advent journal
My birthday gift this year was Burt Burleson, my most enduring friend whom I have known for almost fifty years. As a third-culture kid who moved around most of my life, I lost track of those I knew in my childhood and adolescence. Burt and I met in the fall
advent journal
nourishment over lunch I looked back at my marginalia from my morning’s reading we must align our functioning with those we depend on for life to be sustainable weighty words for one sitting at the bar at doody’s waiting on a wedge salad when I gave my order
poetry
I have had the privilege of spending a few days doing nothing but practicing friendship with a group of men who care deeply for one another. This poem grew out of the observations of one of them as we sat on the porch together after dinner last night. in a
poetry
all saints we move too quickly to divide the world that’s a complete sentence but it’s not the whole story we move too quickly to divide the world into saints and sinners as though life is a contest that demands winners and losers so that some can feel
poetry
almosts it doesn’t have to be a sudden death shoot out for the little things to matter horse shoe nails go missing long before kingdoms start falling we miss most of the might have beens and play on unaware of all the almosts that roll by disguised as incidentals
poetry
mercy drops who knows why old hymns rise to the surface but I found myself singing about showers of blessing for no apparent reason other than the rain hitting my windshield wipers keeping time until I got stuck on two words mercy drops I almost stopped and ran under the
poetry
patina “people weather over the course of their lives . . .” Eva Meijer when I got my new carbon steel skillets they came pre-seasoned but without the scars a patina will develop with use the leaflet explained they will show their age like a copper pipe or a bronze statue the lichen
poetry
distance some days any distance is too much to traverse I can’t get there from here like today the text from one to say the cancer cannot be challenged any care will be palliative the picture from another of the dog who has died the dog who welcomed me
poetry
poetic license all I wanted was some water when I stepped into the Spar a step up from the gas station convenience stores I know I walked past fresh produce and Irish baked goods a food counter and a coffee machine to be surprised by spring water that bore the
lenten journal
cross purposes growing up they said nothing but the blood as though violence was some kind of necessity a cosmic payoff in a world where blame and shame are primary currency we’ve lived enough history to know that violence isn’t redemptive we’ve built whole worlds based on
lenten journal
just a thought after a supper that took a turn they didn’t understand and an arrest that left them lost we do well to remember not one of them said “I’ll see you Sunday” Peace, MIlton
lenten journal
the edge I feel like I have walked along the edge of despair today not so much a cliff as a dimension you’ve seen it on tv when they move between one world and another somehow I sound crazy but between remembering Martin and visiting a nursing home and