Lying at the right angle,

So we're both touching and not.

It took many years of practice not to forget

How misbearings take the ease

Out of what is set.

By daylight we're careful

Not to say what we mean.

We save that for moonlight

In a dream that is not a dream.

Then wake to leave,

Pulling on our distorted faces.

We do it too much, or maybe not enough.

All the tidy calculations

Undone by our laughter.

Then the season turns

And we release our fists

To inhale the peace that waits in the air.

We know all the moments

That caused these scars,

Yet still claim

We don't understand each other?

I find myself reaching out for you,

So I clean the room

and make our one bed,

In hope that's where you'll lay your head.

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There is no perfect understanding and life rarely hangs on grand conservations.

More often, we're held together by quieter things that bridge the distance the explicit cannot.

"This is different," I replied

It was.

It wasn't.

"I cannot do this without you," I said.

I turned from you then,

Though your hand rested in mine.

Still, I couldn't look you in the eye

For fear it would prove my unravelling.

My deception. Your judgement. Our pain.

Things you could not understand.

Not yet anyway.

"I love you, you know."

"Good," you said, "I love you too"

I turned back to you then,

To see a smile part your lips

While tears fell from your eyes.

You were crying. I was crying, too.

Such were the times:

To suffer pain, yet take action.

"I will see you again," you said.

Something catching in your throat

A question?

"Yes." My pulse stuttered.

I'd spoken a lie.

Oh, what else could be?

For all that I suffered...for my love for you,

A thousand times over l'd bear this.

I'd manage, though choked.

"My child I adore you."

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I wrote this poem with one concrete image in mind. At its heart, this is a poem about parental sacrifice in a broken world. The desperate resolve to endure an emotional death just to keep a child safe for a little while longer.

The focus is on the moment where love and deception blur out of necessity. It is a tribute to those who have had to walk away from the things they love most, bearing the weight of what cannot yet be understood. Sometimes a lie is a curse and other times a mercy.

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Exodus 2:3

[3]And when she could no longer hide him, she took for him an ark or basket made of bulrushes or papyrus [making it watertight by] daubing it with bitumen and pitch. Then she put the child in it and laid it among the rushes by the brink of the river [Nile].

The very air around me strained.

Within that vast and vaulted dome

I beheld many statues standing in a circle—

Sculptures of ancient conception,

Intricately worked to breathe the likeness

Of the mighty men themselves.

Among them stood one of immense height.

From those stern features something stirred.

I had seen him before, dark and frightening:

Looming ten feet tall, impervious and cold.

His mighty cape snapped wildly in the wind,

Deepening the spell that engaged all.

The breastplate shone of silver,

Jewels draped across it to ruinous effect.

Then shadow-tendrils stretched from that vain creature

And with swift precision drew me in.

There I stood, face to face, and I knew at once:

In those eyes shone the pain of suffering,

In the face, the wisdom of the age.

Yet he wore a paper crown,

his cape torn.

A mangled hand concealed from light.

In that great dome, among the host of statues,

With spears aimed at an enclosed sky,

There rose a piercing shout,

And the voices uttered their bitter truth:

"What should such fellows as we

Do for men such as you?

We are altogether indifferent and run our course,

No time remains to bear your wants.

Why should we sit upon the altars you've built?

Believe in none of us and go your way,

You puzzle our wills and we bear the ills of generations.

Much better to leave us to the dark."

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There's something about how often people found to be exceptional in their field are cast to be something more because automatically being "a great" or "the greatest" it's hard to want to add buts.

But talent does not equal perfection.

When we build altars to mortals we create beautiful, heavy illusions that ultimately crush both the worshipper and the worshipped.

Your heroes are exhausted, damaged, indifferent, or imprisoned by the expectations placed upon them. At the end of the day men can inspire you but they can't live for you.

Greatness does not exist to save you. Be careful who and what you give yourself to.

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1 John 5:21

21 Little children, keep yourselves from idols. Amen.

The day, the hour, the minute, and spot,

Held in memory, still unrelenting,

The deafening silence that followed the shot.

The man never moved, stood sentinel-still;

This frozen frame is the turn of the plot.

