the hush
a shadow threading
corridors I call my own.
the names say,
the grief
the hidden fire I turn away,
without awareness.
It rises
a tide beneath
the mind’s sealed door,
and shakes
until I am what I was before:
split by fear,
but listening,
to that
inward ember-light
(Blackout of discarded poetry lines )
The Worst Grief
I believe the worst grief you can feel,
Is the grief you feel for people that hurt you.
You paint pictures of all people in your mind.
But pain dealt to you doesn’t give you time to paint into that picture.
Pain taints your oils, your pigments and acrylics.
And the portrait is distorted,
Burned and burdened with blood spilled out of your own fingers.
But in the rearview you can’t see those smaller smears.
You see the face of the person you cared about one day and an age ago.
The poison only shows back up when you back up —
Take a closer look into that painting.
Its an optical illusion,
Occlusion clouding conscious thought.
That one last “I should text him.” Or that one last “he’s better now, surely.”
You built up walls to keep them out.
So why do we keep opening the gate when they come back?
Baseball is not a struggling momentum,
but the spatial awareness of fortitude,
a narrative of pauses where beauty thrives
in the space between pitch and swing,
a jade diamond shaped from soil,
where time effectively stands still.
Within the timeless design of opportunities
lies the idyllic beauty of stretched promises,
flourishing in the arena of action -
the metrical smack of a ball hitting the leather
and the ripple of murmur in the stadium.
There is a profound modesty entwined
with the tapestry of the beautiful sport
that reflects the resolute endeavor of resilience,
adorned by the cyclic rhythm of return to home,
the delightful journey ending where it begins.
Everything eats; everything is eaten.
The law is older than hunger,
older than teeth,
older than the first creature
that learned to want.
We pretend we stand outside it—
Diners, not dinners,
yet mortality is only the moment
the oldest bargain is kept.
After a lifetime of taking in the world,
the world takes us in:
not as punishment,
but as returning.
The Handsome Face we call the Great Divine,
The One whos Shadow even has a Shine.
How His Aura like a Fire Rages,
Surrounding Yogis and Sacred Sages.
Hear The Trumpet of that Heavenly Tone,
The Familiar Sound that's calling You Home.
When the Destiny of the Human Race,
Is The Returning... with a Sacred Face!
He who gives
to the needy
lends to
the Lord
What the moment
forgets
Heaven
remembers
Fortuitous
bounty
awaiting
us all
When giving
not taking
eternity
— tendered
(First Book Of Prayers: January, 2026)
I return to the page when silence grows loud,
When thoughts pile like clouds in a restless sky.
Images rise without permission,
Rivers, stars, footsteps — old friends that wait.
Each word I choose carries a weight,
A heartbeat, a tremor, a fragment of me.
Sometimes I write in bursts,
Sometimes in whispers that stretch for hours.
The themes return, over and over:
Light and shadow, absence and presence,
Voices hidden, voices forgotten,
Things I cannot speak except in verse.
Writing is how I see myself,
How I hold the world without breaking it,
How I turn small moments into something lasting,
How I tell stories I cannot yet say aloud.
In spite of all his hoping and wishing…all the hours he would pray…
he watched the gleam dim in his father’s eyes and his memories fade away.
Even after his light went out…and he no longer knew his name…
when he was now a stranger…he’d visit just the same.
He would tell story after story…picked from their shared memory…
like the time his dad would read him books as he sat upon his knee.
Like the times they’d play catch…how he taught him how to swim…
of all the times they were together…just his dad…and him.
He reminded him how he loved to play games…
.ow it never mattered if he’d lose…or win.
He talked about all the thing’s they’ve seen..
and all the places they had been.
He would visit him for hours with him…
stories flowing out with ease…
feeling blessed to be sitting there…sharing a lifetime of memories…
If asked why he sits for hours with a person who no longer knows his name…
he looks up…smiles politely…his answer is always the same.
“I’m reminding him of all the fun we’ve had…
all the places we have roamed….
and since all these memories began with him…
I’m hoping they find their way back home.”
More and more a comfort
Restful-lamped eves
Of consoling. In short
Home. Rest begets.
Whose nerve-stilling quiets
Soon to seep aid.
Back from off a street blown
Which hour of life
All joy for has outflown
A heart. Afraid.
1.
Then slowly, slowly,
as after a long winter,
a pale light began to rise
over the Triglav’s white crown.
It was not the light of politics,
nor the light of worldly triumph,
but the soft radiance
of returning grace.
2.
I saw young faces
Looking at the old churches
with curiosity,
as if hearing an echo
from the deep places of the soul.
I saw hands reaching out
to rebuild altars
That time had wounded.
I saw strangers
finding shelter
in the hospitality of the faithful.
3.
And I knew:
The night is never the final word.
For every nation
that remembers love
will find its way home.
4.
O Slovenia,
May your forests once again
whisper psalms at dawn.
May your rivers carry blessings
to every village and city.
May your children learn
that freedom without God
is a room without air,
but freedom with Him
It is a window opened toward eternity.
5.
Rise, homeland beloved.
Rise not as you were,
but as you were meant to be—
a land of peace,
a cradle of hope,
a lamp on the mountains
for all who wander
in the dark.
Amen.
A tour back in time
I hired a car and wanted to drive to the countryside
where I spent part of my childhood.
By a farmhouse that looked familiar, I stopped
A dog came out of an upended barrel and greeted me,
Is Jason coming home?
The farmer and his wife came out, and he patted me
on my head, and his wife gave me a hug and said:
“A little boy once lived here.”
In the kitchen, they gave me two slices of the loaf with
Blueberry jam was my favorite food as a child.
The couple had not aged in fifty years, and their
eyes, I was that little boy
I took my farewells and promised to visit soon.
A bus drove past, throwing up dust, and when
It settled the couple
The farm had disappeared into the mist of time.
Memories returning
There comes a time
When will be the revolution of the mind
Life shall be lifted above what is normal now
We shall all pass into a new stage
A new face of time
And upon this era shall be
Memories returning
Memories returning
There is a natural mystic
In the air
There is a natural revolution in energy
We can’t go back to our old mind
There is a natural turn around
So catch up with your self
Not with what life offer anymore
The new way is about conciseness not materialism
Each day,
I wake -
within,
a hope
for warm,
sunny,
blue skies;
and like
flower
petals,
with care,
slowly
open
my eyes.
Today,
I see,
just like
many
days ere,
dark clouds,
and so,
I sigh,
"I thought,
I got
away -
yet, once
again,
laid low".
The grass seems greener on the other side, so we sometimes forget that the Lord will provide. We step away from the safety we receive so we step into danger and then we start to grieve. The wolf hides among us and we naively don't see the snare, until we're caught up in the unknown trap, with no help anywhere. We're blessed to have a Shepard to leave the flock behind and go searching for the lost ones to rejoin the ninety-nine. Sometimes each of us stumbles and sometimes each of us strays, but our Shepard is a faithful one and seeks us out always. The grass seems oh so pleasant when we are not satisfied, when we're carried away by stubbornness and blinded by our pride. But the grass is never as good as we think, for it is all the same, and looks can be deceiving, it's part of life's cruel game. So let's stick close to our Shepard, contented and not stressed. We'll lie down in peace and comfort and in safety we will rest.
May we be blessed to teach our children about love
and to the words of Mr. Rogers keep returning…
By giving our children the chance in life
to practice what they’re learning.
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