advent journal
a week of advent has passed only tonight did I bring the boxes up from the basement so we could start hanging memories on our tree it will be tomorrow before I hang any lights in place of the dead ferns that give our old house a boo radley feel
advent journal
there is no such thing as silence in the calm of any quiet you can hear hearts breaking dreams dying thanks giving sadness singing hope harmonizing losses mounting faith enduring grace pervading love crashing in listen closely listen . . . for your name your name mine, too Peace, Milton
poetry
it is the morning of the next day -- I have come down- stairs to the kitchen to make coffee . . . the room still smells of pork chops and laughter; the empty glasses -- both wine and water -- stand like a skyline on the old farm table that soaked it
poetry
we walked tonight at sunset just in time to see the fading sun reach across town for an old building and bask it in the splendor of what was left undone home now my kitchen smells like that sunset full of sorrow and stories while the singer reaches for what
poetry
forty-seven octobers ago i was eleven dad was thirty-nine and we lived in a shotgun apartment for missionaries who had come home from the field . . . I didn’t know much about america, but I loved the boston red sox though we had never been to boston in the fall and
poetry
I was driving to work yesterday and saw a sign in front of one of the storefront churches that inhabit our downtown neighborhood that said, “This is the year of great grace and great growth.” The rhythm of the words, when I said them out loud so I could remember
poetry
today we walked to the farmers’ market sunshine flowing like a cape some are gathering in washington to hope and dream out loud linda ronstadt said she has parkinson’s and will never sing again I watched a little boy of joy dance in the middle of the coffee shop
poetry
the first poem I learned was for my father and was the first poem he ever learned: missing has anybody seen my mouse? I opened his box for just a minute just to make sure he was really in it and while I was looking he jumped outside I tried
poetry
My father, Milton Cunningham, died August 3, 2013. He was a little over a month away from his eighty-fifth birthday. What follows here are what I said at his memorial service last Wednesday, including a poem I wrote for him entitled "The Skin You're In." I&
poetry
if I count my way around the room we are twelve scattered across tables and couches, close enough to talk but all engaged by screens and books silent disciples of different causes I am facing one who looks troubled though I cannot see what she sees only what she shows
poetry
I realize I have been silent here for a couple of weeks. For a number of reasons, I have found it hard to get here. I could not let National Poetry Month pass without one more poem, however. I have been moved by this image and the story of the
poetry
these are days littered with losses the absences seem more present perhaps because we marked eighteen months since my father-in-law died now the news comes of others -- one who made me laugh and one who reminded me God laughs, too hard to navigate life without hitting these pot-holes of