For time pressed on from this very hour,

With a crime perfected and the price forgot.

Pass it down by the campfire and trees,

Tell the story; grandchild sits on his knee.

He lives in the shadow of a day that shouts;

Bitter the words that spew from his mouth.

The inheritance borne neither silver nor gold,

But the misery that comes in silence unfolds.

Some will live out a bright tomorrow;

While others see dark, abandoned and cold.

Unspent grief withers the bone unseen,

The only harvest of a memory keen.

Perpetrators long gone, wiped their hands

clean.

“There’s nothing we saw; we only played as a team.”

My day is long gone; may your gardens yet grow.

But woe is to me, for my seeds I prayed:

No answers came while the gunfire rained,

Red on red on red, erasing the brave.

The earth would give way to the mouth of a grave.

Fear has a shape and it bloomed into ghosts;

The sound of their cheers, hidden rooms, there’s a toast.

Hear that which still pains me most:

The wolf I let in to whom I played host.

Who sat, broke my bread, but his aim was my flesh,

Whose claws whispered dread, voices inside my head.

Better I had listened, for denial I bled.

Every sun risen since that day in the past,

Casts its shadow, stacked up bodies surpassed.

I still check the weather despite clear open skies;

No clouds overhead, but all grey to my eyes.

“Yesterday, forget! From that act turn the page.”

But it stays in my head, what they did on the stage.

All attempts to erase, but the memory stays plain;

It shattered my world, left the fabric frayed.

“Yesterday, forget,” but that's what made today.

I turn a deaf ear to what you have to say.

Make up a lie, paint over what I knew,

If only you'd look in the face what is true.

The history you hide as you put up an act,

The blood has since dried, so you dress up the facts.

Tomorrow is merely an unbreakable pact:

A crime will be done; watch the past reenact.

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There is a saying that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but what happens when what doesn’t kill you goes unacknowledged? It mutates into culture, paranoia, bitterness, historical revision, and repetition.

What is written off as history in a poorly told story is what others are forced to live with as life.

Only humans commit inhumane acts.

Jeremiah 6:14

“They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. ‘Peace, peace,’ they say, when there is no peace.”

Boy child, look and see the sky.
There's a bird flying up there;
you give it a name.
The importance of that may hold no gain.
The world is kind to you,
though you don't understand.
It's in the softness of your mother's palm—
a hand to pat you when you cry,
or that one friend who shared a fry.
A space left for you on the bench,
and juice prepared to quench your thirst.
You think kindness is being held,
being told, "alright."
But that's only a stepping stone;
there's kindness too, in letting go.


Young man, look and see the sky.
The blue stretches out to infinity,
till storm clouds arise
and change the view.
You start to see people that way too.
In ugly times, when tempers rise,
let kindness still be in your eyes—
a friend that knows when to speak rest,
or hold your gaze,
say, "that's not your best."
A word you choose to hold inside,
you learn to listen, and then abide.
Kindness isn't always about you,
but letting others
Find their way too.

Old man, look and see the sky—
the same from your boyhood, but it's wider now.
You've seen light's advance and dance,
and given kindness every chance.
You let the young ones take the lead,
now you pray and intercede,
answering questions 'cause you know truth,
your wisdom is a priceless proof.
You smile when others speak too fast;
they will slow too, as you long have.
The aches that come with rainy days—
there are steadying hands to keep you brave.
The clouds drift in the open sky,
and a whistling bird still catches your eye.
There are kindnesses you never name;
to an open heart, they feel the same.

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All truly strong people are kind.

Micah 6:8 (ESV)

He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

merely a creature of the damp earth,

driven by delusion

rooted in his hollow chest,

bearing distorted fruit?

He yearned not out of want,

but from a consuming need—

to settle a debt lodged in his core.

Neither lure nor lash—it was no trick.

The gravity of a question

presssing him to the floor.

He finds himself longing to tell us things,

tell us something of the day and its chores,

knowing he could keep it to himself,

but a world never pierced by voices feels small,

too heavy to carry,

a dark thing to drink,

to be left alone with his thoughts in the gray—

until they begin to sound like yours,

until he's not quite there anymore.

