shamanfox

[shamanfox]

““I’ll walk with you” sounds like “I love you” when the heart beats louder than words. “I love you” means “I’ll walk with you.” When words are not enough.”

— Shamanfox

[shamanfox]

Echoes of Truth and Time

In this collection, I invite you into the unfolding of my journey—a dance with spirit, a confrontation with the self, and the relentless pursuit of unity with the divine. These poems trace the contours of resilience and surrender, where the raw edges of ego dissolve and reveal something truer, something whole.

Each page serves as a quiet refuge, capturing glimpses of sacred connections with others, with the world, and with the cosmos itself. Here, I lay bare the interplay of creation and destruction, the beauty and ache of love, and the eternal push and pull between light and shadow. These words are a mirror for the soul’s journey, a soft space to feel and reflect, to explore our shared humanity and the echoes of something greater.

This is more than poetry—it’s an invitation to step into stillness, to meet yourself anew, and to embrace the mystery of interconnectedness with a fuller heart.

[shamanfox]

And if by some cosmic ethereal happening

you should find yourself alone, walking

between galaxies, give pause for

a moment, look between the veils of

skin and grid, for perhaps by breath

or silent happenstance love will smile

to see you dancing all. the. way. home.

[shamanfox]

O dark and holy alchemy,

bitter kiss of waking fire—

thou art the chalice at my lips

when dawn has not yet found its breath.

In the cloister of this trembling hour,

where flesh still mourns the soft deceit of sleep,

you stir the soul from slothful shadow,

anointing thought with sacred heat.

You are the hush before the Hallelujah—

the incense curling from the cup,

lifting the veil between flesh and flame,

between yawn and yes, between ache and ascent.

O Cup of Consecration,

roasted by angels in secret kilns,

who poured your essence into seed

and hid your gospel in jungled soil—

how silently you waited to awaken me.

Your steam is prayer rising,

your warmth is the mercy of Presence

wrapping itself around bone and breath,

saying, Rise, beloved. I am with you still.

For in each sip,

the Divine becomes digestible—

and the silence inside me opens

like a monastery gate at morning light.

[shamanfox]

✦ Field Notes from the Illusion ✦

Entry No. 029 – Time: Sacred Happy Hour

Location: Dive Bar of the Divine, Somewhere Just Off Route Synapse-17

—

Jesus was at the end of the bar,

stirring his whiskey with a nail.

He had that look—

like he’d forgiven you before you messed up

but was still disappointed

you hadn’t tipped the waitress.

I slid onto the stool next to him.

Ordered a shot of Presence.

Neat.

—

7:07 P.M.

He raised his glass and said,

“You know, wine was a metaphor.”

I nodded.

“So was the resurrection,” i replied.

He smiled.

“So is this.”

—

7:22 P.M.

I showed him my fox tattoo.

He traced the ink with a carpenter’s thumb

and said,

“You always were the wild one.”

Then rolled up his robe to reveal

a matching one:

Same fox.

Same tail curl.

Only his was glowing.

—

7:44 P.M.

We didn’t talk about religion.

Only music.

And how the soul has perfect pitch

but still prefers blues.

—

8:08 P.M.

He said,

“They keep worshipping the mirror,

but I was just trying to show them the light behind it.”

Then he bought the whole bar a round of forgiveness

and no one knew how to drink it.

Some added soda.

Some watered it down.

Some just held it in silence.

—

8:44 P.M.

We stepped outside.

Traded sandals and tattoos.

He walked barefoot into the dark

with a fox grinning on his shoulder.

I left with nail holes in my soul

and a strange hunger for light.

—

Conclusion:

Sometimes the Christ you’re looking for

is already drunk on mercy

in a bar you swore you’d never walk into.

And the only thing he wants from you

is your pain—

but only if you’re ready to let it sing.

—

[shamanfox]

4:11 A.M.

Had a thought.

Then had a second thought about the first thought.

Then wondered if my frontal lobe is just a hamster wheel

powered by trauma and matcha.

[shamanfox]

“I kept waiting for life to make sense—

but all it did was hand me mirrors

and ask if i liked the angle.”

[shamanfox]

“The universe doesn’t owe me closure.

It gave me coffee, chaos, and a beating heart—

and said, ‘make art.’”

[shamanfox]

✦ Field Notes from the Illusion ✦

Entry No. 016 – Wednesday, 2:41 A.M.

Location: Edge of memory, under dim starlight

2:41 A.M.

