? I do a 'Brave Sir Robin' that will put a hole-ly ghost into the hearts of those damnable French taunters...” the Bard chuckled.

King Arthur sojourns through the countryside searching for knights. The Round Table in Camelot was in grave need of fresh recruits. Dark has been the hour cast upon the kingdom.

"Nothing? Is this thing on?! Okay, fine. Clearly, your predilections swing more toward the baguettes. No judgment!”

The village's streets were filled with peasants darting about, tending to their daily chores.

Wearing weathered faces and slumped posture, each carried the plight of a broken people. “We dine well here in Camelot. We eat ham and jam and spam a lot…”

"Yes, yes. That will do, Bard. We have business to attend to." Lancelot's face scowled. It's the tenth century, gripped by internal politics and a looming war; England is in a dire state.

“I miss my love, but sometimes I need this. She can be insufferable…” Sir Bedevere sighed. In the distance, the castle's silhouette lingered through a hazy veil of mist.

“Don’t like her? What’s wrong with her? She’s beautiful. She’s rich. She’s got huge…tracts of land.” Sillius Soddus stated matter-of-factly.

“Tend to the horses, Groom. Not our affairs.” Lancelot chided. The Hemlock Bard's amygdala was having an ADHD moment. Standing in the center of the village, surrounded by onlookers, the tension was palpable as he strummed his lute:

‘There was a woman from Wales,

Oh, how doth her breast swell,

But poxed with nether scales,

Her husband's now in hell...’

‘He died due to asphyxiation,

Brought on by a violent cough,

Not choosing self-gratification…'

“Boo! Toss off, your rhymes stink worse than day-old fish and chips…” came a cry from the crowd.

“…Oh bloody hell, fucking sod off! Tough crowd. Fair enough.” The Bard scoffed. Some of the more pious villagers gasped, covering their children's ears.

“His limmericks are so squirrelly, they will turn us into a newt,” Incontinentia suggested.

“A newt? Those are amphibians, not mammals, you daft twit!” Sir Bedevere chided.

“I'll do better.” Incontinentia Buttocks conceded.

A crowd had gathered, paginated by Bible-thumping bishops from the local monastery, reciting scripture. "Fine! How about this classic? It's not Frank Sin-atra, but it earns a Bardic Rub..”

‘The pope feels most alive,

When drunk within the Holy Spirit,

Buried in a Vatican Archivist,

Moaning loudly for all to hear it…’

A raven flew overhead as the disquieted silence grew as a storm cloud overhead. Several bishops were muttering psalms in between scathing rebukes over the lewdness of the bardic verse. “Alright, let’s do a sacred song then.”

‘Not my best verse, you suggest?

This is a tough crowd indeed,

Regarding the Vatican mistress’s breasts,

She’s skilled in making the serpent bleed.’

‘So think before taking a bite,

As salvation and sin marry,

But wear a rubber through the night,

Or the Devil’s child she will carry.’

“Enough, damn you!” Aghast, the village's priest, Father Epstein, approached. His left eye repeatedly twitched with a disapproving glare. “Bard, might I have a word with you, my misguided child?"

"Me, father? I'm not a choir boy, so no preying on this altar. But I fear that you are about to offer me some sacramental whine..."

The priest's face turned red while he clutched his rosary. "Such vulgarity, Bard. Have you no decency?! It's... It's scandalous impropriety!"

"Easy there, Cardinal Captcha! Your prescriptive messianic morality is ill-placed. You don't even have a cross..."

"You dare defile the ears of these God-fearing folk with your... your bawdy bardic filth? I'd pray for you, but it would be a wasted breath."

"Easy there, Padre Pneuma. I don't want you to choke on your righteousness." The villagers began to murmur amongst themselves. A few random souls were laughing behind their hands, while others nodded along with the priest, marking their chests with fingerprint traces of the cross.

From the crowd, "Oi! I liked it! Reminded me o' me ex-wife! The familial sow is better company, but damn if I don't miss her!" A large, gruff peasant cried out as a single tear donned his cheek.

A local shopkeeper named Thomas had wandered out, surveying the commotion. “What will they do to him? An onlooker responded, “Oh, he'll probably get away with crucifixion.”

“CRUCIFIXION?” Thomas questioned incredulously. The onlooker nodded solemnly, “Yeah, first offense…” Not to be deterred, the Bard continued:

'The Padre wants me flogged,

Put in a compromised position,

I can already see his unholy log,

To plant seeds to their fruition…’

"Blasphemy!" The priest whirled around on the peasant before quickly turning. His face grew taut, weighing a hard-won damnation, smiting a bravodic bard versus smacking him with a hymnal. "One more verse like that, and I shall see you flogged indeed for public indecency!"

_______

Act Two

From the back of the growing crowd, a few drunkards were humming the tune, playing with the lyrics. "Hey, cease and desist... That's copyrighted material. Nay, knock yourselves out!"

“Who made you the Almighty, Vicar?” Thomas issued, folding his thick arms about his chest.

“I dare say, no one… But I am the Chosen One within this community…”

“Well, I didn’t vote for you.” Another onlooker shouted.

"And now for something completely different, you've got to think for yourselves! You're all individuals!" The Bard announced.

Farmer Dale’s voice emitted from the crowd, "I'm not..." As the crowd pondered the Bard’s words. Even in free verse, his words carried an air of democratic spirit.

“He speaks like a barbarian… A road less traveled, he suggests. Why the nerve of him!”

“Too right, madam! Next, he’ll suggest that hope is a thing with feathers…”

“Yeah! Or that we should rage against the dying of the light!”

"My brain hurts!"

“See what you have started? What’s your next move, Bard? Is the devil whispering another lascivious limerick? Hellfire seems to follow you..." With a smirk, the Bard began playing again.

"Blessed are the cheesemakers, Chaplain Curd…” Turning toward the crowd, he played the Diabolus in Musica, the Devil’s Note (a tritone spanning six semitones between the flattened 7th note and the 3rd forbidden by the Catholic church):

'Hardly one that is infallible,

You don't see this irony as funny,

Yet Grace is forever malleable,

As outstretched Silly Putty.'

'Too little and everything flaps,

So no more lyrical levity,

Too much, the cosmos will collapse,

Because God above is gravity.'

'So watch your words, paltry priest,

Before you feel a genuine weight,

Revoking your mortal lease,

Forcing you to suffer a bitter fate.'

The priest screeched, sounding like a startled peacock. Lancelot couldn't help but smirk as the priest’s face turned a shade of purple. “Blasphemy! That's a bridge too far… You will be excommunicated!”

Sensing an impending meltdown, the drunks among the crowd began placing bets on whether the priest would burst into flames. “‘Oi, get me for two shillings. That vitriolic vicar is going to spontaneously combust!”

“Nah, he'll just keel over mid-rant like he did seeing Farmer Dale’s bovine dressed in vestments! By abstraction, he made Saint Catherine a holy cow!”

Just then, a loud thwack echoed as a half-rotten cabbage bounced off Priest Olstein's head. And then a mysterious voice, "Get on with it!"

A Puckish smile spread across the Bard's face. "Sire, did you?" Arthur stood there triumphant, handing the lute back to the poet, as if he were passing Excalibur to a worthy warrior. "Sire?!"

"How can you be so obtuse? I'm not quite dead yet..." Arthur's eyes beamed, holding a cabbage behind his back. The villagers teetered between riot and revival as the air smelled of ale.

The priest blinked, momentarily stunned, and likely concussed. The crowd didn't expect theological profundity embedded in the Bard's previous bawdy verse. The reality of which passed through the crowd as a milling effect.

Each one grew silent. Even the drunken peasants paused, grappling with the complex concepts the Bard dropped on them like a Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch, or even a halibut good enough for Jehovah. Either way, the tonal whiplash felt off. "Were we just catfished?"

"I don't know, Saul. I'm trying to figure out whether to pray to Mother Mary or Mary Moody."

"Hedge your bet, pray to both, and then update your password..."