And still, somehow, you'll always hope

someone will pass

in the heat of the day,

sit, and notice small things about you:

the way you move,

how you rest and sway.

What is noticed begins to matter—

in the eyes of a witness

who might stay.

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If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one to hear it does it make a sound?

What is not perceived has limited translation.

The poem explores the burden of inward silence versus free expression. When the things that press on you remain undefined, what hope is there for resolution?

I think to be noticed is a wonderful thing; to know that we exist to others grants a sense of grounding that helps postpone the collapse of isolation.

No one exists alone. We become persons through others, and perhaps in brief moments of shared recognition, meaning seems to appear.

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Psalm 25:16

[16][Lord] turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted.

If I could with closed eyes see,
maybe I’d break this endless circle—
stop going round and round,
only to give in, fall in,
to the wobble of spinning tops.

What am I to do?
My mind is caught in your whirlpool.
And I believed in impossible things,
so if I’ve been dreaming you,
it wouldn’t be the first magic
I've had obscure my view,
to keep me up on cold nights
with warmth in my chest.

But again and again,
too much has happened.
Rain comes in downpours,
leaving shattered sentiments,
carried off whichever way—
the bone and marrow
scattered on the floor.

It’s okay if you’re sleeping right now.
It’s okay that things are this way.
I’ve thought up a thousand ways
to cure your anguish:
so you run in the sun
and dance beneath the moon,
your blood alive with light
until the earth gives way.

But for these dreams to come true,
I'm burdened with nightmares.
I must first give way.

Sometimes we're hasty to make judgement on what we think others deserve. We'd go to lengths that threaten the self to fulfill something that wasn't communicated by words but the perception of actions.

Maybe, give people room to make judgement for themselves?

You cannot save the world by your lonesome. You cannot bear all the consequences for others.

Ecclesiastes 2:23

[23]For all his days are but pain and sorrow, and his work is a vexation and grief; his mind takes no rest even at night. This is also futility!

We share with no one.

Whether the storm comes,

Or the day runs its course.

We witnessed the cost,

And learned nothing is gained

Without fracture or breaking;

For growth, there's a due.

Our hearts burned within us,

As the image did crack,

Yet we don't look away;

We're not taken aback.

We name our watching courage,

And our distance, wisdom,

Nodding politely

As the lessons draw near.

For wounds earn our applause,

To loss we grant a meaning,

Until the man steps down

From our banner and cause.

Keep the words in the ark;

Let the rest fade to dark.

Belief outlasts evidence,

As it always does.

If you'll hold for a night,

Till the sun then returns,

Then take up the story;

There's nothing to clear.

The hero may fall,

But the charge goes on,

No longer fitting

The frame of a man.

And if you falter,

Know you're not alone;

Faith will assure you:

It's all part of the plan.

How far will you go to vindicate an idea? How much loss does it take to grant meaning?

In order for a movement to truly become immortal, it has to shed its human flaws. The "icons/hero" becomes more of an idea that can no longer be wounded because it's escaped a body.

The poems a bit ambitious seeking to touch on the dangers of this both to the man and to the people. The loss of objectiveness is a hard thing to see and if the rule you follow is causing so much harm of what use is the rule?

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Matthew 15:14

[14]Let them alone and disregard them; they are blind guides and teachers. And if a blind man leads a blind man, both will fall into a ditch.

Between two quiet branches.

Threads so fine they yield to touch,

Yet this design betrays

The fly that will descend.

I watch it struggle, frantic, vain;

Body quakes under much strain.

Wings bound, yet still alive,

Its quiet thrashing like a prayer,

Whispered into empty air.

The spider waits — it knows the end;

No struggle will this fate amend.

Patient, merciless, watch it sit,

Listening to the pulsing beat

Of a heart that knows despair.

What part of this, here, is fair?

I stretch a hand,

I intercede;

I’m a prayer answered, if he believes.

Yet the thread begins to constrict,

Woe to them caught in its grip.

It’s all the same plight, see:

We will escape when all are free.

