Excerpts from John Rhodes' Three Books.
Excerpts from:
"Spirits of Bondage and Inherent Transcendence" (Poetry)
"Little Bird Told Me" (A Hip Novel)
"Mystic Babylon Revisited" (Poetry)



Human Jealousy in Stone

Human souls have slipped, but a man standing like a statue rarely gets trapped or trips, in soul-felt fits.
Somehow the stone-man must feel and hope a bit, so as not to be stumbled over by human wit.
Hopefully too, the stone statue will not be covered up by dirt, or be completely overthrown and engulfed in hurt.
There is no need to throw out all medieval thoughts, because all the words written in stone are not untrue, or tie us up in knots.
The ritual falling of stone, does not smash the bone, nor are the statues destroyed in lots, or noted also just in brief jots, as if unknown, like
discarded pots.
The streets that harbor these types of statues are picturesque, but are not painfully noted as crumbled, or in disrepair on a desk.
But I must restate and add in vain, that these statues feel no pain.





God’s Cup of Tea

I see a crane standing in the bayou on one foot.
It is spiritually balanced, but its stance is weak, and is not well-put.
Its poise appears startlingly complete, but like man, is about life, effete.
When the crane gets old, it will have standing on one foot down cold.
The crane seems surrendered to the wind and sea, also the bird has a wildness that it won’t let be, and is very bold.
Eventually the time will come, when the bird will feel it has everything down, and it will no longer be by fate struck dumb.
Its soul shall show through its eyes, and they won’t be like two coals, or like alibis.
To life’s simple pleasures its spirit will be sold.
True belief, instead of imaginings, the bird will be doled.
The bird when it was young, used only its imagination… and the meaning of life was always only on the tip of its tongue, but when the bird got
old, it stopped imagining life as fleeting, and began believing that each breathe of life is like pure gold.
Also, through grief it would stand stolid, and Godhead would be to it like a song or ballad, and in addition to this, man would, about bayou, life
agree, that to man, bird, and beast, the bayou would be, to say the least, God’s cup of tea, and also a banquet or a feas

The Key

The key to my soul I searched for, from when I was a child, ‘till when I was old.
There were hints that would guide this searching of my soul, like when young, I had heard of the lost man, whose soul was bought, and his
innocence stole; this was because he had not searched for the key to knowledge until he was too old, and for this reason was thrown, as if in a
rage by God, into a bin of coals, because of sin that he had stole.
He had lost his key to his mind’s eye, and in turn became a disassociated ghost of a man, who would soon hang and die.
He would also miss most of life’s goals, since he had dropped his key as he walked through the graveyard of those who had also lost their souls.
He had slipped through life’s cracks with its holes, and he foolishly had challenged the cold.
Because he had defied the law, he had no more, any key, and he couldn’t open the door, or see.
The unconscious haunted jester was he, soon, his soul in hock, he became like a ghost or a goblin, and without any glee, his door latch was to
Beelzebub sold, for a fee.
Key witness to life’s mystery I wasn’t, but the solution to this puzzle, I have pondered, very hesitant, and have tried, to about it become
concerned and discern, what the common mind doesn’t learn.
I wish my conscience about this man, had been awake, and, I, too, had in my memory, a reminder burned, down into my soul, so I wouldn’t tell
myself I’m a fake, and in life I would have a role, that for evil, no one could mistake.
This way confusion to me would not be doled, and about true learning I would not fold.
I could become the locksmith that liberated the ghost of my apprehension, on my own behalf, so ignorance would not be the key to my epitaph.
Freedom would make my person whole, and my sincerity bright, as I saw life’s danger, and opened the door to the knowledge of wrong or right,
and, even though at the same time derision I was doled, what people contended as supposedly true, wasn’t really appropriate or trite.
I would still know the difference between wrong and right, because this would make the devil and my conscience fight.