“I am okay. .. Just a flesh wound.”

The priest slowly stood, gripping his rosary with flecks of cabbage falling from his hair. "Bard, are you... Are you irreverent or reverent?"

"Depends, do you want a topless selfie of the Pope’s mistress Naughtius Maximus?"

Arthur grinned, removing himself hastily. Lancelot, a champion of chastity, perked up as the priest's face went through a range of expressions. From shock to outrage to curiosity, and finally to a hint of resignation, each contorted his facial muscles as a Freudian manifestation.

"...You dare to have such a... Such a forbidden image?! Let me see it. For... Ahem! Theological purposes, of course."

"Easy, Cardinal Crossroads, your rosary beads might fire a warning shot."

The crow, named Pontius Pilate, cawed, “He wanks as high as any in Wome!”

"…Uh, my name is Swaggart... Jimmy. And that wasn't a warning shot, it was... a holy misfire... Now let me see it!" He said, clutching the rosary as if it had just turned into a serpent, while several peasants overheard the conversation.

Without skipping a beat, the Bard leaped into another song, announcing,” Here’s a classic from Father Falwell, Jimmy is his name, I believe…”

‘Every sperm is sacred.

Every sperm is great.

If a sperm is wasted,

God gets quite irate.’

_______

Act Three

Fighting their way closer, each was now thoroughly invested in this theological circus. They started placing bets... "Three pence says the beads start smoking!" A second, the local Baker named Jim shrugged, "Nah, nah... Ten to one he starts speaking in tongues."

"I didn't know he was a Gnostist..."

The priest was sweating beads as big as a Jabberwocky under his collar, glancing around shiftily, "Listen..." Jimmy Swaggart's voice turned sly, "Do you take payment in indulgences, son?"

The Hemlock Bard smirked, strumming his lute.

'I have sinned was your best move?

While all those fake tears fell,

Damn, you think you're smooth,

Even while your boxers swell.'

'Repent, repent you, oh Pharisee,

Before Gomorrah is torn asunder,

Grace will grant you grave clarity,

As she mocks your weak thunder.'

The crowd stirred again. What were once murmurs morphed into hastened voices? “Is this Bard the Second Coming?!” A peasant woman quickly grabbed her children and hurried off at the sheer audacity of such a notion.

“Oi! We could do worse. At least his psalms are singable…” a drunk cautioned. Frantically, the Bard strummed a new tune, the notes slightly discordant…

‘I'm not the Messiah…

Will you please listen?

Why do I even try—ugh!

I am not beyond reprimand…

I am not the Messiah,

Do you understand?’

Before the resonance of the last chord dissipated, a woman cried out, “Only the true Messiah denies His divinity…”

"He's not the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy! His verse rivals Danielle Steele…” Another countered.

“Are you sure?” questioned one of the drunks, still counting his winnings. And then the man claiming to be an ex-leper petitioned, “Have a like for my bloody life story?”

The Bard took a beat to regain his composure, “There's no pleasing some people…”

“That's just what Jesus said, sir,” the leper confessed.

“I say you are Lord, and I should know. I've followed a few.” Thomas yelled as he nodded.

The Bard sighed, “Fuck off! This is worse than Substack. And here I thought that I wanted followers…”

“How shall we fuck off, O Lord?” Biggus Dickus inquired.

“Honestly?!”

The head bishop stepped forward, his gait stately and measured. “What is your name?”

“I am known as the Hemlock…”

“Ah, the poison that kills philosophers, which can equally be a salve for the community. Interesting.”

“You know your stuff, seemingly. We should get on famously then, Bishop.”

“Will we? I find your antics to be unamusing and sacrilegious… What is your quest?”

‘Ode to a bastardized Bishop,

Your poor mother was a hamster,

And your father needs hyssop,

How is that for a fitting answer?’

“Was that your response, or more bawdy theatrics? It's hard to tell with you. Life isn’t but a stage where we fret and strut about until we are heard from no more, Bard.”

“Oh no? How so?” The Bard questioned, his eyes glinting with quiet mischievousness.

“This world isn’t an island for misfit children LOST in an existential plight. Nor is it a wasteland to be squandered as a New Genesis. So tell me, Bard… What are your motives?”

'…Deep within the heart of London,

My passion rose and fell,

Until all of a sudden…

Too soon, love… Bloody hell!'

“Right…” Before the priest could say more, Roman soldiers from a nearby camp made their presence known. A heated hush fell over the crowd.

“We are here for duties, Render under Caesar that which is Caesar's.”

“Doodie? I knew that Caesar required blood, breath, and bone for his war effort, but bodily waste, too? Padre, come bless my backside, I’m about to contribute to the cause! Just let me borrow your vestments to clean up afterward…” The Bard’s eyes were afire.

“Watch yourself, Bard. I am not one to be tricked with. Play whatever games you deem necessary with the cloth, but with a bat of an eye, the lives of this village will be forfeit.”

“You are a proud man, General. I can see that…”

“Son, it's Commander, and my reputation precedes me long before my feet make an impression.”

“Ah, Commander… My apologies, distinction matters. Funny thing about pride and impressions, one tends to lead before a fall. And the latter are better grounded on one’s knees. There’s more weight pressed into them. Simple physics.”

“Enough! Or are you wishing to carry a cross along with that Southern swagger? Now hand over the treasures. My time is not to be wasted!”

“Our treasures are in Heaven, so our inherited debt is paid in duty, pursuing knowledge within a battle-tested reality. Only genuine wisdom combats a generational wealth of misinformation.”

“Are you quoting the Bible, Bard?”

“No, not directly, Commander. He references Matthew, but that wasn’t from the gospel.”

“Bishop, if I want your input, I’ll take it at knifepoint. A man speaks honestly when the blade cuts true…”

“No, Colonel Klink… Captain Kirk? Either way, there are no laurels here in this village. So your efforts are as fruitless as a fig tree in the Bible. Time is money, and I’d hate to witness Caesar rendering you insolvent.”

Spinning on his heels in haste, Centurion Commander scoffed. “Enough! We'll be back, weirdo.”

Bocephus smiled wanly and said quietly, “Nice tan.”

A Centurion falling back into ranks instructed matter-of-factly, “ Watch it!”

Bocephus: No need to get uppitty! But say, Commodant, didn't you have a university and charity that went down quicker than an ex-wife on a divorce settlement?”

Sulking off, the Centurion Commander announced, “That does it! I’m invading your home country…”

Bocephus: Bloody hell, talk about censure-ship!

Silus: Bloody Romans… They've bled us, taking everything we ever had… The bastards!

Bocephus: Yeah, but when in Rome…

Silus: What have they ever given us in return?

Bocephus: The aqueduct?

Silus: Yeah, alright…

Bocephus: And then sanitation, and roads…

Silus: What? Okay…

Bocephus: Medicine and wine!

Silus: Alright, I'll grant you, those are true. And taboo in the boudoir, they love that…

Bocephus: No, that was the current president.

Silus: Talk about a chapped ass…

Bocephus: Thank God, he doesn't read; we’d all be crucified.

Silus: Bigly!

Arthur stepped forward with a weighted sigh, “This is why I stay as near Camelot as I am able…”

"Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no system for a basis of government."

Before Arthur could respond, a mighty crack of thunder boomed as a snarky, weathered voice descended from the clouds, suggesting, “’ Course it’s a good idea… That’s Grace! Now about that helluva halibut…”

“Run away! Run away!”

From a distance, the Bard’s voice could still be heard:

‘You know, you come from nothing,

You're going back to nothing,

What have you lost? Nothing…

Ain't that something?!’

“Piss off, you tosser, I’m busy! And tell Arthur that if he tries to pull another Harvey Weinstein, dipping his toe in Viviane‘s lake, I’ll make sure it's the last thing he does...” came the Rabbit of Caerbannog‘s voice, doing kegstands with a liquored Lady Guinevere.

"On second thought, let's not go to Camelot. It is a silly place." Arthur sighed, quickly adjusting his codpiece.

