From the Brain of R.L. Dane

By the blinking of mine eyes, something wicked this way rhymes!

Federation test...

Just FYI, replies dont show up as comments or anything.

I really wann'an Osol Twist, but they don't exist; I wanna bite o' Hasparat but you can't find that.

Somewhere between the Heisenberg Compensator, and the rack of Jumja Sticks, I've left my purpose and peace in the maelstrom of other things.

Along with the meter and rhyme.

I have been here all along

I have been in your midst since the very beginning

I find it hilarious that you use my name as an imprecation when you're frustrated. If you understood my name, you wouldn't be frustrated.

But I've never left you. My father didn't leave me in the dust, and I won't leave you, either.

I'm hearing young people all around me in this little room Using the language of Christ.

It's hip now. It's hip here.

And it's killing me. They're not wrong. They're not dumb. They're not evil. They're not cheapening the words they speak.


But where is the conviction?

“What is conviction?” you ask. Conviction is this: The words you speak weight an ounce. The impact upon the hearer is a tonne. That is conviction.

Conviction is this: You speak the simplest phrases, sing the simplest songs in the simplest ways and in the simplest of manners. No ostentation, no affectation, no puffed-up hyperventilation. ——Yet the words themselves scream into the ears and into the hearts they land upon.

Conviction is this: You open your mouth to release a fly trapped inside, and out comes a planet.

Conviction is this: You speak, knowing nothing, yet revealing everything. You no longer care to know, care to be seen, care to be heard, or care to be recognized; yet the oceans become your followers, and the winds your loyal friends.

Conviction is blind Tiresias painting a sunset, Muted Beethoven retelling a symphony, and that modern painter's deafening whisper.

Conviction is everything but—— the cheap exchange of words, and careful synchronization of man-handled doctrine.

Conviction is everything but—— four canned songs and some preaching; a tall building to attract the followers of gastration, and some pamphlets to trumpet the blind leaders.

Conviction is the food of the Four Living Creatures, and the nourishment of Martyrs and Holy Fools.

Conviction is found where it is not sought, and comes with a price higher than anyone would willingly pay.

Some scream the questions, others glibly mock those broken inquisitors; but conviction simply speaks the answer which none have sought after. It dissolves mountains of pain and doubt, and heals the leper with the humility of a whisper.

Conviction is the difference between a program and a revolution, and between embalming and resurrection.

Conviction is what we lack. Conviction is what calls out to us in the stupor of our hyper-connected-disconnect.

tags: #poetry

I guess I am an old man, now. At least, I rather feel it. I feel... not age. not creaky joints. not time.

I feel the pain and glory of the cumulative wounds that Christ will never heal. The wounds the most like the wounds that are even still today on His wrists/hands and in His side. These are the wounds He received while in the house of His friends. These are the wounds He received when He was caring for His children. These are the wounds he received willingly for Love. For His love for His creation for His glory and for His love. It all folds in on itself upon the utterance of the word love, and it becomes this blinding singularity of complete and utter Otherness.

Of these wounds there never is healing, because He chooses to wear them as marks of Glory, as marks of His Name, as marks of His love. As if he needed reminding, yet they remind Him still. And us they remind as well.

And here I am, waxing poetic for the little pinprick in my own side. But it is real. It is real, because it will not heal. Not with any Art of light, only the mind-obliterating call of sin and entertainment.

This text will soon be supplanted with meaningful, if not insightful blog-style entries.

Like most beginning bloggers, I post what I like, and hopefully, like-minded people will follow along.

Coming soon: older poetry and other writings I have saved.

A little later, we'll have new material as the silver halide of my brain develops into new phrases and endless rants.

Stay tuned and buckle up!

#introduction #blogmeta #poetry #expression

Update: Older material I had saved elsewhere will be added with their true dates. So if you see material past this post, it means that it is older than this blog.

University setting

Here I sit in the same place I sat for two years, the same place I said goodbye to in my heart and mind a thousand times o’er.

Unexpected reunion, bittersweet detour, path of the Wild Goose.

Hound of Heaven, I chase after the One who chased me, down strange halls and through foreign doors, I seek Your will in surprising nooks and corners of the earth.

So when shall we consummate this dance, like mythical moon and sun, chase and counterchase, but never the rest of love?

I told You when I set my foot towards the Mountain of Myrrh, the Hill of Frankincense, that I would not go unless You went with me.

Years I’ve spent working towards You, now I beg to let me work with You— Let me spend my seemingly unceasing revolutions in the depth of You, Your very ———-ness.

I am asking for the Burning Lamp, and the Smoldering Furnace—— the Light of Your Gaze, and the Fire of Your Love, trapped in my bones, burning in my words, seeping from my pores.


No end to this ––––––– No end to the joy and terrible groaning the human soul touched with eternal beauty can produce. I have inherited a Fury to set ink to page rather than a-muse’d to peddle forth sweet vanity. There is no end no end no end to the searching no end to the groaning, weeping, and mourning no end to the joy, exultation, and meekest glory. Such is this life– the shattered beholder of Beauty the burdened lover of truth the weeping prophet the friend of the Bridegroom.