This evening we gathered around our dinner table with friends, as is our Friday night custom, and one of them, John, said, “I have a poem to read.” What followed were words full of flavor and sustenance by a poet named Thomas Centolella, who was a new name to me. I would be remiss if…
We’re beginning to make the turn towards home in To Kill a Mockingbird in my American Lit. class. We had a discussion today about the way in which a crisis exposes both the things that tie us together and the things that tear us apart. Maycomb, the little town where the story takes place, had…
John Lennon was killed thirty years ago today. (I know, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.) Here is the poem I found digging through his words tonight. words with john there are places I rememberall my life though some have changedhold on world, world hold onIt’s gonna be alrightyou gonna see the…
caught by surprisewe say — like a fly ballor a base runner —caught, perhapslike a falling heirloom –in the nick of time but not tonight –I was . . . taken by surpriselike a hostage ora dog from the shelter —out of my routineand off to the theaterby the dancer I know best then we…
When we came out of the restaurant, the air was raw – even people who know what real winter is would have shared my weather report. The wind was biting and we all braced ourselves as we walked to the car. We went out on a winter’s night because Reuben, my father-in-law, turned eighty today….
The first Sunday of the month means we celebrate Communion at our church, as in many Protestant congregations. Of all the things we do together in worship, Communion lands at the top of the list for me: we remember the story that binds us together in word and in action, we feed one another, and…
the farmers’ market is an act of faith,the sky starting to smell like snow . . .we are all dressed like vegetables are the last things on our minds, yetwe are as determined as the kale to make the most of this descending season. one friend finds me in the sweet potatoesand we swap stories…
Years ago, at a youth camp with my dear friend, John, I watched as he led his group in a visible expression of their connections with one another. One person started with a ball of string and tossed it to another while holding on to the end. Then she told the other what the connection…
they catch me coming and goingmy eyes itch my sinuses clog like an old drainwhether the treesare buddingor the leavesare taking theirparting shoton their wayto deathhow can something as simple ascoming and goingbudding and fallingcause so muchpain and discomfortin the midst ofbeauty and color? I think I’m stilltalking about leaves. Peace,Milton
At church last Sunday we lit the first candle for hope. At school this week, we are preparing to send out midterm progress reports. At my school, the reports have both a grade and a narrative. Most all of my students struggle in one way or another; some more than others. One boy is new…