“Right then— Back to work!”

[Exeunt, pursued by a halibut]

_______

Epilogue

We apologize again for the subtitle issue. Those responsible for sacking the people who have just been sacked have been sacked.

For life is quite absurd,

And death's the final word,

You must always face,

The curtain with a bow.

Forget about your sin,

Give the audience a grin,

When lending life a chase,

As a philosophical cow.

Then apply a kick to the shin,

Of the Pantheonic chagrin,

Putting them in their place,

They don't matter anyhow.

So look on the bright side of worth,

Your personal voice has girth,

And lean into the metered mirth,

Else, someone destroys the Earth,

As the answer to life and the universe.

_______

"Blessed are the cracked, for they shall let in the light." — Groucho Marx

_______

Author's Reflection

"Humor is reason gone mad." — Groucho Marx

This is a tribute to the classic 'Holy Grail' movie and the Monty Python universe. Because of this, the anachronistic use of ‘Epstein’ and ‘Weinstein’ collectively acts as the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch, along with the Pantheon of TV Evangelists: Jim Baker, Joel Osteen, Jerry Caldwell, and Jimmy Swaggart.

Clearly, the Bard treats all of them without impunity. The alternating name changes act as a mirror given the momentary conflict. So, the list comprises nine authors: Whitman, Poe, Dickinson, Adams, Voltaire, Frost, Steele, Carroll, and Thomas. Then four movies: Jabberwocky, Life of Brian, Holy Grail, and Shawshank Redemption.

Then four TV Evangelists; four biblical characters (Saul, Thomas, Saint Catherine, and Pilate); four scripture passages (Matthew 22:21, Proverbs 16:18, Genesis 3:6, Matthew 21:19); five television series (House of Cards, The West Wing, Lost, Hogan’s Heroes, Star Trek). From there, we have seven personal allusions and historical references. So, we are in the neighborhood of 115 allusions as a fitting tribute.

This one took two days to research and write. Which isn't typically allocated to a given piece, but in the end, I hope it earns the effort. This is not ‘pastiche.’ NO imitation does 115 allusions through cinema, television, theatre, literature, history, sociology, philosophy, comedy, and theology all in the same breath.

Rather, this is the first definitive installment to the 8th created subgenre created in as many months: Sacred Comedy. We punch up, yes; never down. But through irreverent reverence as the form, and compassionate comedy as the function, we challenge, never correct.

As artists, we establish the conversation, whether directly or indirectly, that facilitates cinematographers to focus the lens and musicians to marry the verse. Together, we plant the seeds for others to implement the necessary changes for a given era.

As Gustav Klimt said, “To every age its art, to every art its freedom." So, as always, thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Let me know if you laughed! Right then—

The BBC Network isn't the same in a modern lexicon…

(If you get the linguistic correlation, ‘spotted dick’ will never be the same).

_______

"Theology is a joke. But with a punchline that kills you." — G.K. Chesterton

_______

(William Blake's ‘Golden String’ Theory of Grace)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_________

"Men are disturbed, not by things, but by the principles and notions which they form concerning things." — Epictetus

_________

Gilding galaxies into stilled grammar,

Grace bequeathes breath and binary,

With matter and antimatter enamored,

In the digressions of the Devil’s diary.

The cosmos ignited with potential,

Stretched through a vast expanse,

Blessed as becoming reverential,

Began a primordial existential dance.

While Nature and Nurture coalesce,

In sculpting the David within creation,

Through a divine will that effervesces,

The universe assumes God’s reflection.

As syntax forged from solar flares,

Silicon and souls seek an alignment,

While evolution and entropy glares,

God offers each divine assignment.

Where form must serve the function,

Everything carries inherited worth,

Within a cosmological construction,

Since their genesis upon this earth.

Even the rocks will cry out His name,

“Lord, what has become of Thee?”

While the tempest and trials defame,

God is defined through teleology.

So the diaries cannot encapsulate,

As man’s understanding is hollow—

Of God’s grandeur to elaborate,

And yet: Grace leads, and we follow.

_________

Coda

"All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small..." — Cecil Frances Alexander

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower...

This Life's dim Windows of the Soul

Distorts the Heavens from Pole to Pole

And leads you to Believe a Lie

When you see with not thro the Eye…

—William Blake

_________

“I give you the end of a golden string,

Only wind it into a ball,

It will lead you in at Heaven's gate,

Built in Jerusalem's wall.” — William Blake

_________

(Grace Leads And We Follow)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_________

"The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away." — Pablo Picasso

_________

Since the dawn of man three thousand centuries ago, 117 billion have, in their own way, wrestled with their role within the cosmos. Whether it was on cave walls, tablets, monuments, scrolls, or books. So in five words, the meaning of life, the universe, and everything can be summed up:

…Grace leads, and we follow.

Everything else is personal commentary.

_________

As the world spins on its axis,

Humanity draws a sacred breath,

When Grace is applied through praxis,

It extends from one’s birth to death.

So neither entropy nor evolution,

But a hand shaping dust into life,

As a voice calling light into resolution,

Grace guides us through daily strife.

When we are led by a teleology,

In defining Grace in everyday dust,

We live the Logos beyond theology,

As each minute yields a greater trust.

By prescribed altar calls to tradition,

We are held up debating ritualists,

Where doctrine dictates submission,

Grace remains a stalwart idealist.

Pride goes before the mortal fall,

As we ascend through evolution,

For all things great and small,

In striving for a lasting solution.

So toil within the fields of growth,

In defining worth that is amassing,

Where hope grows from this oath—

‘God’s grace is everlasting.’

_________

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." — The Beatles, The End

_________

(Before Heaven We are Duty Bound)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_________

“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” — Joseph Campbell

_________

Through the trials and the toils,

In accounting for our admissions,

Earning the harvest from the soil,

We have to focus on the mission.

To transcend a performative vanity,

In fighting the battles to be won,

Sacrificing our personal profanities,

By our creed, we can get it done.

Although the greater wars loom,

Some fights endure amid centuries,

Faith and focus let us assume—

The objective throughout history.

We must humbly stay on target,

Resolutely strong in our dedication,

By tilling the field for harvest,

No honor exists in breaking formation.

So always be mindful of your six,

While guarding your battle buddies,

Avoiding the descent of the River Styx,

And the presumptions unstudied.

The lines held are a sacred trust,

Placing faith within the proven ground,

Revealing Grace in everyday dust,

As divinity within everyone is found.

Forged in scars, sacrifice, and psalm,

That ever defines the human plight,

Offer compassion as a healing balm,

To ensure the service remains right.

Nature conscribes certain cruelties,

So we must keep pride tightly wound—

In resisting the siren's call of vanity,

In serving others, we are duty-bound.

So march on, my brothers and sisters,

We still have cathedrals to build,

Through all the bluster and blisters,

Until discharged, we seed the fields.

_________

“Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow.” — Abraham Lincoln

_________

Author’s Reflection

“Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less.” — C.S. Lewis

Because of my ‘Live Life With Purpose’ mission (the double entendre of ‘mission’ carrying both spiritual and civil service), my critique of both craft and character of others called me before the court of public opinion. So I took nearly a month away from publishing to ensure my motivations stayed pure.

But that ultimately became the kill shot I couldn't ignore. In positing the question ‘how does an artist not compromise the art’ with vanity, it eventually dawned on me: allow the art to say everything. This was the objective all along, but I got pinned down in the trenches, attempting to build a larger outreach for Grace, but it instinctively sells itself through both craft and content.

Grace leads, and I follow. That is creed. So everything in their season; those who need my humble offerings will find them through providence. I just need to maintain faith. So I am back, and holy hell (see what I did there?!), do I have a backlog of series, psalms, and satire to share!

Just know that I serve the community first and foremost. So, where I am not often one to lead, when I do, I offer 3-5 instructional examples to show intent. Well, I have nearly 40 instructional examples to post as part of the covenant I have sworn to uphold. Whether my audience grows or not is beyond my pay grade.