For every snare is spun anew;

The strong consume, the weak subdued.

And one released cannot undo

The million others caught in dread,

In silent webs spun overhead.

So I declare, for freedom’s wage,

The turning to a brand-new page.

Not mercy known by one alone,

Nor setting the heart as though it’s stone,

But shake the whole house if we must,

Till every thread is turned to dust.

For why should one be known to feed,

On another’s life — a downtrodden seed?

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Is a world designed around consumption inherently broken?

Can I escape the systems that have been in place long before my birth?

If I escape alone, what then is left?

Are you truly human if you're never burdened by the discomfort of others? Often, I see certain things, and when I consider them, it's all so layered that I don't even know where to start if I address it. So much of today was made yesterday; so, where does the detailing start?

Individual excellence doesn't erase the existence of systemic failure, but often people rally to it because it gives hope for something better. It's easier to assume personal responsibility than to imagine a whole bunch of things actually falling into place for real change to occur.

I don't think things can be fixed in a day; I think there are layers upon layers so enmeshed I wouldn't know where to start. And so, I think it's better I pay attention to where my hand touches the thread. I think it's better I don't lay a snare for someone else.

That, at least, is a good way to start.

Ecclesiastes 4:1

[1]THEN I returned and considered all the oppressions that are practiced under the sun: And I beheld the tears of the oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors was power, but they [too] had no comforter.

The feel of hands grown cold as mine.

There's something about you,

You leave pieces behind.

Would that it were enough

We were once sublime.

A moment to touch, the laughs we shared,

The lingering words stir me in bed.

Sweep the mind's floor,

But there's always more

In dust motes dancing

From the light of a cracked door.

All things lose their shine;

Not all things are mine.

Unfolding like verses,

Forgetting the rhyme.

A silence to hold in place where warmth lay.

There's been times since you left

Where you've never gone away.

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This applies to relationships too.

I don't think I handle certain things well; loss is something that still baffles me. Especially when distance had been present even in life, object permanence has a funny way of messing with the interpretation of what is temporary and what is permanent.

Grief is rarely a sudden collapse. It is a slow unbecoming of sorts. How often we'd prefer to clear and order the persistent fragments of what love leaves behind, but some things are just not so easy. There is a beauty and a weight to love such that it's only right it costs something. The price to pay though, is in the erosion, when absence becomes a kind of presence too.

John 11:34–35

And he said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus wept.

Our justification today will be that the sun has risen,

And as is our lot, we must rise with it.

Awakening slowly, we get out of bed—

No haste, for in the light, we bask.

We shake our heads to clear the fog,

Steeling ourselves for the day's task.

Ask not of men, but seek from God,

For peace and strength to face the day.

Set aside now your fluttering heart;

Such is the way that men should pray.

Wash the skin, cleanse the mouth, fuel the body,—

Clear the plate, feed the mind, water the spirit.

The journey has begun; consider your steps.

Look right, look left, to come up with a plan.

It's best to know what to do, not to do as we can.

When all is done, step out with a pep,

Stride with confidence as you look your best.

A twinkle of hope in the eye for the day—

He's naive and bold, let the others say.

Win and win again, and even in loss, you win.

I ask that you don't give up—that's the only sin.

The depth of life can't be reached in a day,

And for every answer, there's a price to pay.

Seize the day; be opportunistic!

It takes a moment to break free of statistics.

Navigating the seas of life's ambiguity is rough;

We toughen our hides through the battles and the scuff.

Hear us on this matter:

"On any given day, rarely does the comfort of surrender go away."

We grit our teeth and rack our minds just to find a way.

The death of hope leaves us open to decay.

So, as we did today, we'll do tomorrow:

Lift ourselves from the bed—no time to wallow.

So many things to do—what's important to you?

In finding that out, you can escape the blue.

Every morning, we rise up, to live out life true.

And somewhere along it, we found out we grew.

Through trials and lessons, we found a light,

And offer this truth as a guide in the fight.

