Eight days,

Eight weeks,

Eight months,

Eight years,

I keep waiting for it to get easier

It hasn’t

I wait

For the numbness

To give way

I wait

For the full weight

Of the loss

I wait

For the hurting

To pass to the side

I wait

For the good memories

To push the pain away

You have been gone

Eight years, Dad

I keep waiting for it to get easier

It hasn’t.

Ron Simpson, Jr.

March 8, 2015

Word Play

Hard to

Read

This is a

Poem that doesn't

Say much of

Anything except to

Be hard to 

Read because it

Doesn't follow the

Commonly

Used structure of

Sentencing

It breaks at

All the wrong 

Places and

Therefore interrupts

The readers

Flow of

Reading

This forces

The reader to

Search for the

Meaning of the 

Words so

Eclectically

Written and

Structured

Perhaps this is

Not such a bad

Thing if it

Causes us to

Step outside and

See what is being

Said and not 

Assuming we 

Already know what

The writer is

Saying

Maybe we 

Need to listen this

Way as well

Ron Simpson

March 8, 2014

the glimmer of hope

Recently, while working in the emergency department, I was witness to a small family group as their loved one was slipping away. I could hear their conversations with each other and with the ER staff. I wasn't eavesdropping, but they were only a few feet from where I was on a ladder. I remember some of the conversation parts, but the words were less important that what was hanging on each one of them. It was obvious to the staff and to each in this family's group that these were their loved ones final minutes.

Yet, in spite of their resignation to the fact, there remain the smallest glimmer of hope. This hope, however slight, became a dam, holding back the flood. I know this because I saw the hope and I saw the eventual flood. It appeared that when hope was extinguished the flood of grief rushed over them. There was no gradual resignation; no slow acceptance; no release by degrees. There was hope; then, there was grief. There were words laced with a flavor of unreasonable expectation; then, there were cries of anguish. It made me think of that hope.

I know nothing of the person in the room. I never saw them. I know nothing of the small family gathered there. I did not linger with my looks. I did not want to intrude upon their hope nor did I want to invade their grief. 

I saw enough and heard enough to feel their hope and to feel their grief. 

Just that slightest fragment of hope was enough to withstand the destructive force of loss. 

I am thankful for my hope. Paul, the Apostle of Jesus Christ, said it was the 'anchor' of the soul. 

Hope is the oasis to my spirit when I travel in dry and parching places. 

It is the rest to my mind when circumstances and events seek to steal my strength. 

It is the dam that keeps the flood waters of despair at bay. 

It is the glimmer in the darkness. 

It is the path by which we traverse the valleys. 

It is the anchor, keeping me from being swept away. 

It is my lifeline when I climb the nearly sheer face of the mountain. 

At times it is a bright beacon held aloft to light our way. 

At other times, it is just the flickering of life remaining in the embers. 

but even its weakest flickering chases away the darkness. 

It is my security when I have no reason to believe. 

It carries and uses words, though words cannot define it. 

I can show you what it does, but I cannot tell you what it is. 

I can show you where it is, but I cannot tell you what it is. 

I can show you the countless works of those that lean on it, but I cannot tell you what is it. 

I can show you what it looks like in the face of a survivor, but I cannot tell you what it is. 

I can show you the devastation that follows when it is lost, but still, I cannot tell you what it is. 

I can point you to the source, but I cannot tell you what it is. 

It is everywhere I look and yet it is undefinable. 

Regardless of the source of your hope, it is still the anchor. Regardless of your faith or belief, that hope is still your anchor. 

Life allows U-turns

One of the best things about life is the ability to change it. Your day may not start in the morning as mine does, but we will use 'morning' as a analogy for a starting point. Every morning (see how we did that) when you start your day, you have to option to continue on the path you finished on the night before, or go in a completely new and different direction. 

We hear it all the time. Today is the day I start doing this or stop doing that. That is a U-turn in life. It doesn't automatically remove any consequences from the old path, but it does stop them from continuing to compile. 

Daily, we hear of someone starting 'their diet,' or quitting smoking, or drinking, or starting a new job. Those are the U-turns that life allows. 

We read about stars recreating or rebranding themselves to rejuvenate a dwindling career. We can do the same. See the person you want to be and turn in that direction. 

Life allows U-turns!!

Scooby Doo

Failing

failing

I have watched you
I witnessed when you fell
I was close enough to see 
the struggle and the load
that took you down

some of it was just life
you know, the things we all have
the daily struggle
the anguish of life
the heartbreak of loss
those things we all must carry
and they are best carried alone

these are a few of the things 
someone can help you with
but you must still learn
to carry them alone
because, they will come at times
when there is no one

then, there was the weight of decisions
the aftermath of choices
the chains and baggage of living
that is different for everyone
that which is light in my life
may be devastating in yours

so, I watch your struggle
with my own internal torment
of when, where, and how to step in
too soon, and you don't learn
and I become your enabler
too late, and the damage may be irreversible
the sickness, incurable

I see you fall
I fight the urge to run
I fight the overwhelming internal need
to rush to your side
put you on my shoulders
lift you above the troubles
show you the warming sunlight 
of a bright future

I hear the terrible sounds
you hitting the ground
the rush of breath
forced out as you land
the breaking
as you try to catch yourself

