‘A Mistaken Glance’

By Ian Samuel Helton, 2025

Today while driving
I saw a pile of firewood,
Lumpy and slouched over itself
In the middle of a neighbor’s yard.
At first glance I thought it 
Was a man, maybe a woman, 
Tragically slumped over the seat 
Of an idle lawnmower — Dead.
Some haunted suburban scene. 
I never placed what might’ve 
Struck the poor grass cutter’s life 
So short and in such an
Untimely manner because,
As I said, it turned out to 
Just be an old pile of wood,
Cut fresh for the spring fires. 
It’s good knowing the mower-man
In my head lives another day;
I guess I just can’t help but
Find stories that 
Aren’t there. 

Housekeeping Note:

To the small handful of you that read these: You may have noticed the sporadic and mostly infrequent nature of my posts on here lately. While I still aim to do as much as I can with this humble little publication, this season of life has simply not allowed for that. Between work, church, reading, writing (non-substack stuff), and most notably a nearly-one-year-old baby crawling around the house at the speed of light, I simply have had to deviate my attention to other more pressing matters. That being said, I appreciate those of you who have been reading so far and I hope, Lord willing, to settle into a groove where I can again be more consistent in my posts. As always, thanks for reading.

— I. S. H.

The best job I ever had was at a wedding venue on a farm in College Grove, TN. I had just liberated my freewheeling high-school self from scrubbing toilets at Publix and was soon to be out of a job. But through a delightful display of God’s perfect and sovereign timing, a friend of mine asked me the very next week if I’d be at all interested in working with him at a place called Battle Mountain Farms, or as we most often called it, The Farm. Naturally I accepted — Any job would be more appealing than itchy green shirts, scary managers, and 98°heat Cart-Corralling.

The venue is a lovely little extension of the Hatcher Family Dairy properties. If you are local to Middle Tennessee and the Franklin area, you are likely aware of this twelve-generation farming family and the sweet bottles of heavenly chocolate nectar they peddle. The place has a few primary buildings and entities for the uses of weddings and events, including the main-house, the horse-barn, the event-barn, the pond, the gravel parking lot, and the Airbnb up the hill for those eager and occasionally drunk newlyweds. Neighboring these is a big stretch of woods, hills and grazing fields — Essentially a dual-use place where the dairy cows have their grazing vacation right alongside the bustling festivities of cake cuttings, high school proms, and the occasional Quinceañera.

I sincerely miss this job. I worked with two of my best friends in the world and got to be out in a beautiful, private country setting. It was a lot of heavy lifting and sweating, but it was worth it. It was the perfect job for that season and I think about it often, for it has come to represent a much sweeter, much simpler time in my life — Floor waxing. Spontaneous dance parties. Trips into Eagelville for lunch. Real-talk while mopping floors. It was great. Nothing is the same as it was then, and I grieve that deeply and regularly.

It was strenuous work getting everything ready for the weddings, especially the big ones. Moving heavy wood tables, hauling giant sand-filled whiskey barrels, and loading the box-truck with what seemed to be endless amounts of folding chairs, just to haul them to the other side of the property. But once all the preparations had been set and the day of the event came around, one of our main responsibilities was parking — You know, the guys with walky-talkies doing the little airplane arm motions to tell you where to park: “Keep going, keep going, aaaaand STOP! You’re good.”

Well, at that time in my life I found myself writing a lot of short little contemplative poems for everyday tasks, objects and routines — Just to keep the poetic muscle whetted, I guess. So as I stood in the gravel lot baking in the sun and waiting for the onslaught of attendees, I wrote ‘Parking’.

Parking

The sun rests on my neck.
A couple dozen lives walk around the grass
In suits and dresses, waiting for
Loves cheery pronunciation.
The hawks glide with precision overhead
Like the passing of time.
God breathes softly on my broken life
Like He has for so many years.

When you’re out in a beautiful country place and have a minute to stop your work, or even just a few seconds, it can be very easy to just stand in a field and contemplate it. I think fields are good for contemplating, just as woods and rivers and mountains and oceans are. Well, on some random Wednesday in February of 2022, I must have been in between tasks and found myself stopping to gaze off past the parking lot into the field beyond and the wooded hills.

I can see the image pretty distinctly in my head, for it was one I looked at quite regularly back then. Honestly, it’s not even the most captivating view I’ve seen before. It’s a pretty simple setting for the most part, but still to me a very beautiful and thought-provoking image. So that’s where ‘February at the Farm’ came from — Just me looking into the field and thinking about it… Wondering over it. I showed it to my friend that I worked with and he decided to use it for a poetry recitation assignment at our school — It isn’t anything terribly fancy or special, but I certainly felt honored that he chose it.

We would often quote the last line to each other with a comical distant look in our eyes like that of some very wise philosopher: “Who can deny the wind?”

February at the Farm

The uncovered sun
Bathing me in its nakedness.

The great mountains, like fallen giants
Resting far over the hills and earthen trenches.

Cattle move hesitantly under the
Shade of a small tree, quite out of place.

Only a dying chill rides the breeze,
Assuring me that springtime is being carried
To me shortly, and I think:

Who can deny the wind?

I’m grateful for that time in my life and for the few simple poems that mark it’s existence. I still have my hat from there, I wear it often. In fact, I make it a point to get a Hatcher’s hat every time mine starts to wear out — Just an old tradition, I guess.

As anybody knows, it can be hard to move on sometimes, especially from good times. But I’d hate to waste the memory on a foolish attempt to try and win the past back. Sometimes it’s best to just let memories be what they are: Pleasant, but past.

Anyways, thanks for tuning in, and if you’re ever in need of a good spot to tie the knot or host a big event, definitely check out Battle Mountain. But please don’t go if you’re wanting to host a Christening where everyone gets knock-out drunk and goes absolutely nuts to the point where a guy punches the bathroom mirror into pieces cause he thought it was someone looking at him. Speaking from experience, unfortunately.

— I. S. H.

I love writing, and I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a few words into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

Buy Me A Coffee

I physically cannot make myself be consistent on Substack. I guess it’s just the season I’m in, but with all the responsibilities of a regular life, I just can’t keep up with it like I did before. Not to mention if I actually have time to do some writing, I’d much rather be putting my efforts into the world of fiction that I am attempting to refine for myself. Long-form, thought out, physically printable and readable stories — not just quick digital posts. No hate on Substack, I’m just trying to put the bulk of my efforts where they’ll actually move me forward in the craft of writing.

With that being said, I’d still like to stay somewhat active on here, so I’ve decided it might be cool to start up this little weekly (or maybe bi-weekly, we’ll see) update called “The Palette”. The idea is just to compile for the season (whether that’s the last few days or the last month) all the different art forms I’ve been taking in, especially those that have particularly inspired me. Primarily it would consist of: 1.) What I’ve Read, 2.) What I’ve Listened To, and 3.) What I’ve Watched. I may choose to include other arts such as visual art, food, dance, and anything else that may provoke me to do so. (And yes, I am totally ripping this off from several other people that I’ve seen doing something like this. So creds to them, I guess.)

It’s possible you may find no particular inspiration from reading records of what someone else has been enjoying and consuming, and to that I kindly direct you to the unsubscribe button. It’s all good. However, it’s something to keep me more consistent on here, as well as an outlet to hone in on what pieces of art have been inspiring to me and why that might be. Plus who knows, maybe you’ll find my selections inspiring for yourself, too. Win-win.

Anyways, here’s the first go around — And as always, thanks for reading!

The Palette: #1

What I’ve Read:

East of Eden has been rocking my world these days. Of course it’s a long-ahh book so I’ve been on it for a bit and still have a ways to go, but man… Steinbeck is awesome. I was already calling myself a fan of his after reading Of Mice and Men, The Long Valley, The Pearl, and The Pony, but I wanted to take a stab at this one considering most call it his magnum opus. I have yet to be disappointed. The prose is flowery and attainable, the dialogue is poised and intimate, and the character development feels raw and deeply personal. Cathy, one of the story’s main antagonists, has me terrified and angry and disgusted, and when an author can make you feel those things just from scanning little markings of ink on a page, you know he’s skilled. Not to mention the profoundly allegorical plot, which I am always a sucker for. I look forward to finishing this one, I already love it deeply.

The Book of Job has been on my mind a good deal lately. I’ve mainly hung out in the first few chapters so far so as to not rush through and miss something — It’s easy to do that with scripture. Funny right? The world’s most important book and also the most rushed through. I’ve been enjoying the King James Version, both in page and audio format, for I find the language and wording of the translation adds a particular emphasis to the depth of the story, especially Job’s lament scenes. The mystery of this book clings to me. I have read it a few times, but certain things have been standing out to me differently; posing different questions to me. For example, why does it say in Chapter 1, Verse 6 that “the sons of God came to present themselves before the LORD, and satan also came among them…”. Are these regular meetings that take place in the Heavens between Yahweh and the created Heavenly beings? Why is satan also there? Why does God then proceed to bring up Job at all? Like I said, lots of questions and things I have been mulling over, but I love having mysteries to mull over. And what better place to find them than God’s Word?