Alive and In Motion

Pushed by Pain

Driven by Devotion

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Almost every day I wake up, I have to shoulder the burden of existence. It is a heavy thing to seek "proof of life" when you are simply trying to find proof that you're living. Being alive is demanding; there is a multitude of reasons why we should give up, and in truth, they are all perfectly justifiable.

I have found that despite that weight, there is room for a little whimsy and a spark of curiosity. A small seed by which we find the strength to continue.

I find my own strength in my faith. There's a prayer Jesus made for his disciples on the eve of his death in John 17v15: "I do not ask that you take them out of this world." It might seem a small thing to some, but to me, it is a reason to stay in motion. It is an acknowledgment that we are meant to be here, in the thick of it.

I'd like to sell you a dream: this world has "good bones." Though it is scattered with a great number of faults and failures, I believe that with determination, you can make something better of your little corner. My only advice is you start by taking care of the builder.

Isaiah 60:1 Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.

to see flashing lights die,

and no leftover pie.

The world has gone home,

except one at the corner,

who waits to see you alone.

Catch a scanning glance,

the budding of a wry smile,

as the empty space is bridged.

The floors, slick and sticky,

make the sound you hate.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

but truthfully, it’s by design.

You stared at your reflection,

and let contemplation steal time.

“Seems like a great party,”

is something you say,

in hopes it eases the moment,

and lets silence fall away.

“I know I’ve had enough,

but have a drink with me still.”

You linger in the thought;

then, indulging, you pick a cup.

“No glasses today,” you’re asked—

your eyes shimmer in the light.

“I’m trying a new way of seeing,

and it fits me tonight.”

Now the silence revisits,

with an ease to it now,

at the edge of the world’s town

there was hunger, found with grit.

Beneath the hum of dying notes,

you exhale into heavy air.

The pulse slows down in the dark,

as the persona is laid bare.

I always feel guilty

when I feel I’m doing enough.

I would push off satisfaction

until next year’s goal—

always next year, next year,

with a face smudged with coal.

Well, my lipstick got smudged,

and my life’s in a twist,

but to sit with you here

is to know I am missed—

without guilt or shame,

not feeling lonely, nor alone.

You showed up late to the party

’cause you know I’m your own.

Out of all the other faces,

only you I’d recognise.

It’s been blood and bone lately,

fully absorbed in my disguise.

Now let the spirit be tethered;

by your light, there's new life.

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More so than usual, when I started writing this, I didn’t know where it was going to lead, but I love where it arrived. Usually, I find myself explaining what these poems are or what I think they mean, but this time, I want to leave that space for you.

I've read this a couple times and discovered different ideas so I’d love for you to share what meaning you drew from this, or what part of you it touched in the comments.

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1 Cor 13:12 For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

Maybe it’s the contemplative nature of the season has always carried. It just feels rather companionable. Anyways, after several months and a few attempts to arrange the stanzas in a way that brings it together…

Here it is!!!

We don't run like we used to.

Our hands in the air.

We just sit and we ponder:

How did we get here?

We're not all we could be,

Yet there's much that we've done.

There's yet so much to see,

While we're under the sun.

But time slips through our fingers,

And we cannot grasp what has flown away.

So we just sit and ponder:

How do we make the most of what’s left?

We’re not our mistakes, don’t you see?

There’s so much left to do,

There’s so much left to be,

While we’re under the sun.

We've trod through seasons,

Felt the highs and the lows.

We're not always pleasing

Yeah, we know that it shows.

In the mirror, we've changed,

It's worn into our skin,

But there's light in our eyes,

And that feels like a win.

Then the we births the ‘I’

As I take in the rays

The sun enlivens

All that leaves, all that stays.

I come into being

In this moment, this life

Forgetting, remembering

Embracing being alive.

And so, we and I

Meet together as one

Looking up towards the moon

With one eye, forever, on the one sun.

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This poem sits with aging, changing, realizing our limits, and still sensing that life hasn’t finished with us yet.

The image of being “under the sun” returns throughout the poem as a reminder of possibility. Time does slip through our fingers. We’ve come to the end of another year. We’ve undergone change. But there is still life, and to be alive means there’s hope for us yet.

As I said in the post before this, “what’s the point of a story where no one had a chance to do better than they did yesterday?”

