FirstBlog

The days of the past are behind me I look forward to new and brighter days No longer enslaved to the sins of the past On and on I go to faster and brighter days never looking back leaving the past behind What once was is forever gone Good only for educating for growth and wisdom No point in wallowing Over what I cannot control On and on I go to faster and brighter days never looking back leaving the past behind Version 2 Behind me now, muddy And foggy the past. Looking forward now To crispy clear days No longer lost In the fog. What once was is forever gone Good only for educating No point in wallowing Over what I no longer control On and on I go to faster and brighter days never looking back all rights reserved. copyright Justin W. Price, Jan 7th, 2011 View the original Here:

I've been filled with an unfortunate sense of melancholia of late. It's not pervasive and it's not permanent, but still it's there. The reason for this melancholia is my dogs. My wife and I have eschewed having children and have instead opted for dogs. Our furry children fill us with joy and love us unconditionally. They don't give us attitude like bratty teenagers. They aren't going to go to college. They don't mind being left home alone. They're a great addition to our carefree and footloose lifestyle. We love them like we would any child. Unlike most parents, though, we are virtually guaranteed to outlive them. Our dog Baby is a chow mix and she’s 12 and a half years old. Most of the time, she’s happy and full of life, but, somedays, she looks and acts as old as her age would dictate. The idea of losing her is very real and very sad. Our other dog, Bella is a 2 and a half year old labra doodle. Even though she is quite young, sometimes the realiz...

There's a sign on the Sellwood Bridge that reads "Men below please don't throw." While the temptation to throw a man off a bridge may seem strange, after spending some time on this bridge during peak traffic times, one may understand why such a sign had to be erected. I feel bad picking on the Sellwood Bridge because it is one of my favorite bridges. It has a strong feeling of nostalgia and a personality that is uniquely its own and uniquely Portland . I often cross it in order to get from the lower west side to the lower east side, to visit clients and for myriad other reasons. it leads into the very cool and historic Sellwood neighborhood the oldest amusement park west of the Mississippi River , Oaks Park , can be seen at the apex of the bridge. Every time I cross the bridge I am filled with conflicting emotions: awe (at the beautiful view from the bridge), fear (from the perilous nature of the bridge), annoyance (at the bikers, pedestrians and traffic), sadne...

You were there from birth, passed down from father to son, waltzing through my veins. My muse. We embraced, perfectly on pitch, a song, and then I found another and I left you. Still I see you tattooed on my wrists. Thick black lines, a G and an F. Permanent, my former muse, over my veins, under my skin, a perpetual reminder. I stare at you, remembering. Still wanting to create with you. After all, you are in still in my blood, but you’ve left my heart. Empty capillaries flail like strings waiting to be plucked, longing to be played once again, but I’ve forgotten the tune. all rights reserved. Copyright Justin W. Price Jan 3rd, 2012. View the original here: http://pdxkaraokeguy.hubpages.com/_3gvrkbouobv74/hub/Flailing-Empty-Capillaries

My wife and I went on our first date one year ago today. Obviously, the fact that I called her “wife” means we connected and, in the words of Ron Burgundy things “escalated quickly.” Here’s what happened. In September of last year, the band I was playing in (Who shall remain nameless. They do not need nor deserve a mention in this positive story. That’s another story…) got a new drummer, Nicky. He and his wife had just moved to Portland from Bellingham, Washington. We became fast friends. Fast forward to December of 2010, setting up for band practice, Nicky tells me that he knows a girl who wants to meet me. “How does she know of me?” “She’s been stalking you on Facebook. She’s a friend. From Bellingham . She’s really cute.” He showed me her picture. She was really cute. “She’s coming down to visit for New years’ Eve and she wants to meet you.” I was skeptical because I’d been in long distance relationships before. I wasn’t interested in another one, but, he gave me her number ...

Update: I've decided to self publish a poetry collection through Lulu until I can find a major publisher. I will be working on the book this coming week. If you're interested in a copy, send me a private message . This collection will have final drafts of many poems on the HUB and some you've never seen before. I'm very excited about this and, even though self publishing is not the same as being published, it'll still be nice to see my books in print and, possibly, in book stores. thank you all for your kind support. View the original here THE BATTLE OF BUNK BED RIDGE The little green men were made of plastic and fashioned like heroes from world war two. Some held bazookas. Others: mortars. Machine guns. Pistols. Mine sweepers. Hand grenades, molded in constant readiness. Some drove tanks. Others crawled through imaginary mud. They all stood on feet, or crouched with knees, melted to plastic stands. Some took shelter behind sandbags. The brave...

By now, most people know about blood diamonds . For those that don’t, the term “blood diamonds” (sometimes referred to as " conflict diamonds ") is a slang term for diamonds that are mined and sold from war torn countries to fund civil wars, coups and general unrest, resulting in innumerable deaths and mutilations, mostly in Africa , and predominately in Sierra Leone . Freelance journalist Greg Campbell was one of the first to bring these rocks to light in his meticulously researched, gut wrenching and terrifying book, Blood Diamonds . Even though the vast majority of diamonds come from legitimate sources, the origin of most, if not all, diamonds, even with the latest protocols put in place, are nearly impossible to trace. As the book infers, if you buy a diamond, you could very well be paying for a rock that helped fund Al Qaeda (author Greg Campbell was conducting his research embedded in Sierra Leone when the terrorist attacks of September 11th 2001 occurred) or Hezboll...