I Hate To See That Evening Sun Go Down was my first introduction to William Gay, whose writing style and subject matter has now seared itself into my brain. I love short stories, possibly even more than novels, and this collection really moved me, sometimes pleasantly, but mostly unpleasantly. When I say unpleasant, I don’t mean his writing abilities. William Gay is an outstanding writer, and it almost feels criminal how few people know about him or talk about his work. No, when I say “unpleasant”, I mainly refer to the dark, gothic, raw and often disturbing subject matter than Gay covers in this collection (and in his writing in general). Namely, The American South and the long-piled, often-covered skeletons that fill it’s richly landscaped closet (sometimes literally…) Some stories made me laugh out loud while others made me cringe deeply; mostly the latter — One of them I had to skip entirely. This was a good book, and I look forward to reading more of Gay’s work (selectively, perhaps). I would further say this has been one of the most direct inspirations to my own creative ideas lately and what kind of stories I may like to write in the future.

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer is one of my favorite books of all time now. I read it (or at least “cliff-notes’d” it) in school at one point, but after having read it through myself, I can see why it may considered be a serious contender for title of “The Great American Novel”. It’s funny, this book helped keep me lightened with humor as I was going through the murky southern haunts of the aforementioned William Gay book. Twain is a favorite for sure; His style of satire is so unbelievably refreshing, and the setting of the old south is one of my favorites to ponder and explore. Tom is so beloved and so terribly wretched and pitiful and honest and wayward and sweet, all at the same time somehow. Tom is very human, and as a human myself, I appreciate his story. I found myself feeling excited to think like a child and long for adventures and quests. Twain captures the spirit of children in such a poignant, believable way, so that even though the characters are living in such a different time than I, I can still believe in their authenticity and even relate to them at times. I pick up on so many little narrator jokes and breaking-the-fourth-wall moments in this book — a signature Mark Twain move — and I just simply love it. Twain’s timeless acclaim is rightfully earned.

What I’ve Listened To:

Cameron Winter’s Album, Heavy Metal, intrigued me several months ago with it’s, well, weirdness. I like it though. Most of it, anyways. Some it is a little too much for me, but a couple of tracks I really like in particular: ‘Nausicaä (Love Will Be Revealed)’ and ‘Love Takes Miles.’ He’s authentic and odd and creative and I appreciate that. Many of the tracks on this record are pretty experimental, both musically and lyrically, and while these two favorites of mine are still a bit odd lyrically sometimes, I think the musical arrangements of the are the most catchy and the most palatable. Nausicaä with it’s whimsical flute-ish chorus and spunky orchestral chaos, and then Love Takes Miles with it’s sentimental lyrical posture and more collected string arrangements. Definitely give the whole album a listen at least once, for the experience if anything, but if you’re anything like me you’ll probably find these two more likely to be on repeat than any others.

The Kossoy Sisters made a handful of folk songs back in the mid-fifties, most of which are compiled on this album, Bowling Green and Other Folk Songs from the Southern Mountains. Originally I discovered this album from it’s lovely rendition of ‘I’ll Fly Away’, which was featured in a favorite film of mine, “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” This record was the musical companion of my latest explorations of southern gothic art and southern art in general. The vocals are arrangements are very simple and very pretty — I am a strong advocate for simple and pretty in music. Lyrically however, you will find many of these songs quite haunting and uneasy, seeing that about a third of them are murder ballads. The old south is so fascinating with it’s fixations on storytelling that largely has to do with murder and the mingling of aesthetic country beauty with man’s propensity to sin and kill — This album acts as a good audible glimpse into that strange and haunting world. ‘In The Pines’ was a track I fixated on for it’s sweet and feminine vocal harmonies and the mysterious story they convey. Definitely an interesting record, especially if you approach it in terms of historical relevance and regionally exposing storytelling.

The Unlikely Mariner is the latest master work of Cody Fry, whom I had the random privilege of meeting briefly at a coffee shop in Nashville recently. This record should be listened to start to finish, for as any good classical-centric piece does, it utilizes recurring themes and melodies throughout it’s duration, all painted to be audibly synonymous with the story that the lyrics relaying — A symbolic tale of seafaring adventures (and misadventures). Fry’s voice is so pure and clean in and of itself, which makes it all the more lovely when held over the layers of swelling orchestral music. There is one particular theme from the French Horn that we hear at the beginning and during the final climax is again recalled, which is such a beautiful tool to use in music, just as it is in literature. ‘Sinking, Pt. 2’ is such a pleasant refrain from the previous chaos of ‘Sinking, Pt. 1’ — Not to mention the gloriously fat hits of the collected horn section… ah! chef’s kiss! (Just listen to it, you’ll see what I’m saying). Overall, my favorite sequences are the beginning and the ending, namely ‘Can You Hear it? Pts. 1-2’ and ‘Softly, to the Sea Pts. 1-2’ — The finale especially gives me goosebumps when the massive choir swallows you into it’s heavenly folds. Plus at the very end, the cinematic touch of the bells ringing in the arrival of land really wraps everything up in one final symbolic bow. Mr. Fry, you have done it again!

Ella Langley’s latest album, Dandelions, has made quite an impression since it’s launch initial launch back in April, and I am no outlier of this impressed crowd — This album is amazing. The production. The lyrics. The vocals. (Literally nobody sounds like her in my opinion). To me it’s just one of those little blessings where an album is all around good with very few disappointing moments. Obviously ‘Choosin’ Texas’ is a banger, but lesser discussed tracks like ‘Somethin’ Simple’ and ‘Last Call For Us’ find themselves even more on replay for me than the chart-climbing radio champion. ‘Loving Life Again’ is a really sweet ode to life itself, and ‘Be Her’ is not only super clever but infectiously catchy. Like I said, there weren’t any on here that disappointed me, so I highly suggest you check it out as a whole if you haven’t already.

Noah Kahan’s The Great Divide is likely a record you are familiar with or have at least heard of by now, unless perhaps you live under a rock. It’s pretty awesome, although I still have to give the leading spot to his first record. I love that this album breaches into more spring and summer aesthetics since he has historically embodied the musical vibes of autumn and winter. ‘Downfall’ and ‘Dashboard’ are a couple of favorites: Both offer very heartfelt and frustrated releases, which honestly I don’t hate — I appreciate the combination of singable melodies with honest, unapologetic exclamations, almost akin to diary entries. ‘Paid Time Off’ is another favorite, a pleasant sing-songy campfire folk vibe, nearly stepping into country territory; It also serves as a lovely break from some of the more brooding themes of the album. ‘We Go Way Back’ is tear-worthy and vocally blissful, while ‘Dan’ insights sharp feelings of nostalgia and longing for simpler times of youth and camaraderie. Family issues and relational trauma are heavy themes throughout the record, and I also greatly admire Kahan’s willingness to go there; I felt like I was offered the ability with many of these songs to step into the familial sense of grieving and wrestling, even ranting, in a way that I don’t think many other artists are capturing with such intimacy and grace these days.

Olivia Rodrigo put ‘The Cure’ out as a single on May 22 — My wife and I listed to it in the car together and immediately we were both impressed. I thought, and still think, it bares certain relations to The Smashing Pumpkins and the like. I love the whole symbolism and idea behind the lyrics. Instrumentally, I get very swept up in the clean string orchestration and sweet harmonies blanketing themselves over the grungier elements of guitar and lyrical angst. But truth be told, I couldn’t feel right about only recommending the single… You need to go and listen to the entirety of ‘you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love’, because it’s truly an incredible record, and as a guy I have no shame in saying so. ‘stupid song’ is, in my humble opinion, the crown jewel of the album; it’s just such a contagious, beltable song and so musically impressive on all fronts. I really loved her other single, ‘drop dead’ for every reason except her tacky and vain use of God’s name, which as a Christian is always super cringey to me. ‘expectations’ is straight out of the eighties and so incredibly fun to listen to, while ‘less’ and ‘begged’ insight warm, melancholic introspection that may require a tissue or two. ‘my way’ almost reminds me of Switchfoot for some reason. Is that weird? Anyways, that one is a fun angsty song more akin to her previous albums. Not to mention, ‘what’s wrong with me’, the swooning and unexpected duet with Robert Smith of The Cure (which is perfect in keeping with the ‘cure’ theme of the single). That song is definitely top 3 favorites for me on the record. At this point I’m sure I sound like a broken record (no pun intended), but I recommend you just go listen to the whole thing for yourself.