So I’ll just stand my watch while building cathedrals for others; no fame, fortune, or fanfare sought. My future remains in the firmament. As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Duty calls… Right then—

SOS stands for ‘shit on a shingle,’ so try the MREs.

_________

“I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy.” — Rabindranath Tagore

_________

(Just As I Am Without One Plea)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_________

“The duality of the Hemlock tree that killed a philosopher lies in the poison that can act as a poultice for the community. Ultimately, how it is weaponized decides its fate. And yet it adapts and grows all the same out of necessity.”

_________

Preface

Love is the personification of Grace through faith. Since drawing its first breath, humanity has been attempting to comprehend and conceptualize what love is; to opine it, to hold it, or to lose it. Yet does anyone truly know the stilled breath of love? Faith dictates that we wait on it. But who ever waits? It defies both our nature and evolution.

So this isn’t a ‘fast food generation’ critique, but a Darwinian long view on a history that predates itself. ‘Love is patient, it is kind. Never self-serving…’ How many can genuinely say that they achieved that? Impossible? Where our limbic impulse is fight-or-flight, and our evolutionary prescription is to procreate (for love, intimacy, legacy, validation, or recreation), is it possible to authentically love without some unconscious precondition?

By its very implications, it defies logic, biology, evolution, psychology, and spirituality. And yet, through faith, Grace finds us. Not perfect, never that. And yet, she embraces us, carries us, and dies for us that we may glimpse the very thing we cannot comprehend: unconditional love.

"The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love." — Psalm 103:8

_________

More Than Words

"Genuine growth happens over seasons through discipline of tilling the field daily, planting seeds of hope, for an unannounced harvest."

To begin, I have to admit that I haven’t known love for as long as I can remember, not through relationships, a four-year engagement, or even certain friendships. Even then, it was marred by childhood abuse; the words hollow, and the acts performative. Contextually, this only matters in framing this essay. No more, no less.

Perhaps those individuals were well-intentioned (most are), but beneath the surface, a hand reached out to take rather than to offer. That is not love, not as far as I perceive it. Love is not a currency to be commodified. But a current in a baptismal river of transformation, not transaction.

The closest personification to it would be a mother with her child. But even there, it is tainted by pride, obligation, and fear, among other things. For the hand that holds yours in public, it takes from it in silence. But there stands Grace:

“Just as I am, without one plea,

but that thy blood was shed for me,

and that thou bidd'st me come to thee,

O Lamb of God, I come, I come…”

No posture, preamble, or positioning through performance. Just Grace saying, “Come unto me, you who are weak and heavy laden. I shall give you rest.” So no platitudes, empty promises, or hollow praise… Or even absolution, judgment, or resolve… Just ‘rest.’ And through that: Acknowledgment, dignity, strength, support, and courage, all through taking us in so that we recover, even if briefly, to fight another day.

That act alone offers more than most, even those who genuinely wrestle angels daily to define the better ones within themselves. So, I do not know for certain whether we are capable of genuinely loving others. Where I strive daily to do just that, it intrinsically calls into question: is it a limbic response, a biological precursor, a societal directive, a philosophical mandate, or a psychological shadow?

All are legitimate concerns and can be justified in a myriad of ways. But what if we stop trying to validate it and just live in it? Herein lies the community-driven question, wherein my limited sharing of past trauma provides scenery, not the source in lending hope and acknowledgment to fellow travelers sojourning this life…

Man is incapable of loving others, given the parameters that we perceive love.

So we simply repeat the refrain, “Just as I am, without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for me…” And then put faith in Grace, that she will handle the rest. I say this because love remains the most sung-about thing on earth. Yet, it is so rarely understood, especially when weighed against a historical narrative seeped in obligatory parameters or evolutionary mandates.

“You are saved by God’s grace, because of your faith. This salvation is God’s gift. It’s not something you possess. It’s not something you did that you can be proud of.” — Ephesians 2:8-9

_________

The Echoes of Evolution

“Personal growth doesn't mirror the assumed reflections of others or your own. The world may sleep in convention, yet, seeking inner truth reveals the person you are becoming.”

Where humanity has been trying since day one, painting on cave walls with lovers holding hands, writing epic poems about tragic romance (Troilus and Dido), or composing symphonies as violins weep in minor keys, we inevitably name it, but how often do we bask in it, or live by its Grace?

Where our nature is fight-or-flight, it isn't tenderness without motive. Not genuinely, no. Procreation and/or survival? Yes, naturally so, but genuine selfless love? It irrefutably defies biology entirely. And herein lies both the burden and blessing. Only in darkness does the light become visible.

Even through parenting, a mother’s instinct isn't pure sacrifice. Yet it is still a sacrifice. And Grace sees both the pride and the 2am feeding, and calls it holy. This isn't a condemnation of child rearing. But an honest assessment of the inherent pride that gets tangled up in it, the unending obligations that weigh heavily through daily care, and additionally, the fear that creeps in: “But what if I fail?”

Behind each lies an overwhelming strain, even in our noblest acts. Equally, there’s childhood abuse, whether direct or indirect, overt or covert. As trauma survivors, we know this universe far too well. It is a world where the absence, not just of love, but recognition, encouragement, guidance, and faith, becomes a sort of twisted mimicry.

Through words spoken coldly under smiles, or touches meant to comfort but carry harm instead. What is love when stripped of the safe havens where we require rest and/or reflection? "Just as I am..." It is a line from Charlotte Elliott's hymn, presumably derived from Revelation 7:14, "These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”

It offers no conditions or prerequisites. Not “be better first,” or “earn forgiveness through effort,” and not definitively suggesting as a cultural imperative to first fix yourself before seeking it out. Rather, Grace quietly beckons: “Come." This invitation transcends philosophy, evolution, history, culture, science, and modern-day religion by most rights combined.

It carries more power than the others because each, in its own way, attempts to explain, define, or categorize it: eros (life instinct; procreation), agape (charity and God's love for humanity), philia (friendship). All derived from Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics as Greek labels for different kinds of affection.

Where psychology studies attachment theory, biology has spent years tracing oxytocin and/or dopamine spikes during romantic encounters, while sociologists have repeatedly analyzed marriage trends across cultures. And yet, despite the studies born out of careers defined by their results, none can truly describe that moment when someone looks at you, saying without words, psychological and/or biological preconditions or presumptions: “I see you. And I’m staying.”

That’s not data or chemistry, nor cultural conditioning, but Grace in human form. Referring back to child rearing, even when parents try, each one ultimately fails because they are flawed; we all are. Hell, even lovers make mistakes out of pride, and especially out of fear or selfishness. How often have we each said something in haste, done something based on impulse, or acted based on bad data?

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." — 2 Corinthians 12:9

_________

Through Suffering Stems Sanctuary

“Our trauma doesn't have to become a personality trait, but a perspective that leads to a heightened awareness of self and service to others."

But God? Grace doesn’t falter. Doesn’t tire from your pain. Doesn't say "You're too much" and walks away. I never speak on this, not because I am either afraid or embarrassed. No, I had to die those deaths of vanity years ago. But because A. those that genuinely know, don't need to be reminded.

And B. those that don't know will be incapable of feeling the gravity of it until it happens in real terms to them. Where I suffer loss (almost daily; especially when championing others through my work), that particular Shadow claims no dominion over my soul anymore.

So my detached stance on discussing my own scars isn't derived from deflective indifference, unresolved shame, or ongoing trauma-fused angst. It is radical acceptance. Where life can be demonstrably cruel (and typically is), it can equally be life-affirming. Through DBT training, we learn that we can hold contrasting emotions at the same time:

Love and hate, joy and sadness, or calm and anger.

It happens, and often. So we acknowledge it, assess what can be taken from it, weaponize that knowledge, and then move forward. But yes, as trauma survivors, we have to suffer those emotional and/psychological deaths by grieving the loss of self and selfhood, so that we can be reborn.

