take the umbrella, she saidbut I was not going to be gone for long and I don’t mindgetting a little wet I dryoff rather quickly the rain lasted mostall daya background of softapplauseto a thoughtful dayand Imust say I concur there aren’t many dayslike thiswhen hope clings to melike rainand love runs freelylike rainin a…

I’m watching midnight come and gothe same way I do most nights,sitting at the keyboard with a glassof wine wondering what to writeand listening to some old friendsing me into the solitude that sows some sort of word play. some nights I know the very songI want to hear, but then somesend me searching for…

I was getting ready for work yesterday morning when I heard the teaser on NPR about a story to play that afternoon asking, “Why does time fly when you get older?” I smiled, one, because I knew I would have to find the story later to hear what they said (I don’t get to listen…

Since we can’t get to church this morning because of the snow and ice, I’ve put together a service of poems, songs, and a film clip. So, having gathered, let us prepare our hearts for worship. Our call to worship is “Morning Poem” by Mary Oliver. Every morning the world is created. Under the orange…

for Ginger It doesn’t matter how long it has been.Most any night, I can pick up my guitarand my fingers will find their way to fretand strings, and my voice meet the melody,so familiar: “People smile and tell meI’m the lucky one . . .” The picking pattern is muscle memory,which is my working metaphor…

It’s been close to ten years since I taught high school English, and yet this week I’ve had two occasions to go back to the Reading List and two occasions to mention Robert Burns. Three nights ago, I wrote about Of Mice and Men, thanks to Burns’ Night. Now, just three nights later, I am…

After a busy night at the Duke restaurant, I went over to watch what was left of the State of the Union address with friends at the same house where we had gathered to watch the debates and the election night returns, which meant I was even later than usual getting home. When I got…

Tonight is Burns’ Night. Two hundred and fifty one years ago, on this night, the Scottish poet Robert Burns was born. Though I have a wee bit o’ Scottish blood in me, I’ve never been an avid celebrator of the anniversary, which Garrison Keillor describes as an evening when, “They read Burns’ poems, sing his…

In the middle of the afternoon, as I was cooking for a friend and Ginger was sermonizing, as she calls it, she started reading MLK quotes to me, ending with this one, which she introduced by saying, “Here’s one I didn’t know.” If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep…

Part of my daily ritual is reading The Writer’s Almanac, both for the poem offered and for the historical notes for the day because they often set me sailing on the sea of my thoughts with their gentle breezes of suggestion. Today was no exception because I learned eighty-two years ago today Thornton Wilder’s Our…