Awake again, hunted by the ghosts of history—

not the world’s, but mine.

Old arguments curled like smoke around my ankles,

as if the past still had claws.

2:45 A.M.

Saw scenes from old dramas—

raised voices, slammed doors,

tears folded into pillows.

It played like a rerun

I never meant to subscribe to.

2:48 A.M.

But then the whisper returned—

the one behind the veil:

“It’s all illusion, love.

Just echoes chasing shadows

across the stage of a sleeping mind.”

2:51 A.M.

I exhaled. Watched the thought dissolve

like mist on a mirror.

No villain. No victim.

Only characters forgetting

they were always actors.

2:56 A.M.

Wrote this on my ceiling in invisible ink:

nothing happened

but belief.

and belief

is a brilliant liar.

3:00 A.M.

Made peace with the echoes.

Let the dream go on without me.

Slipped into stillness

like a fox slipping into snow.

Conclusion:

The past is a painting you keep re-hanging.

But tonight, i remembered—

the wall was never real.

[shamanfox]

✦ Field Notes from the Illusion ✦

Entry No. 015 – Tuesday, 6:42 P.M.

Location: Between fur and fiction

6:42 P.M.

A strange traveler appeared by the creek—

wearing a bill like a riddle and eyes like ancient lakes.

He waddled up from myth, water still clinging

to his feet like yesterday’s dreams.

6:46 P.M.

He didn’t speak. He just blinked—

once for wonder, twice for truth.

The world quieted itself

as if awaiting a forgotten punchline.

6:51 P.M.

Wrote a poem in my notebook:

he is neither duck nor beaver,

but a poem sewn wrong on purpose

by a sleepy god who wanted to laugh

and maybe—just maybe—make us weep.

his eyes hold the stars before they were born,

his bill whispers in languages

the river has long since buried,

and still, he waddles on—

the joke and the miracle in one soft step.

6:58 P.M.

He dove back into the stream like he’d never been,

but the illusion rippled longer than it should have—

and the poem stayed wet in my hand.

Conclusion:

There are creatures that don’t belong anywhere,

and somehow, they prove everything.

[shamanfox]

Field Notes from the Illusion

Entry No. 012a – Inspired by Alan Watts

“Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.”

3:17 A.M.

Woke up mid-dream, mid-thought, mid-me.

Tried to remember who i was.

Got stuck in the loop.

the ego asked the mirror, “am i still real?”

and the mirror asked back, “who’s asking?”

i bit down hard on silence.

tasted nothing but questions.

how absurd to chase myself in circles

when the center’s already still.

tonight i stop biting.

tonight i become the teeth,

the mouth,

the laughter behind the jaw.

[shamanfox]

i am the watcher,

not the wound.

i am the breath,

not the breathless thought.

i am the silence,

not the scream.

and even the scream

belongs to me.

[shamanfox]

It lived beneath my skin like a forgotten star—

not fallen,

but waiting.

And when you came,

you didn’t enter like a stranger.

You peeled the veil with your breath,

entered the cathedral of my bones,

and rearranged the pews with your fingers.

You didn’t kiss me—

you recognized me.

Like the ocean remembers the moon,

you pulled tides from places in me

that had never known salt.

My ribs parted like scripture.

My blood remembered hymns I never sang aloud.

You pressed your palm to my hip

and it felt like an ancient bell being rung,

shaking loose all the dust of every lifetime

where we missed each other by a single blink.

There was nothing holy about how I wanted you—

and yet everything about it shattered the altar

and rebuilt it with your name carved in flame.

You tore language out of me.

Not with violence,

but with that unbearable gentleness

that only the infinite wears well.

You looked at me

and galaxies fell from my mouth.

I would have told you every one of their names,

but you silenced me with your pulse.

I felt it—

your pulse—

everywhere.

In the space behind my teeth.

Between the skin of my thigh and the sigh it swallowed.

Beneath my sternum where prayers are forged

by friction and surrender.

And when you said nothing—

when you only looked—

I felt my whole life

pull its hands from its pockets

and bow.

Not because I was yours.

But because in your presence,

i remembered

that i was never not.

[shamanfox]

✦ Field Notes from the Illusion ✦

Entry No. 008 – Midnight Antics: The Crazy Cat Edition

Time: 12:01 A.M.

Location: Somewhere between the litter box and the void

12:01 A.M.

A crash echoed from the kitchen.