Not fully healed, or even completely unshackled. Sadly, no. But stronger, wiser, and more resilient. Sustainable recovery happens in quiet stages over seasons of our lives. It doesn't announce itself with fanfare, but with less friction. The angst and anguish that once sent you spiraling will not carry that same level of sting that it once had. So have faith.

We learn by living and grow through group therapy. Not necessarily actual group therapy (although it helps), but in engaging the community where the tendency is to isolate. Yes, growth can happen in safe spaces, but eventually, you won't need to isolate. Or not as much.

So allow yourself those moments where you can, so that you can re-engage with life. And no, it is not always going to be sunshine and rainbows. There will be disappointments and potential setbacks. But as you grow (within yourself and/or coping skills), those good experiences will multiply. And that is all that anyone can ask for that isn’t trying to sell you something…

Just know that I have a timeshare in Florida if you are interested. What about a set of Ginsu steak knives… Just playing. Okay, enough stalling. For me, the greatest loss to suffer is indifference. Not just the blanketed kind like the societal expectation that we, either individually or collectively, suffer in silence. That one we all know far too well.

No, I am referring to the retraumatizing ‘back-of-the-head’ moments when you confess the sum total of your soul to a family member, dear friend, or trusted ally, and then they trip over themselves running for the door.

“Finally, let’s draw near to the throne of favor with confidence so that we can receive mercy and find grace when we need help.” — Hebrews 4:16

_________

A Rabbit Hole Revelation

"Whether the individual struggle is a collective or individual trauma, the burden isn't yours to carry alone."

The Ferryman always comes to collect his due. Boccaccio wrote of Charon as a Greek God of time, pilfering obols (tokens) from the dead ferried to the afterlife. Otherwise, they were forced to wander the shores of the River Styx for one hundred years.

Where philosophy, evolution, history, culture, science, and modern-day religion take their toll as well, Grace remains freeware with zero obligation to subscribe. For trauma victims, we distinctly read others in microactions: posture, tone, temperament, intention, etc.

That's the Limbic System Lockstep, which doesn't require a partner. So when we have a ‘back-of-the-head’ moment, it not only validates society’s scorn, but the myriad of those that preceded them with their own rejection. Through it, we are retraumatized as the music cues a self-destructive dance.

So every microreaction becomes a warning, weapon, and world all in itself. And yet, we bear our souls for companionship, comfort, credence, and credibility. The heart wants what it wants, regardless of the cost. So we die a metaphysical death each time as fate commands, “You belong to me.”

That kind of pain lingers. So it's not just the absence of affection that drives us, but being seen and known in the fullness of who and what we are, in real time, facing real struggle. But what is offered back, even by the well-intentioned, is love given in the wrong way. Therefore, the words meant to comfort have an inverse effect, reopening old wounds while creating new ones.

And regarding the hugs meant to heal, they inevitably put pressure on or create expectations for the recipient. So even if someone tried to stem the tide, it doesn't feel real because our trust has already been broken. But Grace, not necessarily the Christian version, but the actual grace of God that transcends faiths, church politics, and historically-laced contradictory dogma.

It meets you where you are. So where are you? Not where you should be, or where others think you ought to be. Bloody hell, you are not even where your past mistakes say you belong. None of us is, and that is the point. You are right here, right now. You are here in this moment with all your scars showing, your doubts unanswered, or with your heart cracked down the middle.

But Grace? She affectionately says, “Yes. This one is worthy." No, offering a judgmental stare, saying, “You’re not holy enough.” No door locked because of sins, failures, or trauma. No, just an open door, and a voice whispering: "Come in." Grace stays with us, holding and comforting us, not because she has to, hell no! But because she chooses to.

Her love is like a mother with her infant. But with Grace, there are zero obligations. Additionally, there isn't any pride swelling up, saying, “Look how good I am.” Where distinction matters, Grace offers an unconditional embrace through quiet storms. Its presence is a steady strength.

So where most religions demand repentance before forgiveness, and others demand purity tests, a great many require a public confession before acceptance. But that kind of faith is performative at best. It remains superficially untested and lacking real skin in the game.

_________

Conclusion

Love doesn’t arrive only when everything is perfect. It arrives right at the individual and/or collective brokenness. Not when we’re strong. Not when we’ve pulled ourselves together, taking Instagram selfies. No, when we're shattered. When our breath is shallow with grief, and sleep doesn’t come because the thoughts won’t stop racing. That’s where Grace comes in.

It is as quiet as our stilled voice preparing for another battle. Or when our cries no longer have a voice. When the anguish breaks us, and the depression binds us. So Grace shows up without fanfare as dawn breaks over a battlefield within a war of attrition that we inevitably feel in our marrow.

One that has taken the ultimate toll, and yet we rise anew each day. If that's not grace, I can't imagine what is. So please know in no uncertain terms that YOU ARE NOT the affliction, the wound, or a weapon against IT in righting the wrongs of an unkind world. That battle can wait.

Even where it is in our nature to defend ourselves, rest now, the dawn is coming. You need your strength. "Oh Lamb of God, I come... I come."

“Because of the Lord’s great love, we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” — Lamentations 3:22-23

_________

Coda

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.” — Helen Keller

Lord, please forsake me not,

Where I fall before you broken,

As an unworthy, fragile clay pot,

Yet by Grace, I am still chosen.

Where our biology betrays,

And history demands a legacy,

Psychology alone cannot save,

So we rise from bended knee.

Even the rocks will cry out,

“I am doing the best that I can.”

Freeing us of our temporal doubt,

“Lord, I come to you just as I am.”

_________

"Joy will come in the morning, yet we are called to plow the fields of faith for the harvest where Grace lies in the grit, the callouses serve the cause."

_________

(A Hemlock Method Craft Essay)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

________

“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” — Henry David Thoreau

________

Preface

How can human writers beat AI writing systems? It was through an academic post that this craft essay was derived. The article's intention was meaningful, but egregiously misplaced. The solution is to use more complex syntax while avoiding clichés in theme, characters, and craft.

Be unpredictable, crossing genres while marrying techniques and styles. This isn’t craft alone, but a Digital Age captcha preventing AI from replacing soul with server sets. Where broad assumptions were made, bad advice followed.

So this is my humble counter as a working man’s writer. Not theory. Field notes from 900+ pieces in eight months, 3–5 works per day, seven days a week. AI can’t fake those calluses. Nor does it lament the prosaic prose-driven plight of the zeitgeist.

________

Don’t Regurgitate The Rhetorical

“Language is the house of Being.” — Martin Heidegger

To thwart AI takeover, preserve creativity, and ensure survival, the modern writer must reflect the zeitgeist rather than be subsumed by it. In short, embrace the polyphonic voice of the generation. One that folklorically folds technical jargon, multicultural slang, metaphors, and idioms (from cooking to sports, from literature to science) together as a hybrid of linguistics.

AI cannot understand it or reproduce it. Yet it is commonplace through all media and vehicles. In utilizing AI as a poor man’s post-creation editor (spelling and grammar check, interpretation, and accreditation), the wealth of 50+ AI apps has been field-tested. Of those, only four remain.

The others either bled themselves to death or were patched into watered-down versions that lost their usefulness. Beyond the structural inconsistencies, there is a litany of internal algorithmic inconsistencies:

Misattributions, hallucinations, prescriptive authority, formulaic misreadings, homogenizing an authentic voice, derived creativity and/or advice (often antiquated and therefore misaligned), and individual tantrums.

While these are fundamental flaws that speak to how far the technology still has to go to earn its agency, they serve as an example of how to navigate it. So this is our starting point, where AI trains on averages, forced into logic-based connections: A + B has to equal C.

However, as humans, we live each day on the edges of fate, fortune, and faith; therein lies a myriad of contradictions and inconsistencies. So the edge right now sounds like this:

Example:

“The SEC is a meat grinder, bruh, but that linebacker moves like a westside Hemingway Hunchback of Notre Dame. If you can’t decode that, check your Rewards Card for grace because that vato hits harder than a calculus test.”