Jealousy and the Knight

In the night I think that I am a knight, because I have fought with darkness, even though I have sight, and also, even though the sword can cut
from first to last, it has never been my delight, in times past.
With my eyes I can define the purpose of God’s design, and when I pray, I am bringing my foe to his knees, with my mind.
With prayers I will cause him to hear God’s word on the grapevine, instead of him sneaking up on me from behind.
That is why I am a soldier, or knight of peace, who attacks warlike minds, and renders up their bankruptcy, and pays their house’s lease, just as
their battles cease, and through transcendence, their souls find release.
Even though I would never involve myself in the violence of a knight, I still know that the mind’s principles are dense and the stars that twinkle
in the night, have probably heard of war and its might. That is why I challenge the father of the son, as to whether he should believe that all war
is right, and can always be won, like a boxer’s fight.
To challenge the dark foe is as hard as seeing the world making sense, but to be a knight and God’s pawn in a game, to me is a social pretense.
To me the defeat of deceit, can come about without violence, sweat, or heat, and a hero with a pen is always neat, not like a pirate, effete.
I will be happy to go to war in a psychic battle, with the foes of peace, even though it would be easier to charge my foe, and make my saber
rattle.




The Lord and the Sword

Does wickedness nurture a child to believe in war?
Does destruction come when war and peace become bedfellows?
A wick can lighten a house, but the wicked will bring about darkness, with a war fought in injustice.
The poison of war, makes the ubiquitous household run, it destroys people’s hopes for peaceful resolutions with visionary foresight, and the
poison is the lye (lie) that possesses the world with its might.
A father can teach his child to walk and talk, but how can a father teach his child pure chatter and double talk, like that of war? Is that why he
watches his child like a hawk?
Most wars are bad, when soldiers are like puppets of a fad.
Chapter One

Leaving Home



Feeling at their last, bigoted straw, Steven Colt, Sr., and his wife, Lydia, were assessing whether to kick their son, Steve, out of the house for
his drug habit and his chronic scholastic underachievement. The young man’s inability to apply himself in school was caused by his general
confusion and bewilderment about how to manage his education. With an undetected learning disability and no fitting mentorship, there was
little to be done to ensure his success. Steve’s efforts were significant, but without proper guidance they brought him no due success in
school. Even worse, he did not learn how to relate to students or teachers.

Colt and his wife were opinionated, yet vague, when explaining their agenda to their Steve. They had all but decided that he would have to
leave, but wanted to give him a few last chances to redeem himself, as if he were the dark horse in a race and might yet win back their favor if
he ran the course well.

So, Steve naïvely attempted to patch up his relationship with his parents. He wanted to raise their spiritual sensitivity by taking them to see
a favorite guru of his who had arrived from India to visit their town. The Guru was, as most gurus are, a pacifist and had even known
Mahatma Gandhi. However, both of these facts were contrary to his parents’ mindset, and the only thing Steve’s plan achieved was to
further irritate them.

During one hot, oppressive afternoon, as they all sat in the living room discussing the prospect of hearing the Guru speak, Steve’s father said,
“We’ll listen to this Guru of yours talk. But I’ll tell you now, there’s no need for us to learn about these vain, pagan habits and idolatrous
ceremonies. I don’t think it will help, but we’ll go along with it.” As he spoke, a globule of spit flew from his lips and landed on the toe of
Steve’s left shoe.

Steve said ardently, “Pacifism is never a vain pastime and the gods of India, like Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, are fantastically surreal and
interesting. It’s not just idol worship, but true religion!”

“You are an elaborate dreamer with fanciful thoughts; your concepts are all wrong! I don’t know why you believe in pacifism!” Lydia
asserted, stomping her foot as if to smother Steve’s passion for innovation.

Steve felt stifled and inadequate. He worried, and not for the first time, that perhaps he was being irrational and the worry made him go pale.
He swallowed past the hollowness in his throat and declared, “The fruits of pacifist revolution will change the world!”

“Bah! Revolution, insurrection!” barked his father, which killed the conversation altogether.



Time passed, and the day arrived when the family planned to see the Guru. Steve’s heart lurched, as the hope that his parents once again
would accept him into the fold swelled within his breast. Steve grew impatient as he waited to leave. Trying not to sound presumptuous, he
carefully said, “The Guru will start speaking in an hour. Shouldn’t we, maybe, leave soon?”

As if he were announcing the burning of Rome, Colt said, “We’re not going. We decided that anybody who preaches pacifism the way this
Guru does must lack tenacity.”

Brazen with sudden rage, Steve shouted, “You never address my feelings! Can’t you compromise? You say that the worship of Indian gods
seems like idol ceremonies. Well, you are dull ceremony! You must learn from other people’s ways!”

