The Cost of Walking

On the sea

in the night

riding the storm

fighting the waves

Hours ago

on the shore

in the safety 

of solid ground 

The Master

feeding a multitude

with a lad’s lunch

partaking in the miraculous

Now

in darkness

tossed about

helpless against the waves

In the fourth watch

a figure appears 

where no figure

should be

Fear gripped our hearts

“It must be a spirit”

We cried out 

by reason of our fear 

“Have courage;

It is I; do not be afraid.”

Came the reassurance 

from the Master 

As brash as ever 

Peter called out 

“Lord, if it is you, 

bid me to come to you”

“Come.”

Peter stepped out 

and walked 

but when he saw 

the strength of the winds 

He began to sink 

“Lord, deliver me.”

Jesus reached out 

and took hold of him 

and they walked 

together 

What will it cost 

to walk through life's waves

to silence the force of the winds 

to keep a firm footing 

Trust— 

is the cost of walking 

Trust— 

the one who comes to you in trials 

the one who calls you 

the one who holds you  

The waves will not always abate 

The winds will not always die down 

The storm will not always cease 

Trust 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 28, 2026 

The Cost of Sight

I.

We have lived so long

in our own light

we’ve forgotten it isn’t the sun 

We’ve polished our reflections

until they looked like righteousness—

certainty as revelation 

comfort as covenant 

our tribe as truth 

And somewhere in the glow

we went blind.

II.

I know this much 

God has never drawn the lines

we keep redrawing 

Not by color  

not by class  

not by who we refuse to understand 

Jesus is not the mascot

of our imagined persecutions 

not the blue‑eyed sentinel

of our national pride 

He is the Shepherd

who leaves the ninety‑nine

to find the one

we keep losing— 

on purpose 

III.

Sin is sin—

mine 

yours 

ours 

not a scoreboard 

or hierarchy 

never a weapon 

Repentance is not apology—

it is turning 

unlearning 

Mercy costs— 

the need to be right 

the armor

the hardness

Judge without mercy

and you lose the very thing

you cannot live without 

IV.

Some stopped listening already 

Some read only to confirm

their suspicions 

Some will call this weakness 

Some will call it rebellion 

But I am still reaching—

heart cracked 

hands open 

vision clearing 

I can be disappointed

and still love you 

disheartened

and still love you 

cast me aside,

and I will keep loving you 

V.

This is the cost of sight 

to see clearly—

in a world that prefers mirrors 

To love without applause 

To speak without armor 

To walk without the shelter

of the ninety‑nine 

To stand in the light

that exposes us all

and still name it grace

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

Between the Pages

I met an old friend today
in the pages of my earlier works 

 

I was struck 

 by his wide-eyed innocence 

 as I am sure he was 

 by the weariness in mine

we spoke easily—
as if the years between us
had simply stepped aside
to listen

he remembered things
I had forgotten
and I carried things
he had not yet learned to name

we parted
without goodbye—

 something quietly rekindled 

knowing
we have always
been walking together

 and we would meet again 

 between the pages 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 26, 2026

The View From Where I Stand

 The View From Where I Stand

Amazon link

It is available in hardback, paperback, and Kindle formats

Flicker

(The cost of illumination) 

The light on my desk— 

Flickered 

It caught my eye 

Then it caught my mind 

It isn’t the light—

It is my life— 

Either by flame 

or by filament 

every light trembles 

before it fades 

The time will come 

when our lives 

will begin to flicker 

Then, it isn’t about the light 

we provide today 

but the light we have shone 

throughout our lives 

What warmth have we provided?

What paths have we lit? 

What shadows have we dispelled? 

And what remains 

when our light flickers 

and fades? 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 25, 2026 

The Cost of Enough

We have learned
to call it tolerance
when we refuse
to choose

standing just near enough
to say we were present
close enough to the wound
to speak of it
without ever touching
the heat beneath

we have made a virtue
of distance

we say
I will not judge
and mean
I will not carry

I offer listening 

 not the weight of their sorrow

Their shame 

 I leave them to hold 

 my hands must stay free  

we say
I will love everyone
and mean
love no one 

 enough
 to risk myself

 

There are things
that cannot be preserved
by gentle agreement

truth does not remain
because it is acknowledged
it remains
because someone
refused to release it

We have become careful
with our words

smooth as river glass
weightless in the hand

we pass them
back and forth
polished
harmless

plastic words
offered freely
because they cost us nothing

But I have read
of a man who would not offer
what did not wound him

who understood
that anything given
without cost
was never truly given

Tolerance
asking nothing
keeping nothing

love
risking nothing
changing  nothing

truth
costing nothing
holding nothing

So we stand
with our measured responses
our reasonable restraint
our quiet approvals

 without any fire 

 to show belief remains 

and call it peace

while something vital
slips from our hands
uncontested

We are living 

 in the recompense 

 of half-belief 

We ask for everything 

 while offering nothing 

We have always known 

 you get what you pay for 

And we live 

 as if the cost were enough 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

Old Soul

They call me an old soul 

but what I carry 

is not age—

it is accumulation 

 

I hold that 

as an empath 

I have lived  

through the myriad lives 

I have encountered 

I have loved your loves 

I have lived your lives 

I have grieved your griefs

 

I do not throw things away.

I place them

in small boxes
lined with words

set on shelves

I visit when I choose—

mostly 

They are not gone—
just no longer
in my hands

Sometimes I open one
not to feel it again
but to remember
I survived 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 17, 2026

Plastic Words

There are words

that remember for us—

words like an eruption 

we could not stop, 

the ones we emptied

like pockets full of stones,

the ones that carried

what we could not bear.

And then there are the others.

The ones shaped

to look like truth,

smooth as river glass,

harmless in the hand.

Plastic words.

Weightless.

Bloodless.

Convenient.

I have used them.

Held them up like offerings

without ever touching

the heat beneath.

I have spoken

near the wound—

close enough to gesture,

far enough to stay clean.

I have written

from the perimeter,

commented

without committing,

crafted sentences

that sounded honest—

costing me nothing.

Because real words—

the ones with memory—

cut on their way out.

They drag the body with them.

They return us

to the quake,

to the wind,

to the moment

we first broke open.

Plastic words do none of this.

They do not tremble.

They do not ache.

They do not remember

because they were never there.

And I have hidden behind them,

let them stand in for me,

let them speak

in my stead—

a ventriloquist’s truth,

a safe approximation

of being known.

But every time I return

to the real words—

the costly ones—

I feel the edge again.

Not as deeply,

but sharp enough

to know the difference.

It is easier

to sound honest

than to be known.

Easier to craft

than to confess.

Easier to write

than to reveal.

But only one of these

remakes us.

Only one

remembers.

© Ron Simpson Jr.