lenten journal
A friend and I used to collect oxymorons: jumbo shrimp, student teacher, El Camino Classic. The current state of affairs has given us another one: social distancing. As I turned it over in my head today, I went to a list of phrases I have been collecting from various sources
lenten journal
minor gifts when it comes to campaigns major donors give big bucks minor givers give lesser gifts and are, thus, less on lots of levels but minor in music means melancholy a flatted third makes a home for sadness and songs in the key of grief one note changes a
lenten journal
threat landscape who knows what’s out there hiding in the hills or in a handshake I could get hit by a bus or a brick or the morning news hard enough to knock me flat on my back what happens next is just waiting until I drop my guard
advent journal
something was in the air today weather waiting to happen more than once we asked each other do you think it’s going to snow? the forecasters on television cover multiple micro-climates so they say things like two to twelve inches when it comes to snowfall and we start postponing
advent journal
I have a growing list of words and phrases I have collected from things I have read and heard. I am hoping to use them as kindling for a poetry book. Tonight, I offer one of the poems to you. The inciting phrase is “the compliment of your curiosity.” Here
advent journal
nothing matters from my window seat I can see a bench concrete sides holding wooden slats under the tree that has taken a century to grow beyond the telephone pole meet me there with nothing other than a cup of coffee, or a pup leave anything that beeps or vibrates
poetry
I’m preaching tomorrow at First Congregational Church in Guilford. Since it is my church, I’m going to wait to post the sermon until tomorrow, since I want to make sure no one gets a sneak peak. Instead, here’s a poem that grew out of my preparation. sermon
poetry
nothing matters from my window seat I can see a bench concrete sides holding wooden slats under the tree that has taken a century to grow beyond the telephone pole from my window seat I can see a bench concrete sides holding wooden slats under the tree that has taken
poetry
tell the others on a hillside of tombs only one stone was moved life surrounded by death which is how it feels this morning with news of “coordinated bombings” (should that be a phrase) christ is risen, yes and we are dying both things are true we have to live
lenten journal
between noon and three I sit quietly I waited for words but they chose to be quiet what is there to say? Peace, Milton
lenten journal
I was looking for a poem to post the other day and found one titled “There, there, grieving.” I remember a friend whose father died many years before mine recalling a trip to a mall soon after his funeral where she was overwhelmed by the fact that everyone was acting
lenten journal
notes from the road we drove through a fog this morning so thick we couldn’t see New Haven from the highway though we could see the road in front of us at least far enough to keep moving on hold that thought The particles of light in sky and