the first sentence i seem to read in most blogs is, "wow, its been awhile since my last post." so to keep you from seeing the same thing. i'll put it in the fourth. wow, its been awhile since my last post. now i used to write a lot in this blog, almost daily there for a while. then i took a leave of absence, and sprinkled some trinkets here and there. but this time i'm back. i've moved to a young life camp, washington family ranch, for the year, and thought it'd be nice to update people who want to know about what the crap i'm doing here.
i'm out here with 13 other people, and yesterday, thursday, we past our week anniversary together! it was quite beautiful, i don't really remember what happened, or what we did at the moment, but im sure it was lovely. in all seriousness, this past week was information overload. info got uploaded, downloaded, and rebooted. the past five days have all been trainings on how to pretty much do anything and almost everything at camp.
we just started our 'official' jobs for the next few months, and i'm happy to say i'll be mowing some lawns..a lot of lawns, and raking some leaves..a lot of leaves throughout this fall. as more of these blogs seep out, my goal would be to not only update you on some of the adventures i'm going through, but also to share where god is taking me. what i'm learning, about both him and myself.
the next post will most likely have something regarding the wilderness, a chariot, ke$ha, and hopefully the godfather..but no promises on that one.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
the three
looking at the stars
i'm thinking 'bout what do do
soaking up the rain
trying to get to you
but i find myself
on sorrows edge
doing everything
but i can't get you outta my head
we are awakening
we won't go away
you say
open your eyes and you'll see
just what we came to be
we are the three
i'm thinking 'bout what do do
soaking up the rain
trying to get to you
but i find myself
on sorrows edge
doing everything
but i can't get you outta my head
we are awakening
we won't go away
you say
open your eyes and you'll see
just what we came to be
we are the three
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Return
this old story, has been told before
this old story, has been heard before
it has one man, and one woman too
how they did their best, with the best that they can do.
that one man, he fell down on one knee
he said, "hey woman, would you please marry me?"
that one woman, was sitting high up in her chair
she said, "give me a moment, i have to fix my hair."
she would talk about him, like nobody else would
he would make her smile, like no one else could
so they got married, and moved on down south
said the cookin was better, and that's what it was all about.
their ain't a whole lotta happy, in this ending
that man would come home late, every single evening
he started talking a lil different, and walking a lil funny
he said to the woman, "i can't call you honey..anymore."
that one woman, would sit and cry on her floor
waiting for the man, to come and walk through the door
but the man was out, spending all his money
he had two or three, of which he called them honey.
bankrupt and shamed, the man walked through the town
feeling alone, he dug his knees into the ground
nothing was seen, but before him was a tree
he said, "i don't like who i am, but i know who i wanna be."
the tree talked back, said "stand up and be proud
i was planted here, to give men like you a sound!
so make it loud."
"forgive him father, for he knows not what he's done"
that woman said, when her hair was all done
"i have been washed, by His only given son
so take my hand, and we can finally go.
home."
this old story, has been heard before
it has one man, and one woman too
how they did their best, with the best that they can do.
that one man, he fell down on one knee
he said, "hey woman, would you please marry me?"
that one woman, was sitting high up in her chair
she said, "give me a moment, i have to fix my hair."
she would talk about him, like nobody else would
he would make her smile, like no one else could
so they got married, and moved on down south
said the cookin was better, and that's what it was all about.
their ain't a whole lotta happy, in this ending
that man would come home late, every single evening
he started talking a lil different, and walking a lil funny
he said to the woman, "i can't call you honey..anymore."
that one woman, would sit and cry on her floor
waiting for the man, to come and walk through the door
but the man was out, spending all his money
he had two or three, of which he called them honey.
bankrupt and shamed, the man walked through the town
feeling alone, he dug his knees into the ground
nothing was seen, but before him was a tree
he said, "i don't like who i am, but i know who i wanna be."
the tree talked back, said "stand up and be proud
i was planted here, to give men like you a sound!
so make it loud."
"forgive him father, for he knows not what he's done"
that woman said, when her hair was all done
"i have been washed, by His only given son
so take my hand, and we can finally go.
home."
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Tomorrow
If I'm seeing blue skies through my foggy eyes
I'll know its been a good day
But almost ain't good enough
You gotta die in a perfect way
If I'm seeing pink skies through my misty eyes
I'll know its been a rough day
There's waves crashing through the seas
And they're all coming my way
I'm walking down this one way road
And I'm going the wrong way
Disregarding all the signs
I just wanna get away
Look around and find
that I am all alone
Throwing out all the truth
Just accepting what is shown
Tomorrow will never happen
I'm busy living for today
The past will never be present
It's a gift only wrapped one way
I'll know its been a good day
But almost ain't good enough
You gotta die in a perfect way
If I'm seeing pink skies through my misty eyes
I'll know its been a rough day
There's waves crashing through the seas
And they're all coming my way
I'm walking down this one way road
And I'm going the wrong way
Disregarding all the signs
I just wanna get away
Look around and find
that I am all alone
Throwing out all the truth
Just accepting what is shown
Tomorrow will never happen
I'm busy living for today
The past will never be present
It's a gift only wrapped one way
Friday, June 10, 2011
and old washed up tale.
the cover has beauty. it pictures fields of green, with rolling hills.
trees are dispersed, some withered, most cursed.
deep roots peak the surface, as if whats beneath just doesn't comply with the turmoil and agony that lies inside.
each screams for light, but holds silence at their trunk in the darkness of night.
yearning for life.
the sun is climbing up over the hills, but is confused for diving to receive its cheap thrills.
the table of contents holds the unknown. so many trails of possibility.
in one hand, rich and fame.
in the other ditches and lame.
but one thing is for certain.
there is a prologue. a chapter 1. and an epilogue.
