At church last Sunday we lit the first candle for hope. At school this week, we are preparing to send out midterm progress reports. At my school, the reports have both a grade and a narrative. Most all of my students struggle in one way or another; some more than
It is difficult to get the news from poems yet people die miserably every day... ...for lack of what is found there -- William Carlos Williams Today I hit a wall I didn’t see coming. I ran into people who couldn’t see the metaphor sitting right in front of
Madeleine L’Engle would have been ninety-two today. I think of her every Advent (and a number of other days as well) because she is the one who taught me about the Liturgical Year – through her writing, that is. I never got to meet her, though I had a
The night is far spent . . . Yes, there’s another half to that sentence, but it’s too early to write it down. We still have weeks of days growing shorter, of darkening afternoons, of lying down to sleep in the middle of all that is not yet. While the new
A couple of years ago, I recorded a story I wrote some years before that for a Christmas Eve service at our church in Marshfield, Massachusetts. I have some of the CDs available for purchase, should you wish to share them, or have one for yourself. Paypal says you can
When it comes to spiritual metaphors, kingdom is problematic for me. I’ve written about it before. Thus, my sonnet offering for today. Peace, Milton P. S. -- In preparing for Thanksgiving, I also offer new pie recipes here, here, here, here, and here.
I don’t remember the first time I heard a Bob Dylan song. I do, however, remember the first one I learned on my guitar. It was 1970, I was a ninth grader with a new guitar, and my friend Jim had the words and chords: come gather ‘round people
I’m a regular. If Fullsteam Brewery were casting a remake of Cheers, I’d be in the running for the role of Norm. I don’t drink nearly as much as he did, but when I walk in, they know me. And I love it. I’m also a
The text today was Isaiah 65:17-25 and Ginger's sermon ran the gardens from Eden to Woodstock. Here's where it all took me. Peace, Milton P. S. I can't pass up the chance to let Joni sing. Also, for the first time in
In the Grand Scheme of It All, truth rides in on small things – the way a shooting star defines the Universe in a fleeting gesture of magnificent futility. In the Giant Medical Center, we stood beside the bed, the small room stuffed with relatives and machines, neither saying much of
The lectionary it seems uses the last few weeks before Advent to dish out some difficult passages. This morning's came from Haggai. Peace, Milton P. S. Since it made the sermon, I might as well let it end the post as well.
This is the week of found poetry for me, or perhaps I should call it delivered poetry: words given to me. Here’s a comment from my friend, Mitch, on one of my recent blog posts. hey milt: up above, you wrote "the chards of the past" . . . just