poetry
I had a day of rest today, thus, today’s word. it’s the streetside café that pulls you out of the crush of people filling the sidewalk; it’s the bench in the park where you can sit unnoticed with the disquieting revelation that the world can go on
lenten journal
It’s not hard to find pain around us. I can name several friends who have marked the anniversary of a parent’s death, some who are facing difficult decisions about their jobs, others dealing with illnesses and uncertain outcomes. That just skims the surface. Pain is common currency, along
lenten journal
the words are falling out in twos and threes tonight . . . a trickle of thought and thankfulness trying to keep a promise: I said I would meet you here, and bring a word: mosaic: diverse pieces forming a more or less coherent whole. Start with the shiny shards of my day:
lenten journal
To say my father was a sports fan is like saying I like to cook. The man would pull over and watch five year olds play football just because it was a game. He became the Sports Chaplain at Baylor because he loved going to the games. I’ve thought
lenten journal
The woman who wrote the article I talked about yesterday said one of the ways she tried to reach her daughter was to put poems in her shoes because, she said, “What I wanted her to know is: People have been in pain before, struggled to find hope, and look
advent journal
love is the drum that beats in our bones even in our broken melodies of grief our symphonies of sorrow and sadness relentless resonance in the late night club of all that could have been the hope of the high hat the syncopation of surprise the gentle jazz of joy
advent journal
I have been going back through some poems I wrote several years ago. My intention was not to repeat them, necessarily, but a couple of them have taken hold in new ways and feel as though they are worth bringing to light once more. I needed these words tonight. I
advent journal
Mark Strand died this week. He was a poet, even a former U. S. Poet Laureate. In the middle of the violence that makes up our world, it feels worthwhile to say thanks for the life and words of a poet who held a sense of appropriate insignificance with grace;
poetry
There is no them. Only us: across the table, behind the wall, sharing coffee, passing the green beans, throwing stones, breaking curfew; armed to the teeth biting back with rubber bullets, cheering for little leaguers, praying for peace, marching in the night, hiding behind official jargon; joining in song, crying
poetry
I can see them coming over the tops of the trees the lights at the old ball park the roof tops of the old warehouses the clouds pile up some white as anger behind them a grey wall as deep as darkness here comes the rain again falling on my
poetry
I am dreaming these days, but not in a language I remember; I wake up with some sense of where I've been . . . of stories I've been told . . . . In the resonance of my ruminations, I feel at home riding strange trains with Schanuzers who now live only
poetry
the southern summer is not personal: the onslaught of heat and humidity falls on the just and unjust the sacred and the sweaty gets under your skin refusing to relent in its drive to depletion as you dart from one cool remove to the next more afternoons than not the