The Struggle

When it happened

It was as if my heart 

were ripped from my chest 

All of my existence

Lay torn and tattered

Nothing happened 

Which did not exacerbate

The pain my life had become

The effort required just to breath

Was immeasurable beyond my ability

The combination of your words

Both razor sharp and hammer blunt

Creating lacerations and contusions 

Everything bleeding or broken

I realize, now, looking back

I’m pretty sure something died 

Every remembrance 

Of the days, the events

Especially the rage of the words 

Would bring afresh undeniable agony

How could this rage exist

What hurt or hatred created this

How could such vitriol and force

Build unknown or unnoticed 

Daily, I wrestled with questions

What I did or didn’t do

What I could or couldn’t have done

Would anything have made a difference 

Was this just an inevitable conclusion 

Were we doomed from the beginning

How can I find the tattered pieces

What will bind my broken heart

How do I get from this place of misery

What steps do I force myself to take

Upon which path must I stumble

Where will I find strength and saving grace

How do I find my way from chaos to peace

How will I get to the eventual day

The day the memories come

Unaccompanied by the pain

The struggle

No assurance 

No plotted course

No completion date

No planned celebration 

Just today’s struggle

Until the mercy of fleeting sleep

A brief respite

Tomorrow 

The struggle continues 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 18, 2020

The Weave of Words

From the beginning

We have woven our lives

Tying the fragments together

Binding them with words

The pieces scattered

Like a living kaleidoscope 

Littering the landscape of emotion 

Or crammed into our hearts overflowing

The pattern is, at times, delicate

The weave rife with intricacies 

At times, the only commonality 

A continuous thread of words

Life’s lines are oft subtle 

Other times bold and loud

Random thoughts and ideas

Partially and fully formed

Words interwoven 

Carrying ideas

Carrying convictions 

Carrying beliefs

Trace back the overlap

Follow the overlay

Find the connecting truth

Conveying life’s core

See the masterful work of the weaver

Hear the true tone of the words

Life is in the pattern

The weave of words

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 22, 2020

The Gift

It is the gift I can give

Yet, still retain possession 

It is the gift I can give

Time and time again

Surrender

I offer it

The balance

Of total trust

Submission 

To be cherished 

Never to be abused

Never taken by force

You may control me

Yet still never own me

Never confuse capture

With willing compliance 

It is my gift

To be treasured 

Not the spoils 

Of some mind war 

You may chain me 

You may break me

You may take me

And never own my gift

No chain

Will ever hold me

As tightly or securely 

As my willing gift

Learn me

Know me

Show me

And you may own me

But 

Even then

It is still

A gift

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 11, 2020

Who

When the plow 

Tears through the earth

Who hears her screams

Who tends to her wound

The cut is not a creation of malice

It is born of necessity 

And ultimately benefits both

Attacker and victim

Still, the earth cries

She moans and groans

She suffers the pains

Of growth and growing

Nature cries for her

And waters her with tears

As mankind like ants

Scurry across her

Who weeps for her

As corporate greed

Rips her open

And lays her goods to waste

Who cries for her

Who cares for her hurt

Who defends her

Who stands for her

If not us

Then who?

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 7, 2020

Broken

Broken

It wasn’t my brokenness 

which threatened to destroy me

It wasn’t my agony or pain

But rather, all I did to control it

Waging the war

Fighting each battle

Mending the cracks

Sewing the tears

Allowing myself to break

Was an indefensible choice

I expended all my strength

Trying to hold myself together 

Still, over every rise

The inescapable awaited

Try as I might I could only delay

That which I would not accept 

Once I allowed my heart to be weak

Once the shards were swept away

By the tide of inevitability

I could see the beauty in my brokenness 

It was there

I found my peace

It was there

I found my power

Broken

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

March 27, 2020

It’s okay, it wasn’t me

It’s okay, it wasn’t me

A man was stabbed at a party

It’s okay, it wasn’t me

A man was shot in a bar

It’s okay, it wasn’t me

Someone poisoned by Tylenol 

It’s okay, it wasn’t me 

Children killed in Atlanta 

It’s okay, it wasn’t me 

Children shot at a school

It’s okay, it wasn’t me 

Towers fell, thousands die

We were collectively angry

It’s okay, it wasn’t me 

Bombings in Oklahoma 

School shootings in Florida 

We express our indignation 

It’s not really rage anymore

It’s okay, it wasn’t me 

Children dying daily

A losing war on drugs

Terrorists, domestic and foreign 

We’ve all become numb

It’s okay, it wasn’t me 

Now, we are met 

On the field 

Of our next crisis 

Sacrifices required 

To protect others

And yet we respond

It’s okay, it isn’t me 

It’s okay 

It’s not me

Until it is

It’s not okay

It is we

It is me

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

March 20, 2020

Consider the ant

Proverbs 6:6  “Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise:”

Consider the ant

How far above

We consider ourselves

From the lowliness 

Of the uncommon ant

What could you possibly teach me

What could you know of my life

What could you show me 

About work, and love, and living

Your world is so small

Your duties are simple

You’re not hampered

By emotional hindrances 

You gather

You build

You eat

You sleep

What could you show me

With your single mindedness 

With your dogged determination 

With your colony dedication

What could I learn

From your ‘stick-to-it-iveness’

From your unwavering industry

From your ‘all-for-one’ attitude

What ….

Oh

I see

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

March 17, 2020

Stains

Stains

The doctors gave it their best guess

They created a time frame for life remaining

Life, however, chooses its own timing

At some point, we all gathered for final goodbyes

It would be so easy to focus on the span

But life isn’t all about its beginning 

And it’s certainly not all about its ending

Life is about the things we stuff in between 

I held your hands several times for a bit

In what we knew were the final days and hours 

The conversation was decidedly one sided

And in the gaps, I studied your hands

There were the expected wrinkles

There were scars accrued in a lifetime

Most of them remnants of forgotten injuries 

And perhaps some even well remembered 

What caught my writer's imagination 

More so than the wrinkles and scars

Were subtle, nearly unnoticeable stains

Stains from a lifetime of labor and living

As I contemplated the discoloration 

It came to me quite abruptly

In those stains was my living as well

I was part of the stains on these loving hands

These hands provided my childhood 

They paid the way for my adolescents

They made my secondary education possible

So many things in my life came with these stains

I looked at my own hands

There were wrinkles and scars 

There may have even been the hint

Just the beginning of a stain 

In all I love about my chosen profession 

The challenges and accomplishments 

I love that it provides a living

For me and those I love dearly

It gives me wrinkles

It gives me occasional scars

It gives me daily and lifetime stains

Hands to be considered during word gaps

Wrinkles

Scars

Stains

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

March 15, 2020 

All in there

All in there

All I am

Is all in there

All my joys

All my sorrows

All my strengths

All my weaknesses

All my bravery

All my cowardice

All my boldness

All my awkward shyness 

All my courage

All my fear 

All my intelligence 

All my ignorance 

All my tolerance 

All my prejudice 

All my serenity 

All my rage

Every word I write

It’s all in there

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

March 11, 2020