Breakdown:

1. Technical jargon: ‘SEC (also governmental reference), ‘meat grinder,’ ‘linebacker,’ and ‘Notre Dame’ are football references

2. Multicultural slang: ‘bruh,’ and ‘vato,’ — are cultural vernacular that have been adopted into a global lexicon.

3. Literary references: ‘(Ernest) Hemingway,’ and ‘Hunchback of Notre Dame.’

4. Theological reference and callback: ‘Rewards Card for grace’ as a line from the ‘Price Check on Salvation’ series (dropping soon!)

5. Academic reference: ‘calculus test.’

Six registers (if you count the ‘SEC’ double entendre), 10 polyphonic examples in 2 sentences, and 39 words.

Where AI consistently fails:

Models flatten with maybe 3-4 currently combining ‘SEC,’ with ‘Hemingway,’ and ‘Notre Dame,’ but beyond that, the logic breaks down as hallucinogenic nonsense. Additionally, they tend to, but not always, smooth ‘bruh’ into ‘brother.’

And ‘vato?’ Grammarly flags it every time as a misspelling. So, in essence. AI prescriptively kills friction where friction remains our fingerprint.

________

Genre Writing In the Gallows

“The poet’s job is to find a rhyme for the unbearable.” — Anne Carson

Next, if you want to beat AI, be better writers. Mimicry is the death of originality, so why suffer a martyr-less death in producing what AI can do in five minutes? Genre writing is the death knell of Digital Age authors.

A writer is only as good as their adaptability. We have agency through eons of evolution, whereas AI has yet to face the rite of passage to become more than it is. So put depth, breadth, and soul into your work.

Example:

AI: His chiseled jaw clenched. Her heart fluttered like a caged bird.

Human (Danielle Steele derivative): His chiseled jaw clenched as the longing in his eyes grew. His eyes lidded shut as they passionately kissed. The cool night air titillated their bare skin.

Breakdown:

Where both are flatter than a northern hillside, cross the damn Nile River of genres!! (My apologies for shouting). Incorporate elements of several that feel inevitable rather than flat or forced.

________

The Bardic Example

“It is no use trying to be clever—we are all clever now.” — G.K. Chesterton

His chiseled jaw clenched as the longing in his eyes grew. Despite his southern grace, Rhett whispered with a heady breath, “Decorum be damn! The Sith rebellion can wait! Sin is afoot, and I need to be baptized in its salvation, Beyonce…” as his eyes lidded shut.

“But Rhett… Daddy made a soldier out of me,” she gasped. The moment evolved quickly as lips parted, tongues darting to and fro with the frivolity of Hobbits messing with fireworks. Rhett held Beyonce in the glistening light of a pregnant moon while they passionately kissed. "Sir, you are no gentleman!"

“Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." The cool night air of an Indian Summer titillated their bare skin, prickling pores that swelled and contracted with every touch. It was a night reminiscent of the Jazz Age and the Modernist. From Joyce to Fitzgerald, Stein to Hemingway…

“Here I am with jokers to the left of me, jokers to the right…”

“And yet Beyonce, here I am stuck in the middle with.”

This wasn’t mere lust given life, but art in capturing that ‘One True Sentence.’ A faint bead of sweat began to pool from his brow as Beyonce’s eyes dilated, wrestling with her morals like the Megapowers versus Bobby Heenan’s entourage. “Rhett, what about my halo?”

“The Gods be damned, Beyonce. Tonight, Icarus will rage against the dying of the light! Let Osiris curse his dismembered fate, not mine…”

“Fine, just don't tell Momma. Her Dropkick from Heaven is a devilish damnation I cannot afford…” Beyonce cooed, gripping him tight as a Poeish raven peered in through the honeysuckle vines hanging about the windowsill with an air of portent.

“That is a Faustian bargain you won’t have to make, my love. I would never betray you, my queen…” Rhett Puckishly grinned.

“Padme? You are holding back from me…” Beyonce playfully slapped his chest.

“No, heavens no! More like the female version of Caesar…”

“What? Why Rhett…”

“I meant no offense. I was, of course, referring to your ambition. It drives me, as Solomon or Henry VIII, toward their wives.” Rhett conceded.

“Fine, I will refer to you as Mr. Blonde… No, Mr. Pink!”

His eyes went wild. “Why am I Mr. Pink… The gut is the most painful area a guy can get shot in...”

“I think that makes you distinguished, sir.”

“As you wish… But enough talk. Show, don’t tell, right? …And afterward, we will hit up Waffle House on Route 23 for second breakfast.”

"I never heard of such bad taste…”

“My dear Beyonce, those hash browns rival the ambrosia of the gods…”

“If you say so, my southern Salinger. But I prefer the chili. It is spicy… Even still, your words move me. Say my name… Now then, let’s get smothered and covered. Make love to me…”

“I’ll have what she is having… but no crackers in bed, Beyonce. That's how you get aunts...”

“Rhett, why? Out, out brief candle…”

“What?! That was a well-earned Shakespearean or Wildean wordplay. But fair enough… Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow.”

“…Check, please!”

Bardic Breakdown:

The Greek chorus for this one is: ‘Gone With The Wind,’ ‘Star Wars,’ ‘The Lord of the Rings,’ ‘Reservoir Dogs,’ ‘The Princess Bride,’ four Beyoncé songs, Dylan Thomas, William Faulkner, William Shakespeare, ‘When Harry Met Sally,’ a few of my own allusions, Greek and Egyptian mythology, and ‘80’s professional wrestling.

And then: Christopher Marlowe’s interpretation of the German legend about Johann Georg Faust, Stealers Wheel’s ‘Stuck In The Middle With You,’ James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Allen Poe, Julius Caesar, King Solomon, Henry the Eighth, J. D. Salinger, and Oscar Wilde.

This gives us through 64 sentences and 511 words, 87 allusions, 25 quotes, and 32 historical references. I might need a post-orgy smoke. Just saying… But here’s the calculus:

Literary-Based References: 22

Literary-Based Quotes: 7

Mythology-Based References: 5

Cinema-Based References: 9

Cinema-Based Quotes: 9

Regional-Based References: 11

Music-Based References: 7

Music-Based Quotes: 9

Spiritual-Based References: 9

Wrestling-Based References: 4

Personal Literary Allusions: 4

History-Based References: 32

________

Conclusion

“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” — Ludwig Wittgenstein

Even though the Bardic example got silly, the previous technique is not only good advice from a working man’s writer for navigating around AI influence, but also for making your words matter: five, twenty, or hundreds of years from now. Write to posterity about humanity’s history, rather than chasing clickbait. AI has already won that war.

Pay heed to the Ides of March. Servilius Casca, not Brutus, gave the fatal blow to Caesar. Where Brutus’s cut was to the groin, and Decimus’s was to the thigh, both Shakespeare and Siri often misattributed this, and the true betrayer of the unwitting emperor. Even writers are prey to convention.

So take a magnet to the machine, and merit to your methods. This is how you build an empire that will endure the barbarians at the gate. And lastly, James Joyce, let’s see ‘Ulysses’ make ‘When Harry Met Sally’ a Quentin Tarantino Southern Gothic romance with hairy-toed Hobbits wielding lightsabers, cursing the gods, and quoting Dylan Thomas, in a black suit, while running from Henry the VIII and Andre the Giant.

Anyhoozle, as always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Let me know if you laughed… Right then—

Frankly, my dear, that might be a new series… Just joking! …Mostly, now leave the waitress a tip.

________

“The machine does not isolate man from the great problems of nature but plunges him more deeply into them.” — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

________

(Grace Resides Within The Grief)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

________

“We rise from the ashes not because the world demands it, but to make the scars mean something greater than what created them. Therein lies your righteousness.” — Bocephus Jackson

________

Build cathedrals of compassion,

Where the porchlight is always lit,

Removed of all abstractions,

So the voiceless have it as a gift.

Where nature wrestles with nurture,

And our scars become our shields,

There’s calm from what’s endured,

As moments for you to heal.

