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Kenneth M

33 posts
Taking Flight

Taking Flight

Kenneth M
Kenneth M
travels
1 min read
It is again sort of that time of the year again, where I get to live out of my bag for 2 weeks, headed to Iceland, Denmark, Sweeden, Norway and Germany. Instead of a play by play of these oh so well covered nations, I'm inclined more to just share some of the dearest memories from it. Taking flight over the glaciers of iceland, where ice, rain, clouds, mountains, and lakes all blend to create this numbing view. wouldn't de iceland, without of course a huge touch of a very blue sky in a hot sum
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Peace

Peace

Kenneth M
Kenneth M
poem, spoken words
1 min read
Peace I seek, in a past, perhaps long forgone; perhaps not worth hanging onto. Peace I find, in a future, light and relieved from my self inflicted burdens. Peace I dream, may it not be in a world without flaw, may it be in a world’s whose flaws made it. Peace I discover, raising my head from indignation, having ran out of lamentation. Peace I live, because life is too short lived. Because I need to live. Peace I raise, often hidden in plain-sight, other times just obfuscated by today. Peace I f
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Taking the adventure to Ocean Grove

Taking the adventure to Ocean Grove

Kenneth M
Kenneth M
2 min read
It's been a while i've blogged, and as always, it's certainly not due to lack of will. Why linger, let's turn the page to this day, today I'd like to tell a tale. The one of a little amazing city called Ocean Grove. As every other story written by me, it is the one of an underdog. Ocean grove: "quaint and idyllic" like my friend adequately baptized it. Let's not pretend like I know New Jersey on my backhand. Actually, I think this story is more about writing, I've missed doing so. Thankfully the
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Citizen of the world

Citizen of the world

Kenneth M
Kenneth M
poem, spoken words, travels
2 min read
Somedays I yearn for my home, where I come from? perhaps where I belong. My home in my mind is the place I grew up. The church bells through the city during lunch time The Muezzin so zealous, the monring call to pray, sounds like one made in the middle of the day. The beach, the sand under my feet, the smell of the draw of the day resting in baskets waiting to be picked up. Nothing feels like my home like the two bricks, on the same line spaced out by measuring your two feet
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