Glass Houses

Glass Houses

In valleys bright where silence grows,
Stand houses made of tempered prose—
Each pane a truth, each wall a name,
So clear, so thin, and yet... the same.

They sparkle in the morning light,
So open, bare, and seeming right.
But fragile walls can't bear the weight
Of judgment clothed in scorn or hate.

One lifts a stone with fingers bold,
Forgetting tales that glass has told.
The crack begins—a whispered shame—
And all the rooms recall her name.

What folly, then, to cast a blow,
When every soul has scars to show?
What wisdom lies in holding still,
And seeing faults with gentler will?

So let your stones sleep in the dust,
For mercy grows where there is trust.
And those in homes of glass and air
Should tread with kindness, soft and fair.

The Tragic Tale of Terrence Troll

 The Tragic Tale of Terrence Troll

(Who Mocked the Web and Lost His Soul)

Young Terrence Troll, a spiteful brute,
Would mock and jeer in harsh dispute.
He'd type out taunts with poisoned glee,
Then sit and giggle wickedly.

He wasn't brave, he wasn't smart—
Just venom wrapped in pixel art.
He'd strike at folks he'd never met,
And call it fun upon the Net.

"Your poem's trash!" he'd blurt to Jane,
(Though spelling errors filled his bane.)
To Marcus, he would smugly write,
"You're wrong. You're dumb. Now cry. Good night."

He'd haunt the forums late and long,
Pretending might made baseless strong.
And when folks tried to talk things through,
He'd simply post: "Your mom is too."

His mother begged him, "Please, be kind—
You're rotting out your very mind!"
But Terrence sneered and rolled his eyes:
"She's triggered by a few hard tries."

And thus he trolled for many moons,
Oblivious to coming dooms.
Until one day, with eyes blood-red,
He slumped across his keyboard... dead.

The doctors gasped. "It's plain," they said,
"His brain was starved. His heart misled.
His soul, it seems, was worn quite thin—
There's nothing but hot takes within."

They buried him with no great fuss—
A Wi-Fi wreath, a broken bus.
His tombstone read in Comic Sans:
"Here lies a troll with no real plans."

So children, learn from Terrence T.—
The Net's no place for cruelty.
If you must post, then post with care,
And think before you flame or swear.

For trolls, like Terrence, always find
They lose the thing they thought was mind.

Ode to the Man at the Terminal

 Ode to the Man at the Terminal

By the humming screen, where soft blue glows,
A withered hand still taps the keys;
His days are numbered by the rows
Of code, and faint, fluorescent breeze.

Four decades deep in data's thrall,
A servant to the server's call—
Yet in his eyes, where quiet dwells,
The bramble speaks in sweeter spells.

Each morn he mounts his rusted steed,
A cycle old as time and toil,
And winds through lanes where briars feed
On sun-warmed dew and ancient soil.
The blackberries—his yearly gauge—
Return in youth, retreat in age.
He plucks their sweetness once again,
And ponders life's recursive chain.

"Oh fleeting fruit!" he oft exclaims,
"Ye grow and die as thoughts do pass,
Returning under different names,
But mirrored still in selfsame glass.
As I in circuits, caught and spun,
Repeat the task not yet undone,
So do ye rise, and fall, and climb—
Your code is Nature's run-time rhyme."

Oft has he watched, through tinted panes,
The memos bloom, the emails spread—
While colleagues rose like April rains,
Then vanished, whispered, lost, or dead.
Yet he remained, steadfast, unseen,
Like moss upon the fax machine.
His lunch the same, his coat threadbare,
His soul grown quiet in the chair.

And still, each August's solemn turn,
The berry swells with purple pride,
To teach, to mock, or to discern
What dreams lie dormant deep inside.
"O cruel design," he writes one day,
"That men should loop and fade away—
But still within your thorned delight,
I glimpse the Infinite at night."