What I’ve Watched:

My wife and I started watching FX’s The Bear about a month ago, and we are officially invested. The premise of this show is so unique and original, and as an artist and a consumer of art, I can say that that is one of the highest achievements a piece of work can attain. Aesthetically it has a classic film/TV feel to it, from the cinematography style to the music choices to the slight grainy look, but the world in which the story unfolds remains completely and authentically modern, and because of this, more personally relatable to the modern audience that takes to it. There are moments here and there, especially in the first season, where the writing is a tad forced, meaning the dialogue starts to slip out of the hyper-chill real-word vibe and is pushed into somewhat cringey TV drama moments, but overall I have grace for that and am curious to see how that progresses in the next few seasons. Acting wise, I am throughly impressed. Jeremy Allen White (Carmy) is so skilled and honestly just such a cool kinda guy. Ebon Moss-Bachrach (Richie) is a crazy good actor; His performances are refreshingly genuine and funny and, in my opinion, he’s probably one of the most believable actors on the show. Jon Bernthal (Mikey) is a force to be reckoned with, as always. Lionel Boyce (Marcus) is super cool and authentic. Matty Matheson (Neil) is hilarious. Eyo Edebiri (Sydney), while often the vessel for over-the-top awkward line deliveries, is quite successful in producing a character that feels like a real person, not just a character — I’m still going back in forth on what my overall consensus on her acting and character is, but at the moment I can say I appreciate it. We are on season two now and just finished episode 7, “Fishes”, and HOLY CRAP that was one of the greatest episodes of TV I have ever seen in my life. I mean I genuinely think it was one of the most human, most chaotic, most honest, most traumatic and revealing glimpses of family life that has ever been put on television, and the dinner scene… oof. So good, and so sad, and so hard to watch, though I of course couldn’t take my eyes off it. I felt present, involved, and that’s a good thing for a show to be able to make you feel. Of course, the profanity is off the freaking charts in the show, which doesn’t bother me generally, but it does get to an extent that can be annoying. However, I understand it’s utilization to promote authenticity, being that it’s a show about distressed and ambitious inner-city Chicagoans. So I guess it makes sense. But yeah, this show is insane, and I look forward to finishing up Season 2 and progressing through to the new season that just came out… NO SPOILERS, PLEASE!

Cool Hand Luke was really, well, cool! I just love the look of movies from the sixties and seventies. Beautiful cinematography. Paul Newman is just a cool dude all around, and I look forward to seeing some of his other work. The whole “Christ Analogy” wasn’t quite consistent, at least not in the traditional sense. But I appreciated the inclusion of certain Christ-centric imagery, even if it wasn’t a full blown allegory like many reviews I read seemed to imply. But the story of man’s spirit and perseverance, though riddled with inexcusable displays of sin, folly, and irreverence, had it’s deeply moving moments. I certainly could have done without the whole suggestive car wash thing. I guess even older films had their tacky inclusions of pointless sexuality just for the hell of it, which is a shame. All in all a really good film, very well shot, and yet somehow not offering quite as much encouragement as it seems advertised to.

At Eternity’s Gate was a uniquely creative film, powerful not only because of it’s dramatic and tragic narrative of an artistic master, but also the choppy, poignant style of storytelling. I always appreciate when the visual and audible contents used in a film pair well with the figure and characters and story the film is portraying. Willem Defoe is always great, and the shots of the all landscapes really convinced you to feel the same way that Vincent did about art and nature, to be so deeply moved by their beauty and wholeness. The music was a strange mix of pretty moodiness with strange, almost half-thought melodies and notes, usually not seeming to land quite right, which I imagine may have been the point? Overall I was constantly switching between the feelings of melancholy and hope and ghostly discomfort — It’s a tasteful ode to the mysterious figure of Vincent Van Gogh and his tragic wrestling.

That’s all for this time. If you have any recommendations, whether it be books, films, songs, shows, poems, or anything else… please send them to me! I’m always looking for more good art. Also, if you have any particular thoughts or opinions about my reviews and recommendations from today, just let me know! See ya!

I love writing, and I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a few words into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

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‘Lake Waterloo Was Still This Morning’

Lake Waterloo was still this morning. 
I passed by it and it showed itself in 
New skins and fonts, as bodies of water tend to do. 
Diamonds, just shy of pure, broken glass 
Blinking across blue quilting.
I often think, when I drive past it, about
Whoever lives in the little house perched just
On the cusp of the sudden personal sea. 
The conversation of the road and 
The hauntings of rain may defer me from envy,
Though I should like to wake with the sun
And find, just beyond the steam of my coffee,
This rippling canopy, kissing the sunken shoreline 
And tempting a line or two.
But I can find contentment
Just to drive past a still piece of water. 

— Ian Samuel Helton, 2024

I believe in God.

In fact, I believe everything the Bible says about Him. All the stuff about floods and wars and love and wrath and Jesus and sin and miracles and all the rest of it. I am not perfect and I wrestle and struggle, but at the end of the day I believe every single word.

I have faith that those things are true, and while my faith is often shakier than I’d like to admit, I have essentially staked my whole existence on the idea that those things are true: That God is real, that He is the Creator of the whole “universe”, that He is good, and that He is making all these bad things right again.

Living like these things are true can be very challenging, especially when the road gets rough (and it often stays rough).

But fancy theology and flowery words aside, I’m of a simple mind that any alternative to what the Bible (and all of creation) testifies about God is, well: stupid and hopeless.

I mean that in complete extremity.

Poems don’t mean a thing if God isn’t who He says is. Neither do waterfalls or movies or flowers or family or good food or jokes or hugs or adventures or discoveries or sunsets or sunrises — None of that stuff is worth a ragged rat’s ass if there is no loving, personal, redeeming God at the center of it. Full stop.

But thankfully, there is a loving, personal, redeeming God at the center of it. Therefore, in spite of the miserably dark days and feelings of emptiness (many of which I have experienced myself lately), it is ultimately worth it to keep going.

When I hear folks talk about how everything came from nothing and how life on earth involves no existence of, or intimacy with, any kind of ultimate Creator, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Initially I want to laugh because, for such a “science-backed theory”, it really doesn’t hold up well at all. Life from non-life? Meaning from meaninglessness? That’s about as stupid as it gets.

But then I want to cry because anyone who truly believes and lives by that must be miserable as hell, or at least they would be if they really thought it through. You hear people say things like, “Actually it’s really beautiful because you see how fleeting life is. It helps you live in the moment…” Yeah, no thanks.

What does it matter how “beautifully fleeting” life is if there’s no objective sense of meaning and order established in creation in the first place? It’s a big toilet-swirl of contradiction and empty reasoning.

I admit that I hold a stout level of frustration with those who religiously (ironic word choice, yes I know) promote this depressing ideology, especially schoolteachers and “scientists”. But ultimately my prayer is always that those who have found themselves tangled in the dark webs of atheism and agnosticism would have a grand eye-opening to truth: Both those that are deceived and those that are deceiving.

My prayer is for an awakening. An awakening to what possibilities might be brought to attention if God is found to be real, if the Bible really is found to be true, if Jesus is found to be the Son of God, and if He really did do all those things.

Anywho, I wrote this poem a while back while pondering over this phenomenon of irrational and yet popular belief that there is no God and that people are stardust.

It’s not a very impressive or flowery poem; It’s more in the spirit of a simple-worded folk song, plainly and briefly opposing the gloom-and-doom mentality of atheism and Godless worldviews.

And for the record, God does not cease to exist because you cease to believe in Him, and His creation (that being you and I) can not be made out as plain or unimportant just because someone who studied at this or that college for this or that many years says it is so.

I don’t speak as a debater, scientist, theologian, or anything of the like, but simply a guy with a little morsel of faith.

Seek for yourself.

“Let no one deceive himself. If anyone among you seems to be wise in this age, let him become a fool that he may become wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, “He catches the wise in their own craftiness”; and again, “The Lord knows the thoughts of the wise, that they are futile.” — 1 Corinthians 3:18-20

‘I Am Not Stardust’

I am not stardust,
Nor a shell with no soul
That knoweth no purpose
And achieveth no goal.

My time here is sacred
To live, serve, and die;
No, I am not stardust,
No Sir — That’s a lie.

— Ian Samuel Helton, 2022 (Revised 2026)

“It’s not bad”, I thought. “But it doesn’t really make sense to post a poem about being sick right now. I’m not sick.”

And then, as if perfectly placed and timed for sheer irony, I spent all of today rotting on a couch and sipping Liquid IV; Sick and miserable.

Funny, not funny. I feel a good bit better now, so I guess you can call it funny. Or at least ironic.

Anyways, here’s my sick day poem. Stay healthy, everyone.

— I. S. H.

