To the man whose mind fires up each day like a jet-plane engine, power and chaos pulsating through the body, always daring to lift off -- to go somewhere else or fly higher still: And to the man who feels the intensity of each breath and heartbeat, who wakes up each day to two potions on the counter, both of which he must drink, one labeled "joy," the other "despair," each moment pulling him deeper into both life and death, light and dark, a liminal existence in the shadows:
Here I stand
surrounded by all I left
in this place where love found me,
and every part of my soul screams
to return to the life I knew and loved—
fantasy and obsession,
running their course again
though I know they get me nowhere,
just a thousand what ifs,
each a dead end,
because the past is in the mirror,
and Future is the game everyone’s playing
so that no one’s really here
or even there for that matter
because places mean nothing
without presence or people
Birthed from the beauty
of genuine relationships,
this book came from you:
friends and family,
missionaries and teachers,
mentors and therapists—
the souls that made mine,
interconnectedness of saints,
and the stories that formed mine,
which is what Stories do,
igniting and uniting our essence,
for anyone who dares to read or see.
You met me where I was
in that new, foreign land
and accepted me as I am,
which is difficult and painful to do,
as Change did what
Colors become one as dusk fades
into the long, black night.
Stars ablaze above the empty room—
mystery in the cosmos,
chaos in the mind.
Lonely bed beneath the glowing moon—
Dark void of the midnight hour:
well of creativity,
the soul’s resolve.
Thick inkiness of silence:
my purgatory home
between worlds unknown.
Colors burst as dawn invades
perpetual waning and waiting. By Stephen Copeland This poem was first published on www
The billionaire has everything he needs
yet lives like he is lacking,
scrambling through the night
like a felon dodging daybreak
desperate for a high,
trying to catch a moonbeam in a flask.
What is he searching for?
What is he running from?
Anything and everything.
Because that’s what billionaires do.
He returns to his two-bedroom by dawn:
not a billionaire’s lair
but that of a tragic romantic
who has received “every spiritual blessing”
yet needs his tortured s
Everything is dry.
Nothingness for miles.
But what a terrible thing
it would be to quit walking.
I mean, I could quit walking.
But then again why would I
if I already left by walking away
from that fruitless, futureless land
and through that rising, mountain sea?
What a weird thing
it is for salvation
to end where it began
in another fruitless Land
and another futureless Quest.
I don’t know, maybe I’ll quit walking.
Maybe I’ll sit here in the sand
where east i
“The Enneagram can help us develop an awareness for our future and destiny, for that true face that we do not yet ‘have,’ but that already slumbers deep down inside us.”
-Richard Rohr and Andreas Ebert, The Enneagram: A Christian Perspective PART I
Where are you, MR. SP4CEM4N?
You’re here, but are you here?
Surrounded by love on this Christmas Eve,
but you’re lost inside a dream.
The love of your life in your arms tonight,
but you’re swimming in a fantasy.
I saw an a