So now he types, yet less in haste,
His code a kind of prayer or song;
Each line a thread, serene and chaste,
That knows both what is short and long.
No fear of crashes, time, or rust,
For all must digitize to dust—
But he, the watcher of the vine,
Has tasted something nigh divine.

Upon Reading Michael Davies

 Upon Reading Michael Davies
In the Manner of Wordsworth

Amidst the quiet of a cloistered glade,
Where time with gentle hush the soul would bind,
I found a voice that through the shadow played—
A steadfast guardian of the ancient mind.
No trumpet blared, no crowd with garlands came,
Yet still his truth endured, a living flame.

Oft have I wandered through the modern din,
Where altars shift and sacred song is torn,
Where once the Church stood firm, now ghosts begin
To dance where saints had knelt in grace, forlorn.
Yet there, amid the silence of the page,
His pen became a prophet to our age.

Not for acclaim he wrote, nor fleeting praise,
But for the Mass, the Bride, the holy rite—
That age-old tongue, those sacrificial days,
Now veiled in man's presumptive, tampered light.
With scholar's eye and heart that dared to grieve,
He pled for Rome not yet inclined to leave.

O Michael, pilgrim bold yet soft of tread,
You walked the way where truth and love converge;
While others slept, your lamp of reason shed
A holy gleam against the swelling surge.
Though winds of change may sweep the Churchly floor,
Your voice shall echo on her marble shore.

Let others chase the trend, the novel bloom—
You sought the bloom that flowered from the Cross.
Though labeled stern, your joy no one could doom,
For joy is born through reverence, not through loss.
And as I close your book with quiet grace,
I see again the calm of Peter's face.

The Man With a Million Usernames

 The Man With a Million Usernames

In the clickety world of the World Wide Web,
Where the posts pop up and the GIFs all ebb,
Lived a poster—a trickster, a curious chap—
Who lived on a forum called ChatteryChat.

He first came along as BobTheWise,
With facts on frogs and homemade pies.
He typed and he tapped, then he typed even more,
Then vanished! Poof! Just out the door.

Next came a fellow named SneakyLou,
Who knew kung fu and code stuff too.
He talked about ducks and the Queen and Tibet,
Then shouted, "I'm bored!" and deleted his net.

A week went by and who should appear?
A user named MooseWithAFear!
He posted in riddles, he posted in rhyme,
He posted his soup at quarter-past-nine.

"You're Moose!" said the mods. "No, Lou!" said a guy.
"You're Bob!" said a third. "You're clearly a spy!"
"You're everybody, all rolled in one!"
But the poster just smiled and typed, "I'm not done."

He came as ProfessorOfCloudsAndBananas,
Then TwilightDestroyerOfSilkenPyjamas,
Then DorisTheBold, and QuantumMcSnail,
Then SirFluffington riding a very small whale.

He sparked little wars and long rambling threads,
On cheese, on the moon, on the price of eggheads.
He'd leave, then return as a whole different bloke—
With a brand-new account and a terrible joke.

He never was mean and he never was rude,
Just baffling, strange, and completely unglued.
We'd guess and we'd guess, but we never could say—
"Is he back now? Is this him today?"

And maybe he's posting this moment, right now,
As GertrudeTheLoud or PresidentCow.
Or maybe he's gone, riding off on the breeze...
To a new forum home where he posts about bees.

So if you see someone a little off-kilter,
With stories of hedgehogs who live in a yurt-er...
Be kind, take a breath, and remember the game—
It might be that poster, with yet one more name!

Winds of Silence

Winds of Silence
Inspired by Kwai Chang Caine from the 1972 series "Kung Fu"

He walks alone, where shadows fall,
A monk, a sage, yet feared by all.
With gentle eyes and iron hand,
He wanders wide across the land.

His past, a fire he does not chase,
Yet burns behind with silent grace.
He speaks in truths, both deep and few—
A whisper stronger than what fists do.

Grasshopper learned from masters wise,
To see the world through inner eyes.
In peace he seeks what war once stole—
A warrior’s strength, a poet’s soul.