Sick Day(s)

Oh, how I loath 
To have fallen so ill,
My head tips and turns
Though I try to be still.
My neck is as stiff
As a plank of old cedar
My eyes are as heavy
As buckets all filled.

The streets are all busy
As I shiver in bed;
I hear the world rumble
With the pound of my head.
Through the screen of the window
The air sings of life
While I sit in my sorrow
Like a man nearly dead.

— Ian Samuel Helton, 2022 (Revised 2026)

Sonnet V: ‘Here Ends Thy Servant’

Lord, help me in that I can not
See you — A Presence, shrouded in mist.
Thou hast my ten, but what of me?
What of that Way we knew, the damp and
Cool of evening You and I did wander down
‘Neath whispering woodland angels?
The way now beneath me is strange 
And harsh, rock and thorn it’s ornaments,
Steep and slick to it’s most unhallowed places.
How came I to this, the foul iron grip
Of Death? The damnéd foe! How came I
To crave his poison when once we
Strode by rolling brooks of splendor.
My sin, aye — my own folly! Here ends Thy servant.

— Ian Samuel Helton, April, 2026

This morning I watched my wife ever so patiently, ever so gently rock our seven month old baby to sleep. The baby screamed and fought with reckless vigor, and my own nerves, as I hate to say is more common that I’d like lately, fell quickly to tension and impatience. I thought surely she would feel this way too, but she just laughed and held the child close, rocking her gently and carefully. She has an instinct in her that I marvel at, and as I sipped my coffee embarrassedly at the table, I watched that God-given instinct play out, a quick scene of maternal obedience right before my eyes. Being a husband will humble you often. Being a father will humble you even more often. I wrote this haiku for my wife this morning. She deserves more than these three lines, and over time I intend to write them.

— I. S. H.

‘A Patient Mother’

Rock the child to peace
Despite the writhing and cries:
Where I end, she holds.

As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him. —Psalm 103:13

We all take things for granted. It’s one of those sucky parts about being a human, we don’t see the value and beauty in the things we have, sometimes for a very long time; Sometimes only after it’s too late. If there is anything I have taken for granted in this life, it is the value of relationship, and though I can safely say that I do not take it for granted nearly as much as perhaps I once did, I am grieved to think I ever have.

This life, to the great praise and glory of it’s Maker, is tastefully assorted with relationships and interactions of all shapes and sizes, all bearing their own tailor-made little meanings and weights of significance. A handshake with an elderly deacon. An inside joke with a former coworker. The life-long bond of an old childhood friend. The phone calls and catch-ups, the hugs and tear-soaked shoulders, the gut-busting laughs and late night talks — They all matter. They all hold meaning in this life. More than money or status or possessional wealth, these are things that, in their own respective degrees, shape the man that I am; the man I am becoming.

I have tasted the varying impacts that these earthly relationships can produce (as many of them as you can taste in 22 years, anyways) and in those two short decades, they have already inflicted their tremendous marks on my young heart. I have been subject to the painful, the healing, the sweet, and the strange. The relationships I have formulated thus far, some of them lasting, some of them lost, and some of them dwindling on the verge of vanishing, have all touched my soul in one way or another, wrenching out from within me the deepest senses of gratitude, grief, and worship. I find my heart filling up and bubbling over with a highly aromatic expression that sings, “I am surely human, I am undoubtedly alive, and life is unmistakably a gift.”

While these relationships all hold their own power, seldom have I come across any relationship that has covered me more in the pungent aroma of love, the piercing reality of humanity, and the resounding echoes of the Gospel than the sacred bond between me and my father.

I am blessed enough to have grown up with a loving father by my side, a true model of masculinity and a reflective symbol of God’s Fatherly love. Because of the Lord’s grace and sovereign will, I was born into a life where “father” does not mean “enemy”, “abuser”, or “absentee”. My translation of father sounds more like “friend”, “protector”, “provider”… “present”. I was not pawned off to be raised by someone else, nor was I emotionally left behind as an afterthought or an inconvenience. The man that God used to bring me into this world was the same man who stuck around and raised me in it — Went to my games, gave me food, kept the lights on, corrected me, and told me that “I have what it takes”1.

He has been my leader and friend, raising me up into my own manhood with firm love and a Christ-like example. I say with great pride that I am my father’s son — There are very few things I am more grateful for than this.

My dad and I’s relationship is one of keen depth blended with the light confections of good humor, a combination that has kept a sound head on my shoulders and a steady heart in my chest for many a hard and hopeless night. It’s almost like a charcuterie board; a single bite may carry many contrasting sentiments and flavors, but it all works together in a beautifully satisfying, unexpectedly needed way.

One moment we unfold the envelopes of life’s greatest trials and tragedies, waging spiritual war together in the murkiest valleys, and the next we are cackling and wheezing about that time my mom was already pissed at us for throwing an inflatable ball around the house and then five seconds later we (accidentally) nailed her in the face with it (funny now, not so much then…).

We laugh together a lot. We always have. I think him and I, out of everyone in the family, must be the funniest two, because we manage to keep ourselves constantly entertained with quotes and impressions, often inciting mild to severe annoyance in my wife and relatives. I can safely say it runs in the family, because if you throw my grandad in the mix, it’s over… we will smother you with corny jokes.

Actually, there’s a lot more than humor that runs in the family. My gratitude for my father’s love and masculine example can be furthered back to his father, my ‘Poppy’. Poppy loves people like no one you’ve ever met, but he especially loves his family, and it is undeniably evident in the sound structure of the family that I see today. His biological father, an absent man and familial ghost, was not there for him; Never poured into him or showed up for him. Because of this, my grandfather made damn well sure that he was going to be there for his children (and grandchildren) and that blessing perpetuated itself all the way through my dad and landed into the hearts of me and my siblings and cousins.

When I sit with those two men over a meal or a cup of coffee, I feel as though I was dining with the two greatest men that ever lived.

When I think of my dad, many images come to mind, but a few particulars top the whole lot. The first is an oddly specific but vivid scene of me riding in the backseat of his old navy blue Jeep Grand Cherokee, probably out on a work errand or visiting family, cranking Intergalactic by the Beastie Boys. You may find that an odd choice to show your adolescent son sitting behind you in a car seat, but I am quite grateful for it, and to this day my taste for good Hip-Hop remains active and flourishing.

My dad, perhaps unintentionally, introduced me to what would later become one of my deepest, most avid passions in life — Music. We would cruise all over town jamming out our favorites, all of which still remind me of him to this day; Songs like Some Nights by Fun. (Which I requested relentlessly), Watching You by Rodney Atkins (I still can’t listen without crying), Pumped Up Kicks by Foster The People (dubbed our “camping song” because we listened to it on a camping trip once), and Cheap Seats by Alabama (which we jammed out to during my very brief, very unimpressive little league baseball career).

From then on, it was a ritual between us: the sharing of good music. As I got older, we began to bond over new music, though gradually, the song selections began streaming in from my own personal findings. I’ll never forget the summer of 2016. I had just started to get into Twenty-One Pilots, now one of my all time favorites. He caught wind of my new favorite band and surprised me with tickets to my first ever concert. Perhaps I missed through the excitement of the tickets and the concert that what he was really saying was “I love you son, I care about what you care about.” The show was incredible, and pretty much instantly we both became what I would deem as super-fans, saving all the albums, memorizing the lyrics, and eventually seeing them live again a couple years later.

Flash forward to the modern day, and I still race to pick up the aux whenever we’re riding somewhere together, deeply excited (though I try not to show it too much) to show him what new music I have uncovered in my ever-expanding collection, hoping he might reach for the Shazam button and save the song — one of my life’s greatest affirmations. We’ve since made our rounds to several other shows since 2016, including Cage The Elephant, Jon Bellion (my current all-time favorite, he surprised me with tickets back in 2019), Colter Wall (twice), Tyler Childers (at Red Rocks), and Greta Van Fleet. Each show, each trip, each song echoed the same message as that first Twenty-One Pilots show: “I care about what you like, and I want to share it with you.” Such a simple thing, I have come to realize, can play such a huge part in what it means to be fathered. I think as long as him and I are both breathing and above ground, we will be jamming out in the car, looking for good music, and hunting for tickets.

Another image I get when I think of my dad is sitting across from him at our favorite coffee spot in Nashville, The Well. If there’s anything we appreciate as much as good music, it’s good coffee. My dad and I have been getting coffee at The Well together for a long time now. Initially, the place bore the connotation of pre-pubescent me being informed about the world of puberty and sex; “the talk”, if you will, but now referred to in our household as “The Well talk”. An odd origin story to our coffee journey? Sure. But nevertheless, we found our visits to the spot more and more frequent, just for the coffee and fellowship.

