Abstract: Internet Personality

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People forget,

how technology works,

the records it keeps,

and the data it hoards.

We are what we show on social media,

but more so our searches, cookies, and history.

Everything we do on the internets is tracked,

weighted and stored.

Our digital self, another variation,

something like us, but not.

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Abstract: Dreams Come True

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I sat on the rock, as the stream rushed by,

offering its song as it passed.

Except for few powerful rays,

The redwoods blocked most of the sunlight.

It was a scene from one of my dreams,

but this was true.

Beauty comes to life,

on the southern slope of Mount Hood.

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Abstract: Patience

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When I was a child, skinny and unaware,

I believed patience was a mystical ability to endure the undesirable.

“Have patience,” some old person would say,

when what they meant was “it’s going to take a while.”

They reduced patience to a waiting game,

a skill to be mastered while we waited for our food.

Now that I’m a grown-ass man,

I know what patience is.

Patience is the silent partner to any worthwhile endeavor.

She ignores small defeats because she knows they are part of the task.

She embraces change because the way is not defined.

And her constant admonishment is “keep going.”

Patience isn’t waiting but a belief.

She accepts the costs because the journey is worth it.

Whatever comes.

My prayer today, and tomorrow, is to be patient,

to stare down the vision in my heart until nothing else remains.

I will fail myself and you.

Then, I will win.

Such is the blessing of the patient.

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Abstract: Goodbye July

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Bye-bye July,

I’ll never miss you.

You are hot and lonely,

a narrow waiting room,

where the highest hope is to make it through unscathed.

July isn’t about fun or relaxation,

not in my life.

It’s about the future.

The lack of distraction focused my thoughts and emotions,

are I am left with who I am.

(The rest of the year, I find enough people and moments to pacify my mind.)

I’ve never had a girlfriend in July,

or a job I loved.

It’s a sign of something.

Maybe, hopefully, next year will be different.

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Abstract: I Promise to be Average

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Hey Lady,

Yeah, Hi. My name is Nik.

I am imperfect and will do my average best to show you who I am.

Average? Yes, average.

Why average? Because.

I’m tired of trying “my best.” It never works out.

I’ve given woman after woman my best, and each turned me aside.

My best wasn’t good enough.

To my credit, I backed off the last one.

I said, “I don’t know,” when I didn’t have an answer,

and I was willing to look weak and be vulnerable.

I even cried in front of her— without regret.

As for you, you will get my average,

which I am sure sounds terrible.

Who wants average? The very word is offensive.

Don’t we all want the best? Obviously, we do.

Allow me to continue,

I don’t mean I am average.

Far from it.

I promise I won’t put effort into all your interests.

Meaning, I will not try to be Superman,

or look over my mental shoulder to see if you approve of what I like.

Sure, I’ll support you—100%.

But I’m just not going to care about every little thing you believe to be important, cute, or interesting.

That’s not real or sustainable.

You can be boring too.

Oh, I will be boring some days,

And anxious, nervous, distracted,

or moody.

And despite my great love for Jesus,

on occasion, my actions will contradict my Heart.

Trust me. I’ll know it.

You will not need to remind me.

I promise to try,

and sometimes fail.

I promise to misunderstand and take offense.

And I expect the same from you.

But I will try.

I will listen.

And, I will seek you out when a wedge dares form between us.

I promise to walk by your side— without end.

The butterflies are great,

who doesn’t love waves of oxytocin,

flooding through their brain?

I know I do.

However…

When the feelings die,

and we are left with who we are,

It will be my average you can depend on,

to see us through the valleys and dry places.

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Abstract: Armed, No Longer Helpless

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I awoke early this morning,

in a daze of depression and self-doubt.

Everything is wrong,

and all my answers seem void.

Why do I cycle through these phases,

from stability into emotional darkness?

My head is below the surface,

and the waves toss me where they will.

But I, through Love and Grace,

planted the seeds of salvation for this moment.

I can’t control my emotions,

but I decide if they control me.

This is not rock bottom.

I’ve been there before.

