The Chain of Time

From separate chains

Two links intertwine 

So begins the new chain

A new life of time 

The commonly miraculous 

Where nothing was, now is

Time begins with a cry

The slight sound of a small chain

The day becomes the night

Becomes the day

Becomes the week

Becomes the month

Becomes the year

Becomes the links

In the chain of time

As a child 

We carry the chain lightly

Experiences are added 

Like charms on a bracelet 

We cheerfully display

The abundant energies of youth

Give way to the weariness of age

Chains are forged in the kiln of pain

Each day adds familiar links

The chains of time

Links are gathered

The train is growing

I am older and getting tired 

From the weight of time

Links forged by experience 

The happy and the sad

The joyful and the sorrowful

Good times and bad times 

Each forms another link

In these chains of time

Still yet 

I do not curse the chain 

Every link has known my hands 

Every link tells my story 

Perhaps, in my times end 

Someone will gather the chain 

And forge new links 

In the chain of time 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

June 10, 2025 

I Slash my Flesh

 I slash at my flesh 

By the time you read these words 

they have torn through me 

ripping their way out 

I cut myself open 

Feeding those around me—

Friends and strangers alike—

Pouring in love and hate 

Hope and despair 

Their caustic offerings 

Tear at my soul 

Tearing off pieces 

The words you devour—

They are part of my flesh  

They are part of my soul 

I slash at my skin 

To give you something 

That feels like truth 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

June 8, 2025

I Suppose

I suppose

Knowing ahead of time

Is better than it happening suddenly ...

I suppose

I suppose

Having time to prepare

Is better than having it thrust upon you ...

I suppose

I suppose

I should have been prepared

It isn't completely unexpected ...

I suppose

I suppose

Knowing and expecting 

Should be equal to accepting …

I suppose

Tell me

Who is ever really ready

To say goodbye 

To their mother, or father

Or brother, or sister

Or anyone, for that matter

Where do you go

When real becomes too real

Where do you hide 

From what is in your heart 

I suppose 

There are places

There are ways 

I suppose

I suppose 

I’ll sit in the silence 

I’ll carry the ache 

I’ll breathe in the memories 

Until I no longer break 

I suppose 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

June 8, 2025 

Keep Becoming

How do you feel 

when you don’t know 

how you feel?

Something is edging on your mind

Just out of reach

Just out of focus 

Just enough to keep you trying

You walk through your day

Oddly affected by the strangest happenings

All of your appropriate responses are off-kilter

Your heart seems on edge

But you can’t figure out why

This is not to tell you why

Or perhaps even what

Just to let you know

You are not alone

Sometimes

The mind and the heart

Do not speak the same language 

Confusion reigns 

You aren’t broken 

It is just the way of life 

It comes to all of us 

You just aren’t finished speaking to yourself 

Take your time 

Forcing it never helps 

Some things just have to be felt 

Not necessarily understood 

The light is out there 

Beyond the fog 

Ever trying to break through 

Emboldened by hope 

So, how do you feel 

When you don't know 

How you feel ?

Perhaps-just human 

You are still becoming 

Still unfurling 

Still worthy 

Even if you can’t pen it 

Keep walking 

Keep listening 

Keep learning 

Keep becoming 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

June 10, 2025 

Restless

 Sometimes restlessness leaves your mind and finds its way to your fingers.

Restless

There are times when very late at night

I sit staring at the page of white

Waiting impatiently for something to write

With a mind too restless to fight

 

In the distance, I hear the whistle of the train

Of the thoughts that amble through my brain

From the life-changing to the very inane

Passengers boarding and deboarding in the rain

It does no benefit to attempt to sleep

Thoughts have been planted, waiting to reap

Sorting through, finding what to toss and what to keep

Even those, eventually, cast onto the junk heap

The harvester makes its cutting pass

Everything falls, both flower and grass

Every word and syllable that doth sleep surpass

Gathered and bundled into thinking’s morass

Eventually, the fervor begins to cool

Words begin to drown in exhaustion’s pool

Dying ignominiously in a good writer’s drool

Some escaping to become the words of a fool

 

Such are the anthems of the restless

The diatribes of the blest-less

The ramblings of the success-less

The poetry of the impress-less

 

Welcome

To Restless Flight 101

 

© Ron Simpson, Jr.