Take the next step. We’re creatures of motion.

Thank you to the wonderful women who contributed. I think we made something beautiful.

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Psalm 90:12

[12]So teach us to number our days, that we may get us a heart of wisdom.

driven from land by the tossing waves.

A man slinks in his mind,

but the body is found at bumping raves.

He moves side to side, he's alive—

and white dust leaves black his vision;

it's a price set aside for a man

who's clothed in bitter derision.

Most of us won't submit to this life,

so heads turn at the sight of him.

But then comes a night in the day,

and you see that side of you.

What is life? Take time out

Do we truly share this condition?

Many lived while they died,

others died while they lived,

to our fascination.

Man is grass, man is leaves,

man is tree in the garden—

he knows temptation.

For your love, give your life,

take up strife,

Turn from its own abdication.

So the soul learns the weight of dust.

Body turns, hunger aches,

then a man starts to rust.

Yet in weakness grace is found,

God's around.

Lay the burden at His feet.

Sin compounds; breaking clay,

no memory of taking first flight.

Walking down through the ruins,

a voice calls out, pierces silent night.

Takes the bread and breaks it.

Takes the heart, remakes it.

What can He not do?

The man once was lost,

now in pierced hands he trusts,

a promise holds true.

In heights of joy he cries

such a paradox,

but that's grace in view.

Echoed in weeping,

there's a plan for us,

seen through heaven's eyes.

A song alive in us

turns mourning to dancing.

Broken fetters fall.

Making us cry,

to eventually make us laugh,

It's the/One same plan for all.

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What is the point of a story where nothing ever happened? Where no one had the opportunity to do better than they did yesterday?

Life is rarely given to a stagnant rhythm; we have need to grow and adapt time and time again. Often, it’s said that life happens in the mind and that’s true, but I’d raise you a thought: I think life happens for the soul.

We all break, but some are stronger for it. We all crack, but maybe it’s so the light gets in. That’s the condition of being human: we reach the end of ourselves and realize we need more.

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Luke 19:10

For the Son of Man came to seek and to save that which was lost.

2 Corinthians 12:9

And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

The world moves like cold molasses,
Thick and slow,
And I might trip in the silt
Before the next second takes,
Or another inch I forego.
I yearn for the finished line;
The celebration of a life defined.
A skip past the tedious climb,
To the sharp peak of the summit.
To the moment promised when fortune’s mine.

This anchors me in futility;
The eagerness for tomorrow
Devours much from today.
I need a better answer,
Some means to cease this subtle theft:
No guesses, no sentiments.
Let’s skip the interludes,
Let the major chords play.
To be there or here—
I have no final say.

My main distaste I’ve found
Is slowness in anything;
A hunger for tomorrow.
Let desire bridge the space,
And if it does come around,
That would mean everything.
Stuck in this looping frenzy,
I’m yet to find the escape.

It’s all a trick of the light;
The bridge is but wisps of smoke,
And to be driven by this,
Is to live under a yoke.
To neither linger in the past,
Nor be to the future resigned—
The climb, the grime, at last,
Can lead to a thing that’s mine.
The fuel I have in store today
Burns sharp to lighten the view.
I’ve always longed for escape,
But though agonizing,
I’ll rather now pass through.

I once read a definition of impatience as a hunger for the future and ever since then it’s been stuck in my head. I’ve often been one with a desire to be finished, an ache to arrive somewhere meaningful, to skip past the process that turns intention into result.

Impatience threatens to steal much goodness from the day, and the day is, in fact, where transformation happens. It’s as the day goes by that you’re made ready for the future you desire. It’s not something peculiar to me though; I think this modern world, with all its comfort and its elimination of friction from life, slowly rewires us to expect ease and speed. There’s a need to confront the discomfort of slowness in certain areas of life.

Not all things can be rushed; some are hard-earned.

Habbakuk 2:3

For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.

What is life when I’m not immersed in living,
Or everyday on the brink of slinking into shadow?
Some awful depth I could fall into.
Questions come in barrages; I’m tied down to a chair,
Words so heavy they ache bone and cause despair.