Looking back now it’s hard to imagine a time when him and I weren’t drinking coffee together. We became regulars to the point of befriending the baristas and them knowing what we wanted before we even said anything. We have sat across those tables countless times discussing our lives, our ideas, our struggles, and of course, our jokes. After so many years, the simple idea of sitting down and having coffee with my father, especially at a place where we have shared so much history, became the epitome of safety and comfort to me. To this day, when I feel burdened and in need advice, when I feel excited and full of life, when I feel lost and alone, my gut reaction is to pick up my phone and send that same old text: “Coffee in the morning?”

Yes, a portion of it caffeine related, for the coffee itself also has it’s own special significance and symbolism in my life. But what I’m really saying when I send that text is “I need a place to let go of what is holding me down. I need a source of strength and wisdom. I need to be fathered.” Because he has shown to me over the last 22 years that he loves me and cares for me deeply, I know that he will be there for me, whether we are able to make it out to The Well or just end up having a cup of coffee at home together; He’s always there for me and my spirit rejoices for it.

These are the little ways that the Lord has shown himself to me through my dad, because those feelings and questions are ones that I bring directly to the Him as well, and I know that even more than my earthly father, Yahweh, my Heavenly Father, will always be there to comfort and strengthen me in my weakness, to be present in my joys and sorrows, to cover me in His salvific love through the life, death, and resurrection of His Son, Jesus Christ.

Each time I sip on a pour-over with my old man and crack a dumb joke or two, I can feel my spirit being ministered to and comforted by my Father who is in Heaven. With such a beautiful parallel, I can’t help but be reminded of Matthew 7:9-11:

“Or what man is there among you who, when his son asks for a loaf, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, he will not give him a snake, will he? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!”

I have found that Fatherhood has, for whatever reason, become one of the most central themes of my spiritual life, a constantly reoccurring idea that rocks me to my core at the very thought of it. I’ve always been aware of the awesome design of a father and his children, though probably more in a passive appreciation. But in recent years, especially since becoming a father myself this last September, I have begun to not simply appreciate it, but be stirred by it on a soul-deep level.

I am certain that this soul-stirring is owed to the beautiful relationship that earthly fatherhood is designed to mimic: The relationship between God and His children. I am always rocked by the beautiful reality that Almighty God, the great I AM2, the King of Ages3, is my Father. There are many names and titles of the Lord, all reflecting His love and character in vast and wondrous ways, but this idea of Him being my Father, me being His son… Man, that just gets me. Father and son stuff in general always shakes me, especially when I think of God’s display of fatherhood through my dad. I weep when I think about my own dad’s love for me. Literally, almost every time.

Father & Son by Cat Stevens. Henry by Stephen Wilson Jr. — I cry.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy. A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean — I cry.

Life is Beautiful. Finding Nemo. Beautiful Boy. — I cry, cry, cry.

These are stories that remind us of a greater truth. This spiritual father-son archetype spans all across the fields of literature, myth, film, music, and even creation itself —The significance of fatherhood is ingrained into the fabric of our very existence. It strikes us, deeply and unquenchably. That age old idea of a father loving his child with an immeasurable, selfless, sacrificial love touches the human heart in such a personal way. This traces back to the fact that all of those stories, books, movies, and songs reflect that timeless first love that tops all other imitations: The perfect love of the Heavenly Father for His only begotten Son, and the sacrifice made for all the wayward daughters and sons.

Abraham and Isaac.4 The Prodigal son.5 The Baptism of Christ.6 The narrative of Scripture, along with the entire cohesive storyline of history, creation, and natural design tells us over and over again about this idea of a good Father and the deep love He has for His children. It is a good story. That story is our own, and that’s why it hits so hard. We hear the message, and deep down in our hearts, whether or not our earthly father showed it to us, we know that it for us: “I love you. You are my Son. I have made a way for you.”

There is never enough to be said for a father. There is nothing to say that can cover the beauty of a man stepping into that role, and all I have is gratitude. Gratitude for every cup of coffee and every music-filled car ride and every stern correction and every tear shed freely. There is simply not enough thank yous to say on Heaven or Earth.

While I have much grief for those who suffer from men who didn’t step into the role, I pair that grief with hope: Hope that the Heavenly Father is enough of a Father, and a far greater One, than any dad here could be. He knows your weakness and he picks you up. He stands by you as you go out in the world. He celebrates with you and grieves with you. He corrects in love and and directs in grace. He speaks through father figures and He speaks without any help at all. He can be trusted and He is never too busy for coffee or late night talks or good gut-laughter.

He is good, and He is ready to take you in.

By Ian Samuel Helton

I think Kris was on to something
When he sang that familiar tune of his
Because there is a thing that 
I can’t put my finger on 
That is ailing me.

I stand close to the Lord
Of all the world one moment
And the next I drive past
Dead trees
With a pit in my stomach.

So what is it then?
Is it bad coffee or worried thoughts
That don’t go down easy,
While the rest of the congregation
Indulges in family lunches
And afternoon naps?

Not very long ago, there existed in this world a very magical place by the name of Friedman’s Army Navy Outdoor; an old Army Surplus store in Nashville, TN. I have fond memories of this store. Friedman’s was the place for a boy, and in my later visits as a young adult, I found that it was still very much the place.

They had everything from WWII gas masks to fishing gear and false grenades. Nearly any material that the masculine heart could desire, young or old, Friedman’s could supply it. The store was once the glory of 21st Avenue, but alas, the changing times had their way, the old had to make room for the new, and Friedman’s had to fall.

I mourn the death of Friedman’s Army Navy Outdoor and will dearly miss hearing those thick country-accented radio ads on 650 AM WSM: “At Friedman’s, We Sell Fun”.

While Friedman’s supplied me with many nifty items throughout the evolution of my masculine experience, one very specific treasure stands above them all: The Red Swiss Army Victorinox Pocket Knife.

I was somewhere around seven years old when my father took me to Friedman’s, and if I remember correctly, this was my first ever visit. Upon entering, I was naturally smitten with the wide array of manly materials and boyhood dreams. The great display of wilderness necessities and military glory quickly turned the heart of a tender young boy into a fearless five star general. I was in awe.

The first thing I clung to, despite the mighty presentation of enticing Army gear and reflections of American strength, was not the camouflage jackets or tactical vests or fishing poles, but the small glass knife case, fittingly placed at the front so as to be the very first thing you see when you walk in.

As any boy would, I stood and marveled at the pocket-sized wonders behind the glass. The knives came in varying sizes, shapes, colors, materials, and features. From Rambo-style Buck Knives to the smallest folding blade — They were all available and they were all wonderful.

Perhaps I was fascinated by the big ones, but even as a boy I think I knew that if I were to ever have a blade of my own, it would have to be fitting for my small size and inexperience. Thus I was drawn to the Swiss Army Victorinox Classic — Small. Practical. Timeless. A simple tool, but necessary. I wanted it… I wanted it badly. I think, in a way, I needed it. To have a knife of my own would signify something about me to the world, that I had taken a step forward — That I was capable of handling danger, both within the blade itself and whatever foolish foe, monster, or villain attempted to face me once I had it in my hands.

Then it happened. I heard the dreaded response that I was fearing all along:

“Not this time, buddy. I’m sorry.” These were not the words I was hoping to hear.

I was disappointed, but I tried to keep it mostly inside so that I wouldn’t appear ungrateful or expectant. I trusted that my dad knew best, but it still sucked. At least until we got to the car where he brandished to me the brand-spanking-new Swiss Army knife that he had secretly just purchased without me seeing.

Disappointment transformed into joy in an instant. I was now the owner of my very own pocket knife — King Arthur finally had his Excalibur. Such was the sacred gift of a loving father to his son, a gift that would forever be remembered. Endless possibilities lay before me! What was I to do first?

Well, unfortunately what I ended up doing first was taking the thing home and slicing my thumb open with it. I was trying to open it incorrectly and the blade passed right down the flesh of my tiny thumb. While my dad’s prior verbal lesson of the intentionality required in owning and carrying a knife had stuck with me at least partially, I think the necessary reverence and understanding really set in at that moment. Through the reception of the carelessly induced wound, I gained a lesson.

Suddenly I had a true understanding that this thing which I carried in my pocket bore the potential to be dangerous, and despite the aching cut beneath my bandage (I couldn’t play Super Mario Bros without pain for a good while), I was both sobered and matured. Seven year old me began to understand that one must exercise a new level of care and intentionality, even with the smallest tool or weapon.

I was now worthy of the blade I carried.

So why does any of this matter? Why would I relay in detail a story about such a simple thing? What does a story like this, as well as the small, seemingly insignificant item it centers around, have to do with life and all the fathomless meaning it contains? Well, as with all the subjects I intend to cover in this series, “A Case For The Commonplace”, I maintain the stance that there is more meaning to something like a mere pocket knife than one might realize — In fact, there is actually more meaning to a lot of things than one might realize.