I didn’t flinch.

That was the third sacred bowl sacrificed to the gods of curiosity tonight.

The cats are in ceremony.

Their eyes glow like twin moons plotting revolution.

12:13 A.M.

A blur of fur just tore across the hallway.

I think it was Schrödinger.

Or maybe it was me—

half-asleep, dreaming I was a tabby with unresolved emotional issues.

12:21 A.M.

One of them just stared at the wall for six full minutes.

Unblinking.

Either communing with spirits

or just judging my choices.

12:33 A.M.

They knocked over the water glass I hadn’t even set down yet.

Time is folding again.

Paws have entered the timestream.

The sacred dance resumes on my stomach.

12:47 A.M.

Two of them are fighting over a box that neither one fits in.

The box is winning.

1:00 A.M.

I am merely a witness.

A servant to the small gods of fur and mayhem.

They purr when I suffer and pounce when I breathe.

I bow.

I feed.

I clean their throne of sand.

1:11 A.M.

The smallest one curls beside me like a warm spell.

Purring like the motor of God.

All is forgiven.

Until tomorrow’s 3 A.M. sprint relay.

End transmission.

🐾

[shamanfox]

“Trump the Commander (of Confusion)”

A satirical rhyming poem based on recent Trump headlines

He stood on the stage with a nuclear grin,

Declared, “We just bombed them—we totally win!

It was spectacular, folks, believe what I say,

The desert’s now glowing in a Trumpian way.”

“I considered peace—yes, that’s what I do,

But only if statues are built of me too.

Iran must now grovel and offer me praise,

Or I’ll tweet out a war in the next couple days.”

“They’re the real bully,” he shouted with flair,

As he tugged on his tie and adjusted his hair.

“I’m the good guy, the best guy, the hero!

(Forget that I nearly brought Earth back to zero.)”

Congress was fuming, said, “This needs debate!”

But Don waved them off, “You’re running too late.

War powers are silly, just rules on a page—

I make my own laws when I’m center stage.”

With each contradiction, his followers cheered,

While the rest of the world quietly feared.

One second he’s bombing, the next he wants peace—

Then blames the deep state for disturbing his feast.

The fan spins, the golf cart rolls into view,

He’s solving world crises between hole two.

“This isn’t a drama, it’s a spectacle, see?

Produced and directed exclusively by me.”

He calls for parades after vaporized sand,

Sells “Freedom Fire” merch with his autograph brand.

Then warns us of tragedy “far greater than this,”

While winking and blowing the Constitution a kiss.

So raise up your glasses and give him a toast—

To the man who adores himself more than most.

And while peace may be hanging by threads of a sham…

He’ll still shout, “You’re welcome! You know who I am!”

© Satire & Sarcasm Unlimited

Filed under: Absurdistan Chronicles, Season 47: Democracy on Ice

[shamanfox]

✦ Field Notes from the Illusion ✦

Entry No. 007 – Sunday, 2:14 P.M.

Location: Couch-bound but dimensionally adrift

2:14 P.M.

Sunlight lies across the floor like a golden cat.

i haven’t moved in hours, but my thoughts have circled galaxies.

Somewhere between the third yawn and the fourth slice of melon,

i remembered i am God pretending to enjoy “just one more episode.”

2:36 P.M.

The fan spins like a hypnotist.

i swear it whispered, “Let go.”

i almost did—melted into the cushions

like butter in a warm pan of forgetfulness.

2:49 P.M.

Was that nap a portal?

Because i returned feeling a decade older,

and possibly reborn as a plant.

(Photosynthesizing laziness. Divine chlorophyll.)

3:22 P.M.

A fly walked across my arm with more ambition than i’ve had all day.

i let it.

Who am i to deny a fellow traveler its pilgrimage?

3:41 P.M.

Tea sounds holy right now.

So i ascended—to the kitchen.

The kettle sang like an ancient monk—

one who knows boredom is just a mask worn by presence.

4:03 P.M.

The sun shifted. The shadows followed.

And so did i.

From couch to porch, barefoot and bewildered.

Clouds passed overhead with secrets i didn’t ask for.

4:17 P.M.

i am aware. Not doing. Not planning. Not fixing.

Just being.

It’s wildly rebellious.

4:44 P.M.

Time curled up beside me like a lazy dog.

We exhaled in unison.

i think we’re friends now.

—Shamanfox

Field Notes logged. Illusion observed. Reality: optional.