There are measures to take and conclusions to come to;
Thinking too much won’t carry me through.
So I stumble through motions, checking things off the list
My sorrow disguised, I’m lonely but I lie.

Yet in the offering of imaginations, however cold or exciting
Over and over I announce to the self
A vision of a future where the eyes brighten.

Drown in the shallow parts of the water:
The ducks ever ready to quack; they float and they swaddle,
Yet they cross, a lesson I’ve grasped:
That’s bird to water, while I’m fish in air.

So take deep gasps of breath and make leaps,
Like a flying fish breaks past depths with flair.
The trick is to know this: we’re all scarred by cares.
Leaves drop from trees, death’s refocusing;
Loss leaves something dear behind.
So shake about if you’ve known it in the open air.

In the family of things I have a simple place:
Quack, quack—duck or ducking—I’m not to be replaced.
I survived. I’m alive. There’s blush on my face.

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There’s a wide space between surviving and thriving. The gap between being present in your life and drifting away under its heaviness. This poem is about the resilience required to keep imagining your own future, refusing to let present circumstances obscure the truth that life can get better, and making ready for that arrival.

We are both the creature and the action; what we believe shapes what we become. When we look at the natural world, even the peculiar or absurd moments carry reminders that we can make it through as well.

Even in absurdity the fact that we’re here at all still means something. Survival is a triumph!!!

Job 12:7–10

7 But ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee: 8 Or speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee: and the fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee. 9 Who knoweth not in all these that the hand of the Lord hath wrought this?

10 In whose hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath of all mankind.

Somebody would care.

The life that you lived

Spread flowers and cheer.

You put smiles on faces,

Caught the sun’s afterglow,

Tied children’s laces,

Took care what you sowed.

I looked all around—

The crowd loved your name.

Said whenever there’s a gathering,

You were sure to be game.

Everyone you helped

Put on shows, entertained.

You were such a delight,

We had your picture framed.

The most wonderful person

We found in this age.

You never said never,

You gave and gave.

From your endless depths,

You left nothing behind.

When the people came calling,

You’d never decline.

Now the Superman sequel,

The casting call’s been made.

You lived so much like him,

Your name’s first on the page.

For all of this trouble,

We asked you what you won—

All the feelings bottled,

All the sweat under the sun.

Each time you came running,

No sacrifice that’s fun.

You gave, and gave, and gave again,

We’re just glad that it’s done.

Now you sit there in silence,

Take a moment in-between.

The weight of your emotions

Feel the cracks at the seams.

What really have you done?

All the measures make a sum:

Never to be criticized,

Never to be shunned.

No one’s plans you jeopardized,

Who everyone could trust.

You never played selfish,

You’re first to count your loss.

Then why are you now helpless?

Reach out now—what’s the fuss?

You carried all our burdens,

But never leaned on us.

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This poem is a reflection of the emotional exhaustion that comes with selflessness. The tragedy that occurs when one who so freely gives help is unable to ask for the same in kind. It explores the space between the outward projection and the internal weariness.

There's this saying, "Closed mouths don't get fed," and isn't that the truth. Generosity is good, but all things need measure before we burnout and fall to determining our worth by usefulness. We'd be surprised how much people want to help us if only we can reach out a hand.

This one is for those that give everything away. It's good to be dependable but learn to depend on others too.

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Proverbs 11:17

[17]The merciful, kind, and generous man benefits himself [for his deeds return to bless him], but he who is cruel and callous [to the wants of others] brings on himself retribution.

Of all the long miles these legs have run,

The land holds sweet memory of its son.

A thin strip of a page holds a life's design;

Each day, a clenched fist, a wistful sigh;

A heavy fruit hangs from a battered vine.

A young man's vision, far too much to bear.

The unspoken sermon comes to an ear.

A stadium's applause, a crown remade,

The final embrace at the trembling stage.

The antidote comes, and by grace we know, Watch the flickering light within an eye:

This transcendent moment crossing empty space—

There's nothing here it could replace.

A man who spent fruitful years to fight,

No tally held of all the times denied,

Behind the storm where a smile would hide.

