poetry
hey, white people yeah, I’m talking to me you, too--those who never had to worry about being followed stopped lynched accused raped beaten shot gassed terrorized or humiliated because of our skin who never had to think twice about a hoodie making us a threat who never had to
poetry
volunteer in new england we have to be gentle with our tomatoes let the air warm then the soil plant on memorial day while people down south are already making BLTs today Tom pointed to a little green plant “tomato” he said then “volunteer” from the latin: acting by free
poetry
permanent collection the pandemic has gone on long enough to get to “clean up the barn” and I unpacked the museum in a box waiting to be curated pictures from my father’s ordination wrapped in plastic since Mom’s funeral what do I do with a memory that’s
poetry
everything never stops singing the tulips are down to their last chorus the apple blossoms are just coming in on the descant the bleeding hearts hum in the shade and the chive flowers translate melody to fragrance when they hit the hot skillet the endless blue sky sings of long
poetry
the shape of what is not there I’m not sure why this seems to be the week for a mutual meltdown but there is a tsunami of tension even the schnauzers are surly they know the whole thing has gone to the dogs as we say and they resent
poetry
key change I grew up singing in church hymns haunted by harmony what a fellowship what a joy ye who are weary come home those songs taught me that congregations are contagious that love is highly infectious and compassion communicable singing they say spreads the virus our deep comfort commandeered
poetry
air and water it is a postcard night in our little town the honey-pink sunset riding in on the breeze I followed the schnauzers home from our walk to find a security guard was shot to death at a Family Dollar Store in Flint, Michigan because he asked someone to
poetry
daily digest these are the stay close to home dig in the dirt string up the lights I planned to string years ago days the work from home walk the dogs again wear a mask to the store go too long without a hug days the go to bed tired
poetry
maybe it doesn’t get better you may not have read past the title but hear me out-- we can’t do what we are doing just because we think this won’t last and we can get back to the way things were maybe it doesn’t get better
lenten journal
photograph one of the photographs of Jesus I keep in the wallet of my mind is of him looking out over Jerusalem. the sun is burning the last bits of Judean blue out of the Palestinian sky, making room for the night. the long reaches of the last light catch
lenten journal
Over the past week or so, at a friend’s prompting, I have been posting the covers of books that have been significant in my life--just the covers, no explanation. I thought that tonight I would give a preview of tomorrow’s book (Anne Tyler’s Saint Maybe) and a
lenten journal
After the day we have all had trying to digest information about the coronavirus and then bring to figure out what to do with it, I am exhausted as I sit down to write. Most of the motion seems to be away from each other, which led me back to