“Your generation needs to be censured!” Colt interjected. “You shouldn’t knock the ruling order! You are nothing but a pacifist Machiavelli
rag doll! The only way you have is drugs!”

Trying to comfort his ego, Steve searched for a term in his unsophisticated mind to define his parents’ rejection. “Isn’t this called pretentious
and pigheaded?” he wondered to himself.



This dead-end relationship continued in a very constricted manner for Steve during his last days at home. Because he was doing poorly in
school, Steve’s attachment to his parents was very strained. They seemed to enjoy crushing his self-esteem when he did not meet their
expectations. Steve was not sturdy enough to fight back, so he collapsed under the pressure. His parents’ derisive campaign caused him to
believe that if he didn’t jump when they said jump, he would never get anything from them.

It was his last year of high school after being held back two years. School was almost out and he was graduating in a few weeks. He was
somewhat relieved about it, because it seemed as if he would graduate before getting kicked out of his house. However, his father and his
teachers continued to loom over him like mythical monsters. Their menacing presence caused Steve to cower, making him still more
educationally dysfunctional. Although he was competent enough to succeed and graduate, he barely got by because nobody understood and
helped him. He was smart, but introverted. Unaware of any lurking neurosis, he responded to pressure much like an oppressed little clown,
not only with his teachers, but with girlfriends and classmates.

He suffered an unrecognized psychic or learning disability, through which only someone who cared could help him. Additionally, he had
incomplete social and educational relationships, being that he had no teachers or friends who took notice of his problem.

One day, just before he was to graduate — and gripped by the fear that he would soon be put out of the house — he lashed out and called his
math teacher an ogre. Because the school had no counselors, he was sent to the principal. Steve was incapable of processing or understanding
the significance of his blunder. He understood only that he had been taunted by this superior.

Steve walked in the principal’s office and sat down.

“Why did you call your teacher an ogre, Steve?” probed the principal.

Steve responded with a jumble of words. “There’s a conflict between Mr. Olsen and me — and possibly with other students, too. He treats
us like kids, and we fight back with fantasies about him being like an ogre or a monster. He’s like some sort of fairy tale person who thinks he
has absolute power over everything. He’s a real control freak.”

Having hit his stride, Steve paused for breath and plowed on. “It’s not just him. Most of the teachers are like that. None of them help us.
They’re like big blocks of ignorance that stand in our way. I don’t understand why they don’t treat us like real people who have purposeful
imaginations and ideals. And they treat me like I’m the village idiot. It’s way out of line.”

“I think the teacher believes you’re capable of more than you’ve shown and he’s trying to discipline you to excel. He’s not tyrannical or an
ogre, he just expects more of you,” explained the principal. “If you don’t watch out, you won’t be able to continue through school. With all
the reprimands you’ve gotten, you still could be expelled before you graduate. Even with just a week or so to go. You’ve been in here far too
often. If I find you in here again, I might have to hold you back another year.”

“Mr. Olsen makes me feel inadequate, guilty, and cagey. Maybe I would do better if I had a counselor,” muttered Steve, near tears.

Having covered this ground with Steve before, the principal sighed. “You know we don’t have a counselor. Don’t challenge me or you’ll find
yourself in more trouble. Now, go on back to class.”
"Spirits of Bondage and Inherent Transcendence"
by John Rhodes
"Little Bird Told Me"
by John Rhodes

Gold in the Gutter

When one lives in the gutter, selfish pride doesn’t control one’s life, and boasting about social prospects is not something that the poor of
spirit are concerned about or have to utter.
Even though, in this monetary deficiency, when one feels unsettled like the California Gold Miner Sutter, before he discovered the gold that
eventually caused his heart to start to flutter, things remain more predictable than if you were like him, a well-to-do, and had to ponder more
materialistic convoluted matters, that could bring on the need to moan and mutter.
One great thing that one no longer has to do is wear medals, of battles, of self-centered triumph, which really only have been borrowed or
stolen, nor does one have to accept petty challenges, because you don’t hear the discord of self-indulgence and its clash in the mind like
thunder  rollin.
When the pot of self-worth bursts its bottom, and water boils over in the kettle, you will be sure that there was no need for that kind of
medal.
On the streets you don’t have to be anyone but yourself, and the only person you have to please is your soul with its inner wealth.
Maybe then you can stop the rain and end your little hurricane.
It is not something that is real, nor should you let it, your temper strain.
It is good to remember that when weather is inclement, that it ruins only on those who are vain...those are the unrepentant souls of bad
intent, who don’t know what it really means to be healthy and sane.
How can excessive greed be the patent answer to happiness… isn’t an austerity of body and spirit a much better invent in the main?
It is so much better to be poor, and ascetically constrained.
Honor without compassion is worth no more than one uninteresting red cent that is rusted and stained.
From this type of self-indulgence, man must abstain!