To some, a pocket knife is simply an extra item that lingers in the company of other mundane, day-to-day pocket items such as a phone, a wallet, earbuds, spare change, a pack of Zyns, and maybe a few crumpled gum wrappers. But when held under the microscope of both practical and philosophical consideration, one finds a greater value in the small folding tool.

To speak on the more practical side of things, the common pocket knife, despite it’s modest size, remains a pillar of man’s ability to be handy, to be ready, and to solve problems. It is a simple tool intended to aid in responding to the various needs one is liable to meet in the the realms of utility, outdoor life, and day-to-day happenstance. As we might find is the case with all of our most practical assets, the common blade has proved it’s value not only by it’s widespread relevance but also by it’s years of service, a history that goes back well before the birth of Christ.

The concept of sharpening natural materials for the use of day-to-day needs is one that has been circulating throughout history pretty much since history itself has been circulating. These sharpened tools have passed from the hands of Vikings to Farmers to Trappers to Children to Soldiers to Presidents, and with each new age, the development of both material and design has notably improved.

Well before the invention of stainless steel and slipjoints, mankind has enjoyed the helpful use of personal blades. As far as folding knives specifically go, it is estimated that the first of them originated somewhere between 500 and 600 BC, the oldest one being found in Austria1. To start, these blades were primitive and fairly crude in design, but with each eras technological advances such as the Rise of the Roman Empire, there came improvements to the blade.2 Iron knives came around to America with some of the first settlers, and later on, as the 19th century was near it’s end, we saw some of the big names of Knife making (Case of New York, Victorinox of Ibach Switzerland) begin production.

While historical testaments of a product may be interesting enough, how are we to know if it remains relevant in our modern age? I’ll tell you: Because we still need it, both practically and philosophically. Despite all the latest science-fiction-novel worthy advances in technology, we still cling to what lasts — to what works. On the level of utility, it simply doesn’t matter how fancy other departments of technology prove; There will always be some cord to cut or some tag to remove, and grandad’s old knife in your back pocket is still the best contender.

Not to mention this common trinket, depending on it’s size and make, may serve well in a, God forbid, sticky situation — That is, a matter of self defense. While I would highly advise any man or woman to take advantage of more fitting means of physical preparedness and protection (cough cough, 2nd Amendment, cough cough…), I reckon it still never hurts to have a smaller form of backup.

Furthermore, the knife’s offerings of pleasure and philosophy age throughout generations like fine wine. It’s very likely that someone you admire, perhaps a grandparent or a historical figure, has occupied a spare moment with the simple work of whittling a stick into something pretty, maybe a little figurine or just a clean-shaven walking staff. We find youth drawing many valuable lessons from the blade, lessons of stewardship and responsibility (often by spitting thumbs open like I did, but a lesson nonetheless). Perhaps they, too, grow to appreciate the art of slowing down as provided in an evening spent whittling and pondering over wood shavings on a porch, or in the woods. Heck, if the Lord’s will would have it, they may even find themselves in love someday, once again unsheathing the timeless tool to etch two lovesick initials into the base of an old oak tree — Regardless, the knife is there when you need it, and you will need it.

This small, seemingly insignificant tool has been carried from pocket to pocket, generation to generation — It has gone with us in fair and stormy weather. It has, like it’s possessors, seen hardship and delight, toil and rest, peace and violence. It has been the treasure and simple joy of boys and girls through generations, I myself being one of them. If I can, in all this rambling, point you to anything at all, I hope to point you to the fact that these simple things — common things — can hold so much more value than we might see at first glance. It is more than just the thing you hold in your hand; It’s the time you spent with it in solitude, it’s the memory of the one who may have had it carried before you, and the legacy that will be left for the one that takes it up after you. It’s the simple blessing of convenience and practicality, the chance to step up when needed, but also the permission to steal away and find adventure.

For me, it’s the backseat of my father’s car in the parking lot of Freidman’s Army Surplus Store as he gave me that little red knife so long ago, and the message that came with it:

“This is yours. You are ready. You are capable. You are strong — You have what it takes.”

— Ian Samuel Helton

I love writing. I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a poem or essay into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

Buy Me A Coffee

A Few Suggestions Before You Go:

1. Cumberland Gap by Courtney Hartman

2. Here by Mumford & Sons (feat. Chris Stapleton)

3. Better Than Me (Acoustic) by Riley Green

With this constant conception of new moral debates and political causes, I believe I’ve begun to capture a pretty good picture of where our priorities are at in this country. Spoiler alert: They’re in the wrong places. I’m primarily referring to the growing lack of emphasis that many folks have placed on the intimate, day-to-day needs and happenings of their own lives and communities. Instead, they choose to spend all their attention, money, and oxygen on large scale news and international affairs, and while your favorite social media platform calls this a good thing, I’d strongly assume otherwise. The local life suffers while this large association exerts all of themselves into issues that, to be frank, have absolutely nothing to do with them.

I am not opposed to a reasonable interest in external events and causes, especially those that actually effect the common interest and economy of the American people. But how often are the banners we take up truly relevant to who we are as local individuals? Is it worth the expense of personal growth and local involvement to subscribe to foreign movements that have no real need for your input or financing? We hear of war in Ukraine and without a second thought we are all flying Blue and Yellow flags and sending large checks. We are told that the current nation of modern Israel and those that dwell within it’s borders are assuredly “God’s chosen people” — Without a moment for discernment, we send our money across the North Atlantic in hopes of receiving our due blessings (Oh, if only we read our Bibles and thought for ourselves!)

I contend that it is grievously poor stewardship for us to spend so much of ourselves, usually without any valid form of research, discernment, or true spiritual calling, on the endless lists of foreign affairs and massive-scale fundraisers. And while I’d argue that so many of these movements are well padded with corruption and false-narrative, that’s hardly my point: Whether or not any of these foreign dissensions are truly what they seem, it’s still no more wise to go casting all your emotional and financial eggs into their baskets thousands of miles away.

These affairs ought to be addressed, I’m sure, but not by Joey from Michigan who loves posting political Instagram stories but doesn’t mow his lawn or play with his kids or serve in any real capacity. Tammy from Oregon may feel obliged, perhaps by the gentle nudge of her two-piece suit Pastor, to send loads of cash to Benjamin Netanyahu’s front doorstep, but when was the last time she spoke to her own next door neighbor, or opened her own Bible? The United States has Constitutional delegations and offices to deal with the transactions between our Country and others. While the aptitude of these offices may be disputed, there is still no real gain in the American Local’s taking part in some mass delusion that they can somehow, with the power of half-read articles and social media rants, take the responsibility upon themselves. In other words, there will nearly always be better, more productive, more personally fitting things for the Local to do than take up duties that do not belong to him, especially when it means neglecting his true responsibilities in the process.

I am by no means implying that anyone who subscribes to this outsourced-style of prioritization is a “bad person”, nor am I suggesting that we ought not be praying for and supporting our overseas neighbors and allies where it may be fitting. Especially among Christians, we ought to be praying for and seeking out our brothers and sisters of the persecuted church, as well as the lost all over the world. What I am suggesting is that we who are here are here, not there. Our families, our responsibilities, our jobs, our communities… they’re all taking place right here on the soil beneath our feet, and those things, by the natural order of life, ought to take precedence. While I can’t instruct you as to what your particular responsibilities of life are, I can at least tell you that unless you’re called by God to be a missionary in foreign lands (praise God if so) or to be a member of The United States Department of State, the most prominent statements of your voice, actions, and finances ought to represent here; not there.

Beyond that, one would hope that there would even be a sense of pride in claiming this local-focused way of life, especially considering all the wonderful things God can do with such simple ingredients as a small family, a local church, or a little hometown. But for many, such pride is as scarcely found as common sense: How often I have cringed to see American people spit upon the name of their own country, only to find such sudden passion and vigor for one that they know nothing about and will never step foot in!

It is a true epidemic, this blatant denial of what is placed right before us for the mass consumption of that which shares little personal context or relation with us. This applies to politics, production, food, agriculture, and business alike. Take, in comparison, the modern problem of the internet — It is indisputable that consuming excess heaps of content and world news is severely unhealthy, a mentally destructive habit of our overly informed “information age”. And yet I would say that the same principle applies to our excess knowledge of, and involvement with, foreign events and movements. Thus the mind suffers along with the strength of the local community — We know too much about everything and we give our everything to far too much.

For the record, this concept is not exclusive to Americans. I live here, so I primarily focus on what is here for me to live out and take responsibility for, not just in my country as a whole, but in my state, in my county, in my neighborhood, and most importantly, in my home. But I would hope for the same perspective for anyone else living anywhere else; A young man in South Korea doesn’t have any real business knowing that X amount of people were shot or robbed in North Nashville in the last month, nor does he have any sensible place constantly advertising his support for this-or-that American candidate and sending cash donations. His business, for the most part, is what has been set before him in South Korea; His home, his family, his life. And if he were inclined to carry his life over the sea and land a few houses down from me here in Middle Tennessee, well then, his business is just as good as mine!

