Friday, March 06, 2026

Shared Grace


It’s odd 

how we speak of society 

as if it were something fragile 

that the other side might break. 

As if it isn’t already held together 

by people who disagree.


The road does not ask 

how I voted. 

The lights do not dim 

over doctrine. 

Water runs 

without checking allegiance. 

Somewhere, 

a stranger’s hands 

steady my day 

before I notice.


We have grown loud 

about difference, 

but quiet 

about dependence.

 

Perhaps nothing collapses 

all at once; 

perhaps it happens 

when we forget 

how much of our living 

is borrowed.


The table grows smaller 

when we are "right." 

I have felt that heat rise, 

have watched the air thin between us 

until the door closes 

and stays closed. 


So I step away 

when the temperature climbs. 

Not to sever, 

not to score a point, 

but to cool—

and to come back. 

Not because I have surrendered, 

nor because you have, 

but because the conversation 

is worth more than the moment.

© Ron Simpson Jr


Glass in My Brain


Some things are like

glass in my brain—

shards that shimmer

but never shine 


They shred my thoughts 

lay bare the core 

and leave me bleeding 

without a wound 


Every memory splinters 

even the gentle ones 

Every word cuts deep 

even the ones meant to heal 

Fragments of pain

I cannot sweep away 


I turn my head 

and feel the jagged edges shift—

the unrelenting, cruel geometry

of truths I cannot unlearn 


My anchor is broken 

I can feel myself drift 

Reaching for the sound of your voice 

but the shards distort it to silence 


I am both the wound

and the one who bleeds 


© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 1, 2025


Always in Motion


You moved through life 

with a love for speed 

and all things fast 


Your childhood love 

Race cars 

In the form of go-carts 


Tricycles gave way to bikes 

Bicycles gave way to dirt bikes 

Fast cars, fast times 


For all that hurrying 

We didn’t know 

You were rushing away 


You chased the horizon 

like it owed you something 

like life was a straight stretch 

waiting to be opened up 


Wind in your face 

engine beneath you 

the world just a blur 

you refused to crawl through 


And now time 

has done what it does 

without asking us 

if we were ready 


Seventeen 

is not a finish line 

It is barely 

the starting flag 


What wouldn't we give 

for one more rev 

one more laugh 

one more reckless grin 


But speed was never 

what defined you 


It was the joy 

the light 

the spark 

that made us smile 

when you walked in 


And that 

has not slowed 

It lives 

where we keep you now 


Always in motion 


© Ron Simpson Jr. 

February 12, 2026


Hello, my Friend


I visited you today 

while you slept 

Your world was at peace 


I spoke to you 

Softly as I stood beside 

I spoke a quiet goodbye 


I spoke to your family 

We reminisced about yesterday 

We laughed about it 

We cried about it 


There was no discussion 

about the things left undone 

about the unfinished 


Your course was plotted 

And you have found conclusion 

Your part is finished 


We, the remaining 

accompanied 

by the size of the loss 

Will carry on 


We will leave this place 

the heaviness of the event 

mitigated only slightly 

by our shared grief 


And beyond this day

beyond the quiet roads home

your living will remain 


in the small, unguarded places—

in the habits we keep

in the stories we repeat 


In the ways 

we were changed 

without ever noticing 


You will move with us

into the ordinary days

into the years still forming

into the lives still unfolding 


because a life like yours

does not end

It continues to grow 


Tomorrow 

When I tell our stories 

It grows a little more 


Hello 

My friend 


© Ron Simpson Jr. 

February 8, 2026 


Lilacs


How versatile the lilac

In its symbolic nature 


Purple 

a tender whisper of new love 

or the memory of a first 


White 

a quiet emblem of peace 

serenity unfolding 

a gentle awakening of spirit 


The first to bloom 

heralding Spring 

a sign of beginnings reborn 


Hardy and fragrant 

the lilac endures 

a steadfast sentinel of beauty 

a quiet constant in the garden 


You are my lilac 

like a first love 

my peace 

my serenity 


You are my herald 

of good things 

of new beginnings 

my faithful favorite 


My lilac 


© Ron Simpson Jr. 



Failed Rescue


As I scroll the edge 

of my social media world, 

I find myself disheartened—

deluged by death. 


Pleading posts flood my feed: 

Family members, friends, 

begging for prayers 

for their family members, friends. 


I have heard their refusals—

the obstinate denial of science, 

the rejection of numbers, 

the clinging to crafted misinformation. 


Even now, 

facing the death of loved ones, 

they still bang out the rhetoric—

party lines, 

religious manifestos, 

despite the mountain of proof. 


And still, I pray. 

I hold to my faith in God. 

But something is intermingled: 

there is anger in my sadness. 


Why am I angry, you ask? 

Because I have listened 

to your inane declarations—

“It must be God’s will,” 

you say, 

when your loved ones die 

having refused rescue. 


There is a difference between 

what God knows will happen 

and what God wants to happen. 


His Word is clear:

It is not His will that any should perish, 

but that all should come to repentance. 

Still, the day of the Lord will come 

as a thief in the night. 


But until that day, 

God has sent remedies—

gifts among His people: 

measures to protect, 

wisdom to shield, 

science born of God-given knowledge. 


And yet His people refuse to see 

the abundance of His grace 

in the rescue offered 

by human hands He formed 

and minds He inspired. 


What glory has God 

in needless death? 

In believers and non-believers alike 

brought low? 


Even now— 

as the virus mutates, 

as hospitals fill again, 

as bodies fall daily in every nation—

still, they cling to the failed rhetoric, 

the banner of the failed rescue. 


“Faith over fear,” 

they cry, 

their voices enfeebled 

by lungs drowning in virus. 


I do not question God’s power, 

nor cast dispersion on His name. 

He is Jehovah Rapha—

the God who heals. 


He is miraculous. 

He is faithful. 

I believe in faith beyond fear. 

But I also believe 

in the many ways 

He works to protect His children. 


Some days, 

He comes in signs and wonders. 

Other days, 

He comes through healing hands. 

Still others, 

He comes through medicine—

the marvel of minds He made. 


None of these 

is less miraculous 

than the other. 


© Ron Simpson Jr.