Intense


There were no suggestions by the old to the young, about sights unseen, of the obscure hidden truths, that defy the intellect of the naïve
individual teen.
The educated elders didn’t try to elucidate and separate fact from fiction about the hidden psychic and moral menaces lurking in the child’s
mind… if one compared the child’s mind to that of the seasoned adult, their minds surely weren’t as keen.
There were no attempts to try to guide the child on the path of conscious recognition that sanity is not always present in his genes.
They also didn’t instruct the youth in proper caution, nor did they escort them through tutoring in self-awareness which is the proper way,
to a child, nurture and wean.
Nor did these elders candidly guide the young teaching them the type of conscience that would help them avoid the ridiculous and obscene.
The child couldn’t tell what truths were coveted by the elder, nor what he was hinting under that dark cape of knowledge, because the elder
was pompous, and his presumptuousness was laced with secrets that were hidden and veiled.
The children didn’t learn from the elders which road to follow, because the elders wouldn’t teach them the idiosyncrasies of knowing how to
walk the path with a compass so as to know the location of the right trail.
These unrevealed details, made these cloaked truths ungraspable, because the young did not know the elder’s secret holy grail, nor did they
know what mature truths were coveted by the elders…little did they know about the purpose of the nail.
No one could see in him, the child, his apparently crushed soul that crumbled at the last second as his reasoning failed.
Nor did a single child know what these capes hid, nor why some of those innocent young people would falter in their learning and end up
behind the bars of a jail.
They had never been told the tale that the elder had been told by his father on one stormy night in the lightning and thunder as the night
winds wailed.
The children ponder in their fogs of ignorance, unable to remember or comprehend a single instance, when they might have perchance
observed an obvious offense against the common man who stumbles in the miasma, who, forgetting his own nature, is unaware of God’s
works because the makeup of the mind is so dark and dense.
The child of God can’t make sense, out of how he has lapsed and has fallen behind in this psychosis of ignorance, and while he is qualified to
make rhyme and reason out of these delusions, he can’t help being incensed, because the delusions have changed the focal point of his
psychic lens.
Why does the truth come after much terror and suspense?
The Child of God, even though clever and quick, lives within this ignorance; in the eternal second of repetitive error, instance by instance.
He, the Child of God, not being properly warned to watch how to conduct himself in the fog which is so thick and dense, does not perceive
or realize that he should carry a magic lantern or light, to keep away the ghost of terror which is so deep and intense, that light being his only
defense.