This is not me saying, “Mind your own business”, but rather, “Mind first the Business you’ve been given.” If we were to actually do that, I think we’d find that our business has a lot more to do with our children and our gardens and our churches and families and a lot less to do with the latest money-grab foreign affairs trend or news headline. For all sides and parties concerned: Put the phone down. Close the computer. Delete that post. Take a look at where you live, look at the people that have been placed in your life; Those people and things could have been any number of people or things… but they weren’t, because these are yours, and they’re yours for a reason. My encouragement? Look at what’s in front of you: Start there.

— Ian Samuel Helton, February, 2026

I love writing. I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a poem or essay into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

Buy Me A Coffee

‘Notes From This Side Of The Window’

The morning mist
Is freer than I —
It has no need
To sleep or die.

The river's way
May forward roll,
Though stuck am I
In a ponderous hole.

The grass of green
Is dipped in dew,
With rest a'plenty,
Griefs of few.

O’er all the sky
The eagle swoops —
No face too long,
No eyes that droop.

The Angels sing
By side of Glory —
They shout creation's
Age old story.

Snakes and creatures
Crawl and spy —
They tread content
‘Neath morning sky.

Canine friend
Beneath the table —
Trodding happy,
Alive and able.

All that's living,
All that is —
Jagged mountain,
Downstream fizz.

This lonely table,
Morning's station:
What part serve I
In this creation?

— Ian Samuel Helton, 2022 (Updated 2026)

I love writing. I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a poem or essay into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

Buy Me A Coffee

I imagine he probably calls all his closest friends that. He said “Thanks Amigo” as I handed him a pound of ground beef wrapped in brown butcher paper from across a greasy meat counter, the place where I once spent countless hours serving plastic soccer moms and Lacoste sweater CEOs.

Eric was cool, though. (Notice the first name basis). I told him I owned his albums on vinyl. “That’s the best way to listen”, he said.

All jokes aside, that encounter is about the extent of my stardom, besides of course meeting prolific songwriter Stephen Wilson Jr. at TJ MAXX, where we both just happened to be looking for black wife-beaters (or “undershirts”, if you’d rather). Neither of us found them. I expressed my gratitude towards his art, he said thanks and told me he would be coming back to Nashville later that year, and we parted ways. I also had a dream that I met Jim Croce in a parking lot one time, but that probably doesn’t count.

These little run-ins are mere occasions: The exceptions to the rule. You bump into a celebrity, someone that wrote a cool song or appeared on TV a few times, you act a little awkward, maybe even get a quick picture for your instagram (which will accumulate a total of 4 likes, half of which are your own family). You go home, they go home, and your new celebrity friend forgets you exist by lunchtime tomorrow.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s exciting to meet famous people… But it’s not “real.” The effects of fame, both on the celebrity and those they encounter in the public world, are mere illusions.

What is real is common folks. Everyday I wake up, I go out into the world, and I meet a whole bunch of regular old average Joes; some of them actually named Joe, and others named things like Robert or Diane or Andy. These are the people who start their car to let it heat up before driving to a job that requires them to punch a little timecard upon arrival. People who try to spread cold butter across toast and butcher the whole thing and eat in on a paper plate. The kind of folks who sit at the DMV and read newspapers and pack turkey sandwich lunches and shop for curtains at Walmart.

No masks, no makeup… Folks like me and you.

Out of this swelling snowflake storm of unique individuals, all different and strange and “normal” in their own ways, I meet a few, we share a small interval of our lives together, maybe even just a few seconds, and then we press on. Maybe I’ll see them again, maybe I won’t.

Maybe I’ll learn something about them. The girl that made my oat milk Cortado is a self pronounced bi-sexual and she’s going up to Michigan for Christmas. The guy who listed the home I showed to my clients has two young children; I can hear them playing and screaming on the phone. The cheery restaurant manager that took my order is quietly grieving the sudden death of her mother, and the guy down the pew from me took a stab at suicide once.

I didn’t ask any of them for a selfie, nor did they ask me. I wasn’t able to see the childhood trauma endured by our waitress at Olive Garden as she refilled my glass of tea. The old man behind the counter at Ace Hardware has no idea that I’m named after my great grandfather. I have no clue what kind of life the deaf New Yorker I met in a Starbucks has led; he has no idea that I wrote a song about him.

But here we all are, special in our own individual ways, unreplacable, and also delightfully regular. Not one of us is too plain, nor superior or inferior. We may write symphonies and fight wars just the same as we may lose our keys or change a diaper. We are human beings, and we all have a set number of days set out ahead of us, each choosing to live those days out according to whatever it is we follow. We all lay our head down somewhere at the end of the day, and we all rise to the same golden sun.

All in all, those lives we think are so high above ours are not so in the slightest. That’s not to say we are all equal in our moral choices or fruits of action and discipline, but we are not plain men living among gods. We are men and women among other men and women; all level in worth, all created equal, and all equally in need.

I’ve never written a radio hit song (not yet, anyways…), but I’ve met a need of someone who has. I’ve never held a position of power or high regard, but I sleep and eat and brush my teeth the same way they do. Whether you’re John Wayne, John the Apostle, or just John from accounting, you’re made of flesh and bone, you’re made in the image of your Maker, and you’ve only got so much time here. I think it wouldn’t hurt to step away from our man-made hierarchies and simply see mankind as mankind: All breathing, all dying, and all in need of some redemptive purpose.

Common folks are special, and the truth is we are all common folks at the core. We make terrible celebrities, and even more terrible gods. But we make up the human race, Imago Dei, and that’s one hell of an honor in my eyes. Why try to be anything else, you know?

To quote the great poet (John Prine, of course):

Regardless of status or bank account, we all share the same situation of humanity with all it’s joys and quirks and treacherous embarrassments. We all are capable of doing amazing things, just as we’re all capable of doing very plain things… and very bad things. It’s all beautiful and horrible and unflinchingly peculiar. Above all, it’s real, and to say that one has ever (or could ever) supersede this realness because of their fame or fortune is downright ignorance. If you’re human, that means you’re down here in the common mud with the rest of us, Country Music Stars included, and what joy it is to find how much beauty and life there really is in those things we regard as “common”.

The common life belongs to each of us, and I’d say it’s a life worth living, Amigo.

— Ian Samuel Helton

I love writing. I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a poem or essay into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

Buy Me A Coffee

A Few Recommendations Before You Go:

- August, Noeline Hofman.

- Semi-Automatic, Twenty One Pilots.

- Kyrie Elesion (Lord, Have Mercy), The City of Prague Philharmonic Orchestra.

I won’t waste time describing it, I’m sure it’s no different than any other little tattoo shop. But for a guy like me who is, as the poem describes, covered only in “naked skin”, I guess I felt a little out of place. I was inspired, though. New places often have that effect on me. I am not afraid of different kinds of places and people (unless, of course, my life is threatened). I think there’s a lot to be learned from people and places that look, talk, and act differently than you, even if you personally don’t subscribe to the lifestyle. As a poet, I was naturally inclined to drink it all in.

So while the ink-gun busily jotted away on my friends thigh, I sat on a little couch and scribbled out this poem. It’s not quite mature, at least from where I stand now (Toting Bukowski with me rather than Frost or Milton speaks to that), but then again I guess we’re always maturing, right?

I hope you like it.

‘Tattoo Parlor’

The tattoo parlor is small,
And not very busy.
Plenty of designs I wouldn’t
Want my Pastor seeing
Displayed on my forearm.
My skin feels naked.
I don’t mind.

How many average Joe’s
Have waltzed in here to get
The name of their mother imprinted
        Forever
On the canvas of their
Absurdly hairy chests!

Tom cruise wields a revolver
On the screen in the corner;
Never seen this one before.
People come and go
And only God knows whether
They take with them
A great excitement
Or a burden of regret.
These walls have seen both
I am sure.

The guy in the back room
Is picking guitar like
You might expect to hear
In a Nashville tattoo shop.
I enjoy it.

I sit now on the vintage leather benches
And read Bukowski.
I sift through it very carefully.
The woman next to me paints her toes
And the gay man on my other side
Fills out paperwork. 

Then there’s me: Khaki shorts,
Carhartt tee, New Balances.
Bukowski tells crazy stories
And I filter out what doesn’t 
Need to stay.

This world has so many
Different kinds of people,
And I think that’s what
Makes it interesting.

Jesus would’ve come here. 
I’m sure of that.


