I have been in poetry mode all this week, so it seems only fitting that I should discover, here in the dregs of this day, that today is W. S. Merwin's birthday. In honor of his celebrating another year on the planet, I offer two or three of
there was something in the autumnal air to begin with: not a chill, an awakening as soon as I stepped out of the house I breathed in the crisp chill of possibility and, as I turned toward the car, I saw the sky – cloudless, clear, and colored in open invitation
at our church means saying where it hurts, or who it hurts, out loud we call the names of those we love and those we know who are sick or dying or have lost someone or are just lost and our pastor tells us God is not waiting for her
a story has an arc, the teacher told us and drew a line like a colorless rainbow on the blackboard -- you remember, right? exposition, rising action -- fueled by conflict the climax at the top, and then falling action falling so far that we spoke French: denouement resolution to
Ray Charles was born today. My parents had an old LP of his, “Modern Sounds in Country & Western Music,” that I played over and over and I remember how I could feel "You Don't Know Me" tearing up my insides; I was seven, maybe. That
so I ask myself this question it’s a question I often repeat where do allergies go when it’s after the show and they want to find something to eat? Paul Simon, “Allergies” There once was a man who grew weary Of the pollen that made his life dreary:
Part of my morning ritual right now is chipping away at Jimmy Webb’s book, Tunesmith , which is about the art and process of song writing. Webb is one of my favorites. In the chapter, “It’s Only Words,” he talks about the songwriter’s task, different than most any
Part of what makes working in a restaurant kitchen interesting is you never really know who is coming for dinner and when they are planning to come. At the Durham restaurant we take reservations, so we do know the answer a good bit of the time, yet last Sunday night
When I first met Pete Cernoia, he was a mailman. No, that’s what he did for a job. Let me start again. From the first moment I met Pete Cernoia I was glad I knew him. We shared a common love of music and guitar playing, as well as
to a member of Congress who yells, “You lie” at our President, like a drunk fan yelling at a referee, or a pastor who spews hate from his pulpit, wishing our President would die a natural death because, “We don’t need another holiday.” The comments are connected across our
I still remember the Christmas morning when, after unwrapping most of our gifts, my mother pointed to two cards stuck on the tree, one with my brother’s name on it and one with mine. A string ran from each card, leading us in different directions all over our house
A week or so ago we did some catching up on our movies and finally saw The Visitor, an amazing and well-told story captured and the intersection of privilege and despair. I would tell you to stop and go watch it now, but I want you to read. So, finish