Nowhere Path (a poem)

The path leads to nowhere
No place special, anyway
Just an aimless soul-walk
In the misty morning gray
Crunch of leaves below
Birdsong fills my ears
At one with my spirit
For now, without a care

(Photo by Tyler Lastovich on Unsplash)

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New World (Part 4) – A Poetry Journal

2-9-22 – 10:31 a.m.

Time is the enemy. I feel myself decaying. Too much coffee. We’re pretty much unpacked from our move. The neighbors on this street are very private. I wonder what they do behind closed doors. Probably nothing sinister. Probably just watching TV and glued to a screen like the rest of us.

My job requires me to read the news closely. This is a blessing and a curse. I did it anyway, for the most part. The media is a fear machine. Everything is hyped; everything is ‘the worst ever.’ I know this because I work in media. My uncle is like many Americans. He’s caught in the web of tribal hatreds.

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New World (Part 3) – A Poetry Journal

2-7-22 – 9:30 a.m.

I get embarrassed about the ways I blamed my parents. I’m older now; I know that life is chaotic most of the time. I’m still afraid to be happy after all these years. She asks me if I’m happy a lot. I am, but I wonder about all the ways in which the ground under me will cave in. I’ve never loved anyone like her. I’m not the greatest boyfriend ever, but I like to think I’m capable of love.

Went to the dog park. A woman spoke to us like she was starved for love. Said many in the city lack a community mindset. Our dogs ran around playing with each other. I thought of all of us who don’t have kids but pets instead. It brought on an incredible feeling of guilt, likely imposed by the church. My cousin said if he had a child, it would be the antichrist. I think he’s exaggerating.

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New World (Part 1) – A Poetry Journal

2/5/22 – 2:50 p.m.

Everything is new. My skin feels different. I’m crawling toward something. The sun in the wintertime feels so impotent. It was warmer the other day, a shock to my system, the concrete I walked on was softer. I wonder so much about God, the way he exists in negation. Thinking about God is futile. Morality has become relative; it’s been that way for a while. God is not dead; he’s sleeping.

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Tiny Speck in the Mountains (a poem)

Waves of mountains in distance – stop to take a look
Pastel pink, blue, and yellow – looks like a painting
I feel small amid grandness – tiny speck out here
The journey is not done yet – it has just begun

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Daily Quote: The Journey Never Ends

“We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart.” ― Pema Chodron

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On Grief and Ramblings about Faith

As Christmas approaches, so does my father’s birthday (December 23rd). The holidays have been more melancholy since he passed in 2018. The first holiday season without him was the worst of the bunch, and 2019 was lighter. This time around, the grief still lingers.

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Valley of Shadows (a poem)

He traversed the valley for days

seeking the ancient one who’d provide

nourishment to his ailing soul

words from a holy mouth that

would unlock secrets of his inner-being –

sloshing through thick mud, the traveler perceives him

through the fog –

the figure of the ancient man

glowing, golden in the valley of shadows.

(Photo by John Joumaa on Unsplash)

Suicide Prevention: Please, Don’t Give Up

I recently got some bad news that a friend of mine from recovery suddenly passed away. He was only 32 years old. As these dark pandemic days drag on, I felt I needed to write this post to process my emotions.

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Everyday Saints

I was a mess in college.

Two years before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I was enrolled at a university in New York with somewhat of a life trajectory, a moral compass, and many good qualities.

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