— Ian Samuel Helton, 2022

Sonnet I: Ghostly Terror

Ghostly terror, my mind thy fattened feast;
What wine is this thou drain in bitter waste
For thy own twisted pleasure? What brittle bread
For thy hellish breaking? My blood! My bones!
I taste no food; thou dinest in my halls.
I hear no song; thy howl consumes each trill and note.
What motive lies upon thee but murderous envy?
What cause have thee to prick and poke
In the shadows of the unseen, to cast shade upon
All that is green and gold and full of breath?
What is death to thee but victory, and life but misery?
Cold iron fingers, must I pry thee again from my heart? 
What love have I? Find me, what Love is left, and mend a severed spirit:
Damn this wretched presence to torment where torment abides.

— Ian Samuel Helton, 2026

I love music because it’s a culmination of the senses, a marriage of audible and lyrical expression. The two arts are not greater or lesser than one another, only different. The unique traits of music and poetry make for a lovely experience for the creator/consumer when combining them.

Of course music is not exclusively tied to lyricism, for music speaks it’s own language without any help from words at all. In the same way, lyric is not wholly tied to music either. This is why my office is full to the brim with books of silent words on silent pages; a world of beauty and imagination suddenly made real, no soundtrack needed.

With this idea in mind, I had the thought of starting a new series here on Smell The Coffee called ‘Make It A Song’. This series is dedicated to the exploration of that sacred marriage between lyric and music: word and note.

In other words, I’m going to start sharing my songs on here as well as the other writings I’ve already been sharing. I think it’s a valuable practice to approach music from the literary perspective as well as audibly, which is why each post in the series will include the lyrics of the song and footnotes about the meaning of them, and also a video of me playing the song.

First in the series is ‘Alameda’, a song I wrote on New Years Day in about 20 minutes. I never write songs that quickly, especially not ones I think are any good, so I was pretty pleased with how it came out. This song is an ode to certain people in my family who have passed away. It is a lament for the lost as well as a pondering of what I might say and ask them if I had the chance.

‘Alameda’

By Ian Samuel Helton, 2026

Alameda*
Haven’t seen ya in a while.
A hundred heartaches*
Died behind your smile.

*    *    *

Sam and Lucy*
There’s a new me 
You ain’t seen yet.
How’s the weather there?
Tell Jimmy I’ll fix up
The drum set.*

*    *    *

Does it hurt much?*
Is it a long way?
Guess I’ll find out
One day.

*    *    *

Never saw the
Angel kisses on your forehead.*
Dance for Jesus 
While my daughter wears 
Your name-tag.*

*    *    *

Does it hurt much?
Is it a long way?
Guess I’ll find out
One day.


— Ian Samuel Helton, 2026

Notes:

*Alameda is the name of my great grandmother. We called her “Nan-Nanny”.

*Nan-Nanny died in 2019. She was 100 years old, which is where the “hundred heartaches” line comes from. The “smile” bit is because she laughed and smiled constantly, despite her have lived so many hard years.

*Sam and Lucy are my other set of great grandparents. I get my middle name, Samuel, from him. “There’s a new me” is me sort of grieving the fact that neither one of them ever lived long enough to see me as I am now with my own family and passions.

*Jimmy is my grandfather, my mom’s dad. He was an alcoholic for most of his life but later got sober and made things right, both with the Lord and with his family. He was a drummer, a really good one. I recently was blessed enough to receive his drum set from my aunt. I often think about how awesome it would have been for us to play music together.

*The chorus is a collection of general questions about death and eternity that I ponder on. They’re posed as me asking them to those that have experienced death and know the answers. Very big questions presented in very simple, almost childlike terms. This childlike sort of voice was intentional.

*This last verse is dedicated to Wendy, my mom’s closest cousin who passed away tragically in a car accident at a young age. I never got to meet her, but I share a striking resemblance to her according to my mom. Wendy had lots of freckles (like me), and my family has always referred to freckles as “angel kisses”. Her and my mom danced together for many years, which is wear the “dance for Jesus” line comes from. The last line is in reference to my daughter, who was named “Wendy” after her.

Here’s ‘Alameda’ on guitar:

I love writing. I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a poem or essay into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

Buy Me A Coffee

Songs That Have Inspired Me Lately:

1. If You Know Me, Hudson Freeman

2. Dance Yrself Clean, LCD Soundsystem

3. Everytown there’s a darling, Finn Wolfhard

All the snow and ice is finally starting it’s big melt today (praise God). But alas, we are still undeniably caught in the grip of winter… my cold-smitten cheeks testify of this. With this in mind, I felt it fair to stay on theme and share another wintery poem. I am one who appreciates the mimicking of nature’s seasonal themes with what I write, watch, eat, drink, listen to, etc. It seems this would include what I share on Substack, and because winter is still clinging to us like frozen spit to my mustache, here’s a winter poem I wrote in 2023 called“We Catch Ourselves Living”.

I hope you like it.

— I. S. H.

‘We Catch Ourselves Living’

By Ian Samuel Helton, 2023

January breaths it’s last beneath
streaks of golden sun, cracking
through the skeletal remains
of summer's trees.

Who knows when the birds turn in
or when the creek rests for a spell
or how many children will dream tonight.
It’s all coming together and falling apart
in it’s perpetual system of beauty.

Love blooms despite the conditions.
Night falls and Brubeck takes five.
The cops prowl like cats in the night
and the sprouting highway lights
line the way back home

with complete stillness and
single purpose. 

— Ian Samuel Helton, January, 2023

I love writing. I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a poem or essay into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

Buy Me A Coffee

The snow is always so inspiring to me, as it is to most anyone who is blessed enough to see it every once in a while (maybe not so much to my readers up North; you guys have it a little rougher up that way…) Snow, especially when there’s lots of it, evokes within me such a strange mixture of joy and melancholy in a way that nothing else really does. I’ve written a few poems during the snow we’ve gotten in the previous years, and while they always contain an innate sense of wonder and marvel, it’s pretty typical that my less delightful sentiments of being stuck inside in a strange and unfamiliar new world also comes out.

I guess it’s just natural. So much of what we feel and experience as human beings is two-faced, sometimes even three-faced or four-faced… “Multi-Faceted” is the technical term for it, I guess. Something may bring us such pleasant feelings one moment and then turn around to hit us with a one-two punch of longing and dullness the next. It’s like that weird aftertaste you sometimes get from eating honey; Sweet at the start, but strange and icky shortly after.

Anyways, here’s a snow poem for you. I wrote “Some Nights” in December of 2023 (crazy that it’s been that long ago). It’s not just about snow, but I wanted to stay on theme and there’s a verse that touches on snow and some of those feelings I mentioned, so I though it might be fitting. If all this wintery weather holds up, maybe I’ll share another snow poem later on.

Stay safe out there, everyone… and warm.

— I. S. H.

‘Some Nights’

By Ian Samuel Helton, 2023

Some nights, the moon is as magnificent as
a dented stop sign lit by late night headlights.

Some nights, the ground, newly snow-skinned, 
does naught but keep my feet cold
and far from trekking to better lands.

Some nights, the still and the silence
only proves my Love so loudly absent. 

Some nights, the birch’s fingered tops
make me fear God once again. 

Some nights, I cease to be a writer—
And yet others, I’d bleed just to have
something to dip my pen in.

— I. S. H., December, 2023

I love writing. I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a poem or essay into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

Buy Me A Coffee

Looking For Some Good Wintery Tunes? Try these…!

1. Cherry Wine (Live) — Hozier.

2. White Winter Hymnal — Fleet Foxes.

3. Blindsided — Bon Iver.

In Case You Missed Them:

Poem #65: ‘Art Blakey On I-65 Going South At Sundown’

Poem #64: ‘Field of Yellow Flowers’

Poem #63: ‘Razor Blades’

Poem #62: ‘Preachers Of The New Life’

By Ian Samuel Helton, 2026

Ghostly drummer, roll ye on
Dead as you may be
Mistake me not for uninvolved
With this, your whispered plea

Sun, descend to paint me yellow
Spill thy golden wine
This, the moment, bears all others
Make this moment mine

Player, play your horn with duty
Play your horn with grace 
Speak the tongues and quiet alms
That gently bead thy face

Highway, make thy stretch to hum
Till I, my solace take:
Join thee to the drummers roll
And keep my soul awake.

— I. S. H. 

I love writing. I also love coffee (in case you haven’t noticed). I may not pay the bills with my writing at the moment (it’s free!), but if I can turn a poem or essay into a few ounces of drip, that would be neat. I appreciate your support and, as always, thank you for reading!

Buy Me A Coffee

A Few Suggestions Before You Go:

1. Moanin’, Art Blakey and The Jazz Messengers. (The song that inspired this poem)

2. Lilac Wine, Jeff Buckley.

3. On Green Dolphin Street, Vince Guaraldi.