the book has been written.
but drifting further and further in to the night, the book sits and its beauty is lost in the fright.
its replaced with dust, and stories of what could be.
but one thing is for certain.
at some point we return to chapter 1.
although we left at 3, chapter 1 feels so enticing.
to see the things of what were that supposedly set us free.
to the things that will be of chapter 23.
the complaints of strife, and anger that lead to apathy.
reside in the fact that there was joy, and laughter full of memories.
but one thing is for certain.
the book has been written.
there is an ending.
an 'about the author' is there.
there is no need to worry.
no need to scare.
the book has been written.
we need only to ask where.
trees are dispersed, some withered, most cursed.
deep roots peak the surface, as if whats beneath just doesn't comply with the turmoil and agony that lies inside.
each screams for light, but holds silence at their trunk in the darkness of night.
yearning for life.
the sun is climbing up over the hills, but is confused for diving to receive its cheap thrills.
the table of contents holds the unknown. so many trails of possibility.
in one hand, rich and fame.
in the other ditches and lame.
but one thing is for certain.
there is a prologue. a chapter 1. and an epilogue.
the book has been written.
but drifting further and further in to the night, the book sits and its beauty is lost in the fright.
its replaced with dust, and stories of what could be.
but one thing is for certain.
at some point we return to chapter 1.
although we left at 3, chapter 1 feels so enticing.
to see the things of what were that supposedly set us free.
to the things that will be of chapter 23.
the complaints of strife, and anger that lead to apathy.
reside in the fact that there was joy, and laughter full of memories.
but one thing is for certain.
the book has been written.
there is an ending.
an 'about the author' is there.
there is no need to worry.
no need to scare.
the book has been written.
we need only to ask where.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
An observation..or something.
there's something about the way she says no.
it starts with her hands,
the way she grasps each wrist,
wringing each dry as she clinches a fist.
it moves to her shoulders,
the way they roll on back,
they've sunken to the depths from falling off their high stack.
it reaches her neck,
the way it tilts to and fro,
dancing on the waves of which are to grow.
it stops at her eyes,
the way they fall to the ground,
swiftly swimming up as they begin to drown.
it leaves at her lips,
the way they quiver and know,
holding back the word formerly known as no.
something so simple,
and yet so detrimental,
at the hint of its song,
everything can go wrong.
but the word stops at her gate.
when only beauty captivates,
there's no where to go,
there's definitely something about the way she says no.
it starts with her hands,
the way she grasps each wrist,
wringing each dry as she clinches a fist.
it moves to her shoulders,
the way they roll on back,
they've sunken to the depths from falling off their high stack.
it reaches her neck,
the way it tilts to and fro,
dancing on the waves of which are to grow.
it stops at her eyes,
the way they fall to the ground,
swiftly swimming up as they begin to drown.
it leaves at her lips,
the way they quiver and know,
holding back the word formerly known as no.
something so simple,
and yet so detrimental,
at the hint of its song,
everything can go wrong.
but the word stops at her gate.
when only beauty captivates,
there's no where to go,
there's definitely something about the way she says no.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
The Road
the old man sits on the edge of his seat
quiet in manner with words you can't beat
dust swirls, his inspiration in the clouds
at the stroke of his pen, he can silence the crowd
the young man stands in the nook of the room
anxious to be seen, but always swept by the broom
he blows away with a shutter and is lost in the sky
right then the old man leaks tears as he begins to cry
as dusk turns to night and the stars show their eyes
the young man floats down and passes on by
at the front of the porch the old man now resides
he watches the young man take leaps in his strides
astonished by this amazing feat
the young man has got him out of his seat
thinking of things that could and will now be
following the young man on an unfound course he will soon see
the young man trembles undoubtedly into the unknown
briskly walking on thorns and reaping what he has sown
going further and further down the barren road
baring the burdened weight of an undeserving load
getting closer and closer the old man still lurks
in momentary hiding, disguising his looks
bringing to attention the sunrise
as the morning has now arrived
the young man turns bewildered by the silence
to see the old man quiet in manner, but revealing his guidance
before them is the course that is much less trodden
but as they walk, it slowly begins to broaden
their days journey turns again to night
two paths now lie, one with no light
the young man whimsically follows the path lit by torch
to find at the end, the old man sitting on his porch
the old man sits on the edge of his seat
quiet in manner with words you can't beat
the young man stands at the top of the porch stairs
"father you've guided me home" he proudly declares
quiet in manner with words you can't beat
dust swirls, his inspiration in the clouds
at the stroke of his pen, he can silence the crowd
the young man stands in the nook of the room
anxious to be seen, but always swept by the broom
he blows away with a shutter and is lost in the sky
right then the old man leaks tears as he begins to cry
as dusk turns to night and the stars show their eyes
the young man floats down and passes on by
at the front of the porch the old man now resides
he watches the young man take leaps in his strides
astonished by this amazing feat
the young man has got him out of his seat
thinking of things that could and will now be
following the young man on an unfound course he will soon see
the young man trembles undoubtedly into the unknown
briskly walking on thorns and reaping what he has sown
going further and further down the barren road
baring the burdened weight of an undeserving load
getting closer and closer the old man still lurks
in momentary hiding, disguising his looks
bringing to attention the sunrise
as the morning has now arrived
the young man turns bewildered by the silence
to see the old man quiet in manner, but revealing his guidance
before them is the course that is much less trodden
but as they walk, it slowly begins to broaden
their days journey turns again to night
two paths now lie, one with no light
the young man whimsically follows the path lit by torch
to find at the end, the old man sitting on his porch
the old man sits on the edge of his seat
quiet in manner with words you can't beat
the young man stands at the top of the porch stairs
"father you've guided me home" he proudly declares
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