Don’t Be Afraid

It takes a Pope with a simple heart, to teach to those, whose souls are wracked with fear and guilt, how to start to understand how sin,
through fear, has defrauded them.
When they learn to not be afraid, they thusly can be taught to struggle and repent:: in this way they can find compassion’s gem.
They shall learn in addition how to stand free from collective division, and separate from hardhearted mayhem, it being so apartheid and grim.
Additionally it is easy, when one keeps things as simple as does the Pope, to stay upright and free, and even though all alone, one can un-
perplexed, with the “Universal Mind”, agree.
Undivided, one can exist with one’s fellow man.
Both together, and apart… it is jealousy that makes the Cuckoo look for another nest, and from its original home depart.
Struggling and repentance, leaves a taste in the mouth, much like a sweet pastry or a tart…this tasty redemption gives the man who trusted
no one, a reason to cross his heart.
Consequentially, the Pope, who is the pastoral guard, who stands at self-conscience’s border, does eventually, as the Lord did in Eden
before, the devil deport, giving him no quarter.
He being expelled from Act 1, and barred from Heaven’s fort, thusly is prevented from overpowering man, the devil now being at his last
resort.
The devil has played his role so poorly in his crimson court, that even though he has as a leading actor, and angel starred...in fact, in the final
Act, he truly, fell far short.
Also, not having the proper credentials or honorary card, he failed, to fearless duty, report.  
Then common man does thusly realize, that he will no longer have to play with Lucifer his subordinate role of drunkard, nor a redundant
part, where all he has left is his bottle of white port.
Instead of the end coming quickly to man, with the Pope, man will have a new start.
They, the meek, much like the Pope, paid dutifully, through the days and hours that marked the passing of time, for indulgence in sin that
with them did not originate, much like a poorly written rhyme, and they, like the Pope, being faithful, did not, automatically, impart to
others, this fall, that covered them head to foot that came from where the dragon hid in the bog and slime.
I still don’t know why these devilish dishonest blackards, who framed our innocent souls, were not properly judged by courts, because their
extortions ruined the meek, who just like the Pope had humble goals.
Neither, I may say, did those simple hearts, attach them selves to the devil’s sins.
They are different from the lost souls whom St. Peter had written about with his pen in his log, and charts, and even as the clock ticked,
these simple hearts did not refuse to hold the Pope’s words close, as transgression and lust came close to their souls.
They refused in addition the temptations of the devil as they, the sinners, did scurry and dart between the coals.
Even when incivility hurt the humble, when the leather bonds bruised their skin, and where the sore and the blister did smart, they still
found sustenance with the Pope who was their guide who taught them how to play without fear, their civil parts.
Also, when these soldiers of innocence waited for the devil to depart, they did not become despondent or haggard, neither did they groan or
sigh, like Spartan slaves who would rather fight than push their master’s cart, always asking why.
You have to be smart to know how to pick to be whipped rather than die.
Without flinching the innocent would look their enemy in the eye...their bodies didn’t tremble nor did their eyes waver as if they were about
to lie.
The Pope’s followers intuited quickly at a glance the ill will that came from those merchants of sin, who considered crime an art…those
barterers never considered or thought about the sin of their gambling, nor did they know why it left on their hands, so many a wart.
The Pope has said, “Do not be Afraid.”
This he spoke to those souls who have felt lost and in need, like Moses, when he floated aimlessly in the papyrus reeds.
I don’t know whether there are worse deeds than to abandon a man like Moses, but there is also the sin that if we don’t help guide the lost,
no one will count all their noses.
We should take to heart those who suffer from the ignorance of proper direction, who feel the humiliation and deception of their own
bewilderment, for with guidance from people who struggle who are humanity’s kinder hearts, we shall learn courage from these simple
saintly Kings, who like the simple Pope, have in mankind always believed, and their souls shall be like Moses, from the bull-rushes retrieved.
History has had many people who try to soap themselves with their guilt, but soon you will find out that there are many who don’t abhor,
but love that filth.
Contriteness to one’s own irresponsibility brings, in the end, a consistency of diffident wealth, and circumspect and conscientious spiritual
health.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the Pope.