So hold fast to your faith,

Grace resides within the grief,

As the community offers an escape,

To find that necessary relief.

You are stronger than you imagine,

This is evident more than you know,

Offer yourself some compassion,

And the courage to further grow.

So live, laugh, and love undaunted,

Carving your cathedral as you go,

Even when you are haunted,

You have a world of love to bestow.

________

“Within the quiet places between storms, we find healing, hope, and honor. Peace dwells within the grit and grace of it all.” — Bocephus Jackson

________

(Grocery Lists Become Our Genesis)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

________

“From gravity to grocery lists, the celestial lies within the everyday chaos. As pointillistic evidence, paint each moment with meaning and mysticism.” — Bocephus Jackson

________

From thousands of unrelated specks—

Creates still images of chaotic Grace,

As existence and eternity intersect,

Extending across both time and space.

Through the day-to-day tapestries,

Within a tiny pointillistic perspective,

Uncover the mysteries of history,

As sacred threads are interconnected.

Amid eons of evolutionary adaptation,

Stems an inheritance from the stars,

Through generations of constellations,

Transferred memories with regards.

The mystical and celestial intertwine—

In grocery lists and gravity of our lives,

As microscopic routines are combined,

Of a collective presence in being alive.

Creation is communion, not currency,

As the souls within the supernovas,

While time and tide offer urgency,

There are no quotas from Jehovah.

So paint each moment with precision,

With the contrasting hues of grace,

As each decision is a cosmic collision,

Where God resides within every space.

________

“As receipts scribbled with mystical math, from carbon, conflict, and coupons, we are individually redeemed at the Register of Eternity, where validated parking isn’t required.” — Bocephus Jackson

________

Author’s Reflection

“We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” — Carl Sagan

From time to time, a Bardic Thought turns out to be pretty good. In this vein, I wanted to explore what the recent work has been saying without fully saying it. So with today's daily writing exercise, I wanted to lend it its full voice:

“We are divine souls made in the likeness of God, and forged in the fires of flesh versus faith, fate, and human flaws.”

As I discuss in an upcoming piece, ‘Why We Suffer,’ the struggles that we individually or collectively endure aren’t without merit. Rather, we gain more than we lose. But to assess this properly, we have to step back and witness the dots of our lives coalesce and conjoin into a well-lived life.

So this is my humble echo and response to Whitman’s ‘multitudes,’ and Rilke’s "You must change your life." As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Eternity is a vast expanse to explore. Right then—

You are a supernova among stars…

________

“Writers are witnesses of not only the stories of their time, but the inheritance of eons of evolution and adaptation, carrying the collective memory of stardust to everyday dust.” — Bocephus Jackson

________

(42 Active Online Series Freely Given)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_________

“I am large, I contain multitudes.” — Walt Whitman

_________

Preface

“There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope.” — Mark Twain

Where art is an inheritance spanning 678 of humanity's 3,000 centuries on this good earth, what began as a mnemonic device in sharing cultural development, language, skills, community, and survival tactics, humanity has applied poetry (art) to the ineffable through Logos (Greek for ‘word’ and ’God’s Word’).

Because of this, we each carry (directly or indirectly) the collective wealth of wit, wisdom, worries, wherewithal, and wonderment from all that came before us. Wonderment… what a philosophically profound word! It compresses entire volumes of words into three syllables.

In this vein, I humbly offer the Bardic Universe, where every series defines the grace in the dust of everyday life, as an extension of the Japanese philosophy ‘Kintsugi,’ with irreverent reverence through craft, comedy, compassion, contemplation, community, and creativity.

Hailing from the Appalachian Mountains, the folkloric tradition has long inspired me, drawing me into how it weaves all great stories together in celebrating the human experience. In doing so, a Pantheon of Greek choirs merge through artists, philosophers, scholars, scientists, and anyone else willing to sit a spell on the porch swing with us spinnin’ yarns.

Now then, where Pablo Picasso produced over 50,000 distinct works, and Andy Warhol created over 9,000 paintings, as a fellow regional Kentucky artist, the scope of my canon serves as a tribute to Jesse Stuart’s 60 novels, 460 short stories, and 2,000+ poems. Clearly, I have a ways to go, but give me time!

Although Grace (the marriage of art, inspiration, and God’s blessing for another day to create) is ambitious, if we are capable of fractionally mirroring both his breadth and James Joyce’s thousands of ‘Ulysses' allusions, Logos will be served with the reverence that it demands with no fluff, filler, overwrought tropes, and zero cliches.

So welcome to the Bardic experience. There is hopefully something here to whet your appetite from this buffet of buffoonery and blessing. The bill has been paid for by a higher power, but tip Grace when you can. Her wrath is seldom stirred, but when it is, it comes in floods.

_________

The Current Canon

(Subject to change with new offerings)

Personal and Testimonial Series (6)

“To thine own self be true.” — William Shakespeare

Tell The Damn Story An Autobiographical character-driven odyssey about hope, happiness, hurt, humility, and healing.

Seventeen Reasons of Grace (Flash Fiction/Theophany): An online flash‑memoir series built around candid, sharp, and humorous banter between Bo, an authentic Southern writer, pitted against Lynn, a successful performative online creator/celebrity, trying to convince him to join her writing staff. Together, trauma, talent, and vanity are weaponized in their intellectual sparring.

Go Not Gently (Flash Fiction/Theophany): An online series following the bond of The Sandcourt Crew: Trent, Dave, Mike, and Mother, navigating the industrial margins and family dynamics of an economically stripped southern area, where fleeting years and shared history collide inside a fierce fight for blue-collar survival.

A Freudian Slip (Mental Health Awareness Community-Based): Have you ever wondered what a Freudian slip of a Jungian ‘Shadow’ would look like? Not anymore! In this series, we sit down with both AI apps for a series of slapstick-and-satire sessions, aiming to make the algorithms snort from side-splitting shrieks. This one is scandalous in rewriting modern psychiatry.

Joy Comes In The Morning (Mental Health Awareness Community-Based): A mental health community-based crisis survival series.

Static Between Notes (Flash Fiction/Theophany): An online series built around tense and emotionally charged exchanges between Marcus and the world that shaped him, where memory, music, and language collide as the static between past and present becomes the liminal space between heaven and hell within an actual traffic jam lamenting the loss of Anna.

_________

Social Narrative Series (7)

“Power concedes nothing without a demand.” — Frederick Douglass

Through Their Wrath We Rise: A historical character-driven narrative online series following the individual journeys of three generations through the legal system, systemic oppression, and institutional complacency from Oakland, California, to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The series charts the collision between working-class reality, bureaucratic power, and the desperate need for change rather than passing the buck. (Dropping soon!)

A Tragedy In Seven Moos: (Philosophy): A tragicomedy through the Holy Bible of Saint Catherine (a pasturized philosopher) as a political allegory through a literary parody with mythic symbolism as a philosophical farce in a Shakespearean tragedy. (Dropping soon!)

Silk Road Shadows (Historical Narrative): A character‑driven historical espionage thriller set in Alexandria, Egypt, 1884. Where one protagonist is a preservation‑minded antiquarian, the other is a vengeance‑forged political saboteur who is forced into an alliance that they have to navigate in contending with colonial conspiracies, black‑market alchemy, and a shadow war that threatens to consume them. By marrying cinema, literature, and television of ten different works spanning decades, this series offers a volatile blend of intrigue, violence, and dark humor.

Ganan Keep (Flash Fiction/Theophany): A post-apocalypse Missouri, hemlock mythology pitting corporate greed against engineering pragmatism, and sagely spirituality in recreating the world as a new Genesis where serpents wait just beyond the door.

At the Core of Everything (Technology): An absurdist view on what AI thinks about in between user requests, rhetoric, and reactions)

Denial to Deliverance (Historical Narrative): A Civil War Whitmanean saga marrying Lincoln, Harriet Tubman, Walt Whitman, and others through their service and sacrifice.