Of all the many works he's deftly done,

Of all the many weights he dared not shun,

Not once did he impose on another's part,

Not once did we see a faltering heart.

The tool long chosen, perfect fit to hand,

And a will commands that inside resides. Measures checked not once, nor twice,

But yet again; for pride he holds none.

The sacrifice that this work revealed

As necessary to bring forth worthy yields,

And thoroughly pierce through shallow views.

For if I did nothing while anything was done,

If I held back strength and no battle won,

What then is life beneath the sun?

In met standards, we see purpose found,

And in the story's end, let joy abound—

A life well lived, let the product tell,

Never dwelling where we know he fell.

At the end, let conditions be satisfied.

All I want is to enter my house justified.

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This poem was inspired by Luke 18:14 — “this man went down to his house justified rather than the other.” It arose from a simple question: "What kind of life can be justified in the end?"

I wanted to explore a life that does not boast or seek its own glory, but chooses fulfillment in steady purpose, in doing what needs to be done when it must be done. I think there's a quiet joy in spending oneself and you cant truly do that while thinking too high of yourself. Let purpose endure until the end. To be satisfied then, is not to have achieved everything, but to have lived without pretense — to get to the end of the road with peace intact.

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14 I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other: for every one that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.

For the flash explodes—a slice of your life,

Frozen in frame, a moment you’re alive.

Something you can look on,

A night you’ll hold close:

Your mother and father,

The friend you miss most.

A whimsical picture that touches your soul,

Brings a smile to your lips

And some warmth to your heart.

Or maybe it’ll choke you

The day they depart.

But life is for love; loving is living,

And being in the moment

Through all that you’re seeing.

Remember, someday the memory may fade,

But held in a photo

Is a time-travelling cave—

It stirs up the wonder and joy,

A moment's blessed escape.

There’s a time you were there,

Your heart beat with no fear,

Free and shining as the sun

With all your loved ones near.

The smiles had lit the room,

No eyes were dim with gloom.

Then you’ll want to reminisce—

How’d it end so soon?

The times have long since changed,

You’re farther on in age.

The photo is so you can recall

The turning of the page.

There’s more that still will come,

Your life’s work not yet done.

So take another photo, please—

Don’t let it just be one.

Doesn’t matter if you feel beautiful,

Or if it’s about something you won.

Some will say a picture

Defines beauty by the lens,

But it’s a story told in silence

Written out without a pen.

The stages of your life,

How you bloomed again and again.

Each piece becomes a work of art,

A frame that holds, supports the heart.

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The act of taking a picture is the same as declaring, “I want to remember.” Especially when it captures the essence of the moment, not just the glamour. It provides a way of revisiting time, making the past alive in the present.

Long before photographs, people would commission paintings of all sorts. It is human to want to remember, to want tangible proof that a moment was real. You once were as happy or as sad as depicted. You did infact love yourself and that person that may no longer be there. A piece of memory captured in a frame that can be revisited, felt and cherished.

James 4:14

14 Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.

A thing of dust beneath the door.

But then I built a wall of ink

Lest cracks should spread

Across the floors.

To err is human, soft and brief,

Sometimes we slip and shatter cups.

But pride will stretch till then comes grief,

And stitch a silence

Tangled up.

I wore a mask to veil the scar,

No tells of who remains beneath.

As truth grew distant, dim and far—

A buried child

By my conceit.

It's not so wrong to fear the shame,

But wrong to feed it, dress it warm,

To cast shadows we hide our name,

With bleach in tow

Scrub what was born.

Forgive the wound? Perhaps you would.

This fortress that's made mine by claim

The lie I loved more than the good—

The fire I lit

To hide the flame.

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This poem explores the process of self-deception. There's a powerful human impulse that leads us to cover failure and shame, often by tremendous effort.

This is a desire to control the perception of us, driven by the fears of our mind. The question is this: How can we truly be ourselves when we're hiding?

Sometimes we have to shatter images in exchange for something real.

Proverbs 20:6

[6]Many a man proclaims his own loving-kindness and goodness, but a faithful man who can find?