One of the things I have had to unlearn from my childhood is how people were described when telling a story of something that happened. What was modeled for me was white people were simply described as people: a man, a woman. People of any other ethnic or racial background were given a qualifier: “I…
I have work to do this morning but I keep running into poems that give me pause and pull my gaze out my second-story window to the dance of sunshine and shadows on the fence line, the blanket of dead leaves turning to soil and the trees, their bare branches reaching or — perhaps —…
The Christmas tide is going out . . . the waves of wonder which crashed against the sea wall of my heart are sliding away reminding me that the tides come and go, neap and spring: this is the rhythm of redemption. Along the now silent sands in my mind’s eye I still see…
I wrote this poem several years ago, and I thought of it this morning. the morning after Mary rose before sunrise; the baby was still sleeping, as was Joseph and most of the animals, except for one cow who looked a little sheepish. The shepherds were long gone. In their excitement, they had not cleaned…
Thanks for making the journey with me this Advent season. The night is far spent; the day is at hand. I am grateful for all the love that surrounds me. I let James Taylor sing us to sleep. Peace Milton
My offering tonight is a story I wrote several years ago. Three Christmases ago, my friend Terry helped me turn it into an audio file. This past year has helped me read it a bit differently. I share it again. A Faraway Christmas As we gather together on this Silent Night, To sing ‘round…
The first time you came to Boston it was so cold; the wind bit us at the bus stop. You pulled me close and asked, “Am I still wearing pants?” then you laughed. When you first came to Durham — our first Christmas in our new home — we were snowed in. You looked…
when we lived by the ocean I learned to tell time by the tides (I guess I should say I couldn’t tell time a thing — or keep it) there was no second hand . . . no sense of calendar — just the giving and taking away of the beach twice a day: a…
At the end of the last century, Ron Howard directed a movie called “Ed” that tried to take a look at the preposterous idea that people would watch a TV show that was simply filming someone’s everyday life. I don’t know that even Howard understood how prophetic he was, or perhaps even suggestive. One of…
in the story of america war is the primary metaphor we see life as a battle conquest as a mission we’re number one, remember? we live our lives locked and loaded, ready for battle our words are bullets intent on doing damage in the name of faith and freedom: we must defend our…