Elegy for an old tree cut down in a park, and how we are not so different than trees.

A poignant short story about grief, loss, being without home, and the kindness and grace of others.

A street photography essay about people, noticing the world around us, and the angels in our midst.

A moving story about a poet, an attorney, and how sometimes lives intersect for the betterment of another.

A old man living with ghosts and regrets finds hope in a little diner and in an unexpected gift.

A world-weary cop deals with death, tragedy, loss, and the despair in other people’s lives. And the healing light of literature.

A poignant essay, a love letter to my Irish grandmother, and the trip to Ireland that called up her loving spirit.

A father teaches his son about acceptance, kindness, and what it means to show compassion and generosity to those of different abilities.

A poignant essay about visiting an old man in an assisted living unit, the challenges of aging and loss, and the small things we keep. The things that soothe us.

A short story about broken people, second chances, the power of kindness, and the blessings of redemption.

An elegiac essay about retirement, aging, and leaning into the stillness.

The new literary home of Weiss Journal. Independent stories, essays, photography, and audio narrations by John Patrick Weiss. Elegant and honest writing, free of AI.

There’s something warm and soothing about a cozy restaurant or pub. Especially on a chilly day.

Grab a small camera and wander through your town. Walk slowly. Notice the people, the light, the small scenes unfolding around you. Take a few photographs. Write down what you see.

I noticed a small woman pushing a wheelchair piled with luggage, leaning into the handles as she slowly made her way around the terminal. She reminded me of a disabled boy I knew in grade school, and of the burdens people carry.

I saw him through the café window, bent over a chessboard he had set for himself. White on one side. Black on the other. His hands resting in his lap as he considered his next play. He was playing alone.

An old woman, bent over, lugging a cart behind her, trudges up a street in San Francisco. She reminds me of my mother, who fought Parkinson’s disease, but never lost her equilibrium.

There was a time before smart phones and GPS when we used maps and the kindness of strangers for directions.

The light changed. The street cleared. He did not move. Groceries hung from his hand. The city blurred behind him. A ghost whispered in his ear.

I was in a bookstore and noticed that nearly everyone around me was scrolling on their phones, except for one older gentleman. What does that say about our attention in this age of digital addiction?