This fragment of life is a snapshot,

a sliver of unhappiness in a sea of gratitude.

I will write, hike, and pray,

work, cry and find laughs.

Whatever depression is/how it works,

Is not for me to understand.

I’m here to battle it,

through the intention of thought, through discipline, and love.

These are the moments the Spirit armed me to address,

and I will not back down from the fight.

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Abstract: Man vs Deer

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On the porch of the old blue house,

up the hill from the McDowell farm,

sat Mr. Lean.

He rocked a bit, as he looked across the lane to the corn field,

and the tree line beyond it.

His eyes focused thin,

to a clump of firs on the far end.

As though on cue, or perhaps sensing the moment,

a triumphant buck thrust himself into the open,

to the right of the firs,

then worked his way down to a row of uneaten corn silk.

He stopped to sniff the air,

but detected nothing.

Back to the buffet,

Up one row, then doubling back to get the other side.

Mr. Lean, now out of his seat,

moved swiftly into his old blue house,

a beat passed,

and he reappeared.

He charged back through the door,

with a Browning .306 in the left hand,

and a few shinny rounds in his right.

From the top step, he paused to shove both rounds in to the rifle.

An eerie calm over took the house,

as Mr. Lean raised his gun,

toward the proud buck still chomping on corn stalks,

unaware of the judgment to come.

Just then, and without reason,

that deer dropped to the ground,

out of site, and what for?

The wind hadn’t shifted.

Mr. Lean scanned the tree line,

that bastard is still there,

he thought,

so he held his aim, patiently.

After waiting longer than needed— to know the truth,

whatever happen, how ever it happened,

the proud sonofabitch got away.

He’ll be back,

opined Mr. Lean.

There’s a whole field of corn,

and deer will listen to his belly.

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Abstract: Paddling

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I bought fresh sketchbooks and new pencils,

dreamed of greatness, and plotted my course.

Some days I paddle as hard as I can,

and some days I dream of paddling as hard as I can.

Even more, some days I dream of dreaming,

and at that point, I am not paddling.

My eyes are trained on the shore,

not far from me and my little boat.

The journey to the other side seems so far from here,

and the waves conspire to knock me off my route.

Even still, I will push on,

away from the comfort of dreaming,

toward the reality of doing.

Today is not the day I become a master,

rather one day closer.

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Abstract: Galatians 2:20, If I Wrote It

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I was murdered with Jesus,

when He was nailed to a cross,

hung between convicts,

naked and broken.

All of my cruel character flaws,

fears and shame died with him.

Now and always,

My life is about trust, not control,

Love, not fear,

And kindness, rather than approval.

In the Lord, I am everything good and complete,

because that is His heart from me.

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Abstract: Off The Porch

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I left my soul on the back porch,

beneath the old wooden swing,

the kind held by chains to a pole.

I let him rest in the shade,

to enjoy the evening,

and the glory on the clouds at sunset.

He needed a break,

a moment to ache without burden,

or expectation.

Upon my return, I found him gently rocking on the swing,

puffing a pipe, and smiling at me,

through the grey smoke.

“You ready?” He yelled, with a wink.

“The path isn’t easy,” I replied.

“The mountain is still there.”

“I know,” breathed my soul,

as he stared beyond the tree line toward the shadow of the range,

his pipe now empty.

For a beat,

we waited,

and listened to crickets at play.

Finally, my soul took to his feet,

stretched his legs,

and renewed his smile once more.

With the cold resolve of a champion he whispered, “Let’s fucking go.”

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Abstract: Powerless Rage

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There’s a lack of intelligence to those who rage against the rain,

in a rainforest.

One must accept the storms and thunder,

or move on.

Regardless of choice,

we cannot shame the jungle,

for being who it is.

She existed long before we wandered into her wonder,

and will stand tall long after we leave.

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Abstract: Dating

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The hope of the bloom,

fresh from the storm,

the seed of the beauty before it.

But not this day, the lingering clouds too thick,

The life-giving Son absent,

and only faith remains.

In the darkness Faith whispers “these shadows will fade,

and tomorrow we renew the hope of glory.”

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