There is no Tyrant like Custom

There is no tyrant like custom, and if you allow your freedom to be molded and shaped by this tyrant until you psychologically fit within
his system, it would be because you haven’t seen through his veil made of a deceitful cloth that is created from social deception.
The deception of the manners and dress of this well-dressed mannequin of tyranny suits this scepter well, but no matter what this tyrant
does, he is still unable to openly dictate or emphatically demand, through fads and seduction, obedience, to his perversion.
Even though the tailor looks at his designs first, these fabrications of cloth are so perverse, that they make the tyrant appear, as compared to
other more meekly dressed people, as socially worse, than the man who stole all the money from the town purse.
There will be many who with their critical eyes, find it hard when speaking of the tyrant, not to curse.
His open manipulation of people with his custom made tyranny, is rejected, and replaced by the meek with meager and austere ascetic bliss,
which is known only by the humble and righteous.
The epithets and self-righteousness of this tyrannical instigator are mumbled against by the humble, in accordance with tradition, and in faith
with the ways of the just, but even though the hammer lusts for the nail, the common man will always obey, just as he mistrusts.
The ecstasy of those free spirits, who believe in love first, and at the same time refuse to in tyranny believe, always believe that which is
better, not that which is the worst.
Because of the echoes of compassion from these free spirits’ meek conscience, characterized by their perfect self-possession, and natural
spiritual thirst, they are thusly able to spiritually fight off tyrannies’ ghostly guards, with their personal self-worth
These ghosts of tyranny live in the borders of our collective mind, and at these borders, the tyrannical ghosts laugh in mirth at the weaker
souls who migrate across these sad borders where the reincarnation of truth returns to dirth.
These statesmen of tyranny treat us like a deck of marked cards and our souls are something they wish to malign with their curse.
They are gambling, that a game will help us forget about the gift of pure birth that is innate to all mankind on Earth.
The beast of social fashioning is intoxicated with it own manipulative exclamations…even as it totters, it demands respect…the beast  
thusly tries constantly to force on others its drunken instigations, un-abstained by a government that isn’t a nation.
This wolfish tyrant is only dominant when its sheep-clothing is approved, and even though its second-hand wardrobe is cheap, it can put
dissent asleep, asserting control with an alibi like the thief, who in the night, tiptoes and creeps.
Only a lull-a-bye will keep the unpretentious lamb from crying as the tyrant tells everybody but himself, that whatever they sow, they also
shall they reap.
It is still true that no matter what the tyrant thinks as he stacks his gold in a heap…that the sheep who give up their wool, to the cold
huddling masses, will find comfort anyway, in the warmth of the truth that comes from the over-soul, whose compassion is like the ocean
deep… the lamb will never ever again, because of this, cry or weep.
The demanding of others to obey these tyrannies made of fabricated customs and rules, which are taught in mean-spirited rigid schools, is
very cold and cruel.
These tyrannical “truths” aren’t like those hand-me-downs, like those inherited tools, that are handed-down from the carpenter’s father as if
to separate their family from common fools.
Worn-out clothes cover the teacher who is unable to address our mis-education in schools, but the expensive fabric of tyranny is what makes
presidents duel.
Being a slave to tyrannical social fashion doesn’t mean though, that one will not be able to achieve merit, even as tyranny is repeated by the
gypsy parrot.
The reward that tyranny offers, will not fill the coffers, of the meekly suffering ascetics, who have contempt for this ogre, nor will they
kowtow, unassuming.
The truths of this tyrant they will preempt, and the ascetics will in protest show the love in their eyes that does not exude from that ogre of
tyranny whose clothes are dirty and his hair is unkempt.




Privilege or Ideals?

Sometimes I think of myself as a wayward soul who has a unique innate vision of the world as one whole, even though I live in it impartially
petitioning for morsels of truth with my erudite begging bowl.
Although the begging vagabond is many times considered someone who would deceive and beguile, to not believe in the truth that is
apparent inside our souls, is not my style.
Yet, even though, unsophisticated and disabled as I am, I try to in practicality walk with humanity the full mile, at the same time though, I
avoid letting go of  my soul’s introverted delicate otherworldly denial.
I try to teach the novelty of everyday life to my friends all the while, as I psychologically try to pick up the pieces, as in working in tile,
and rather than confounding my friends piece of mind with chaotic odds and ends, I try to help them put together their lives so it isn’t made
up of unconnected and un-relating fads and trends.
The gypsy in me knows, that the fruition of inner ideals, leads people away from the arrogance, that never grows up, nor sympathetically
feels.
This achievement leads mankind to share and know that the Last Supper is not a symbol of the world’s last spiritual nourishment, nor is it
an end to our pious series of feasts and meals.
Even if there are temperamental highs that are way too high and moody lows that are way too low, there still will be the meek radiation of
compassion which the sensitive spirits will always know, even while they feel as if they are considered by some the foe.
Also, with the commercial diversity of opinions about the marketing of truth, humanity will have to be familiar with how to cope with all
the quirks of these barterers of knowledge, and be consciously careful in making with them any deals so as to not give away to a dogma one’
s last eyetooth, or last meager meal.
I will try to keep my friends away from the jagged edge by nurturing them wisely from the true fruits of knowledge, rather than cultivating
them in and on, undiscriminating social privilege.
"Mystic Babylon Revisited"
by John Rhodes
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