I listen
for the next sounds
the sounds of movement
the sounds of struggle
the sounds of the fight inside you 
the sounds of determined breath
the sounds of raising

it is not the falling that scares me most
it is not the sounds of struggle I fear
it is not the scrapes and cuts
it is not the bruises
these I dislike, this is true
but they do not break my heart (much)

the thing I fear the most
that which would surely break my heart
would be the sounds of stillness
the lack of the sounds of a struggle
the awful sounds of resignation
the terrible sounds of falling becoming failing

over the years I have lost count
of the times I have seen you fall
even when you threatened to quit
you did so with the sounds of the struggle
still in your voice
I heard the fall
I didn't hear the fail

you have stood
you have shook yourself
you have, at times, limped back home
you have done what you must
to prevent a fall from becoming a fail

perhaps we haven't said it often enough
while we have not always been delighted 
with the choices and decisions you have made
we have always been proud of the person you are
proud that you still struggle
proud that your falls have not become your fails

falling is a given
failing is a choice

Ron Simpson, Jr.
January 31, 2015

trying a new type of portrait .. I liked the original photo .. 

Intent

Everything the ocean is, it is at all times .. 

Everything the ocean possess, it possesses at all times ..

The fury of the ocean; the great or raging waves; are caused by the forces of the gravitational pull of the moon and the sun and driven by the wind .. The storms raging .. spurred on by the wind and wave ..

They do not make the ocean more than it is .. They just change the way it affects us ..

The same is true about words. You can fill an ocean with the words that have been written and spoken. Everything a word is, it is at all times. Everything a word possesses, it possesses at all times. The fury of a word; the great or raging words; are altered by intent. Intent doesn't make the word more than it is. It just changes the way it affects us. 

The question in my mind is whether the gravitational pull of the moon working in concert with the ocean or is it working conversely?

In the same light, does your intent work in concert with your words, or does it work conversely?

Broken

Societally,

we feel the need 

to assess blame

for whatever happens

We seek the weakness

which must be the reason 

for nothing breaks

unless something is weak

This is a misnomer

It takes a great quality of strength 

to allow oneself to be weak

and continue, even broken

When we are born

we come into this world

weak and nearly defenseless

without even knowing 

we come, needing someone

As we grow

we rely on the strength

and independence

of our parents

as we watch them raise us

They teach us

necessarily so

to be independent

to 'stand on our own two feet'

We learn, by rote

when something is broken

there are two things to choose

fix it or throw it away

As a parent looking back

I see now, the error of my teaching

if I taught my children

that weakness is powerless

and that broken is useless

As the sum of humanity

we are all weak sometimes

and often brokenness

creeps into our lives

Just as when we were born,

by the greatness of design

Life, fate, or God

(call it whichever you choose)

has placed those with strength

into our lives

In these times of weakness

whether short or long

they are there for us

to utilize their strength

In times of brokenness

again, whether short or long

they are there for us

to hold us together

We all need someone at times

someone to hold us up

someone to hold us together

someone to get us through those times

Brokenness is not weakness

the strength required

just to continue in these times

is far greater than ever required before

Our character

the sum of our experiences

with the addition of our actions

will never be defined by our brokenness

We are who we are

when we are weakest

when we are most broken

when that strength

that we have forgotten 

comes shining through

The strength

to take another person’s hand

to lean on the shoulder of a friend

to allow love to bind our brokenness

It is your great strength

that will allow you to be weak

that will allow you to be broken

and will carry you through

with help, a little or a lot

Strong things break

inflexible things shatter

strength is perfected

in times of weakness

If you must be weak

be strong through it

if you must be broken

be flexible enough to lean

Brokenness

has never been

about weakness

Broken

Strong

Ron Simpson, Jr.

January 18, 2015

The return

Spillage. 

Cathartic. 

One of the things I counsel couples about to be married about is "being committed to being married." They're going to be times that you do not like this person that you love. Therefore, you must be committed to being married or the marriage will not last. The same is true about writing. You must be committed to writing. I call this troubled ramblings because they are the ramblings of my troubled mind.

While I have not slowed down in writing, I have not been putting those here. I have a backlog of spillage in my notes. It may take me a little while to work them into some cohesive form for sharing, but bear with me and I will try to stay in touch.

Writing is cathartic. The ability to express myself and put that on paper or tablet or electronic writing is calming to my soul. Even when not in cohesive form, it helps me to simply get out of my mind. It has an unbelievably healing effect to assuage the hurt, or rage, or sorrow, to simply write a few ( okay, sometimes more than a few) words down and walk away, leaving the brunt of the damage there, to revisit in a less raw state. 

What you should read here will be the froth of the boil. You will see the vapor, safely away from the flame. In theory, that will be the case. I will warn you, however, sometimes the heat will commingle with the words and some of the scorch may come through. Sometimes the raw will refuse to be assuaged and will rear its head. Forewarned is forearmed. 

Feel free to comment or not. I don't even know if anyone reads these anymore, since the instant gratification of Facebook has arrived. I have a Facebook account, with which I peruse the surface life of my friends and play a few games. I add a poem or two here and there. It does not meet the level of here. There, they are snippets of our lives; sound bytes, if you will. (Most people only want sound bytes anyway; something to read quickly and react to even faster, without having to try to understand the emotional motivation behind the words.) If, or when, this becomes that, it will fade into the obscurity of that morass. Until then, these are my ramblings, troubled or otherwise. Welcome back. 

1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10 !  Ready or not, here I come...