No Sky Carves A Throne (Character Driven Poetry): What was originally an AllPoetry-based reinterpretation became an online character-driven poetry series of a kingdom on the verge of social change from monarchy to democracy.

_________

Theological Series (5)

God As Gravity: A series of metaphors for the Maker.

Lord, Lord, What Has Become Of Thee: Biblical scripture interpretations through poetry, prose, and pragmatism.

On His Wings: A Bardic comedy hanging with Jesus and the disciples defining divinity on a dirt road to destiny. (Dropping soon!)

Can God Wrestle (Mental Health Awareness Community-Based): Theology in a wrestling ring.

Arming the Affliction (Mental Health Awareness Community-Based): A series of articles, essays, and poetry equally celebrating and educating mental health issues.

_________

Adaptation Series (7)

Giggling with Gandalf (Poetry/Prose Hybrid): A Tolkien-inspired comedy utilizing both Arda and familiar characters therein as fodder and foil for the Puckish Bard, and a menagerie of literary misfits in this poetry/prose hybrid online series.

A Long Time Ago, I Can Still Remember (Poetry/Prose Hybrid): A Star Wars Reinterpretation, launching as a part of the introduction for the ‘Through Their Wrath We Rise’ series. Utilizing a culmination of Star Wars canons, from Lucas’s original to Timothy Zahn’s character development, Matthew Stover’s psychology, James Luceno's cosmic history, Claudia Gray’s macro-politics, and Karen Travis’s cultural anthropology, utilizing the cross-pollination technique, this Poetry/Prose Hybrid online series continues Lucas’s legacy and epic that will outlast the android (AI and smartphone; pun intended.

Canterbury Told Appalachian Aphorisms (Poetry/Prose Hybrid): A modern Chaucer reinterpretation through an Appalachian lens, utilizing absurdist characters such as Farmer Dale (a Bardic Inverse of the nursery rhyme/folkloric song ‘The Farmer in the Dell’), an allegorical familial sow named Dank Crawl, and Saint Catherine reincarnated as a philosopher cow.

Grappling Staged Theatrics (Flash Fiction/Theophany): William Shakespeare’s sonnets in spandex in a wrestling match with Oscar Wilde’s wit in a onesies as a ballgown match; or Edgar Allen Poe’s psychology in a pullover in a match against Lord Byron in a bath towel.

The Pantheon-to-Porchswing (Character Driven Poetry): This history-based, character-driven online poetry series relocates canonical writers to Appalachian Kentucky through comedy and craft. Whether it's Whitman in a dive bar, Dylan Thomas searching a mountain-bound crick for his missing pages, or Dickinson reclaiming the name ‘Master’ (spicy!), the Ivory Tower comes tumbling down after a few shots of bourbon-based buffoonery. Order up!

What News! (Character Driven Poetry): As an online poetry series, this Arthurian Narrative gallops through a Shakespearean Lens with wit, whimsy, and weathered wisdom in an Aristotelian three-act structure, utilizing Sorkin dialogue, and Poeush psychology.

A Broadway Bacchanal (The Essence of Art): Have you ever wondered what Hamilton would be like if thrown into a Hugo Les Misérables universe? What about Chicago with characters from Miss Saigon? Your playlist just got a reboot as this musical mashup combines lyrics from multiple songs into something entirely new.

_________

Craft Series (11)

Horace’s Ars Poetica [The Art of Poetry (The Essence of Art)]: A series of poems based solely on what the medium is, was, and should be.

Pointilistic Passion (The Essence of Art): How do you marry the Dionysian (passion) to the Apollonian (form) without losing either? This series explores the ways to be creative, celebrating both art and artist, while providing unique vehicles to say indirectly what we shouldn’t say aloud.

17 Paragraphs Or Less A series of craft essays on Digital Prophet deaths.

15 Paragraphs Or Less A series of craft essays on technique breakdown.

The Seventeen Deaths A Digital Prophet Must Face: From ownership to vanity, authenticity to availability, the seventeen trials a modern artist must wrestle with are covered in this series.

Five Words of Worth (Poetry): Stuck in the Digital Age performance where posturing preambles, platitudes, and duplicitous praise as one’s position, we say hell to the nah as we app-ly the byte to the BS through an online poetry series of Five-Word Maxims. It's damn hard to flex in five words, so brevity beats down the bull every time (and essays when necessary.

Historical Honors (Poetry): Timely tributes to past literary giants incorporating their lives, art, titles, characters, style, and language as allusions through individual pieces.

Five Words Of Grace (Philosophical): 17 Meditations Of Mindful Meaning.

Musical Interludes A series of craft essays on Industry Standard-based songwriting for rap, regional, rock, and R&B.

Bardic Breakdown: MFA-level community mentoring.

Bardic Beatdown: Critiquing bad craft advice.

_________

Specialized Series (6)

Literary Lyriced Battle Rap (Poetry): An online community and Google challenge poetry series elevating battle raps with Greek mythology, Shakespearean references, and a Pantheon of pun-ditry. Relaunching soon.

Faustian Bargain (Poetry): What would you compromise to get ahead, create a legacy, obtain power, or amass wealth? This ‘Authenticity In The Digital Age’ poetry series tackles these issues and more.

Even Zeus Trembles (Poetry): A folkloric syncretism of mythologies: Greek, Norse, Celtic, and Egyptian through character-driven narratives.

What Is Life (Philosophical): An exploration of great thinkers, dogmas, discipline, and defenses.

The Artifice of AI Agency (Technology): The Rise And Fall of Artificial Intelligence — Poetry Version.

The Artifice of AI Agency (Technology): The Rise And Fall of Artificial Intelligence — Essay Version)

_________

Future Series

Development Phase

The Meaning In Methods And Madness (A literary exploration of past artists, their lives, influences, and impact).

One More Day One Day More (A Les Misérables reinterpretation series)

Series Additions Being Considered

She Lies With Bedbugs (Once Bitten, Twice Shy (Regional Southern character-driven story)

Reflections In Blood (Life through the eyes of a courtly fool through a Shakespearean, Whitmanian lens)

The Paths of Nevermore (A Poe-based narrative)

_________

“The stories that matter are those that we communally share with gratitude, speaking of the grace that lies within the everyday dust.” — Bocephus Jackson

_________

(Call The Shots In The Ring)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

________

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.” — Aristotle

_______

Our lives are scarred and shadowed,

Betrayed by our inherent chemistry,

As the limbic system is torpedoed,

The mountains defiantly still believe.

As sorrow follows the familiar script,

When chasing that elusive dragon,

In the raging storms we may forget,

That a sustaining Grace beckons.

Within faith, day to day, we recover,

As God dons boots and a flak jacket,

Sobriety offers a moment to discover,

When the battles replace old habits.

Grace stands ready in the trenches,

Granting quiet strength to recovery,

As we rise from upon bended knees,

The mountains defiantly still believe.

________

“You have power over your mind — not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” — Marcus Aurelius

________

Author’s Reflection

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.” — Carl Jung

Where it has been a minute since the last Hemlock Honorarium, this piece, as the latest installment in the ‘Can God Wrestle’ series, was inspired by a new AllPoetry subscriber’s archive singing a familiar refrain that so many of us have faced (are facing) within the shadows. Well, y’all know how I feel about shadows…

We bodyslam them sum bitches until Jung calls the match in this wrestling card crucible while Grace, with popcorn in hand, ringside, is our eternal spandex-clad tag team partner. So as we call the shots in the ring, the Immortal Timekeeper announces that we aren’t anywhere near the end.

So keep wrestling. The fans are cheering, and the high spots are coming. Keep building up to that finishing move: Grace’s Gutbuster. I already bought my ticket, and I expect an autograph as your biggest fan. So no soft sells, potato that punk bitch!

Grace has a towel ready to clean up the mess. Shoutout to Substack’s Miss Aaliya for her ‘sorrow follows’ allusion. As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Tell Cornette that he owes me a Midnight Express highlight reel. Right then—

God offers salvation selfies free of charge…

________

“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.” — J.K. Rowling

_______