After the day we have all had trying to digest information about the coronavirus and then bring to figure out what to do with it, I am exhausted as I sit down to write. Most of the motion seems to be away from each other, which led me back to a poem by Pádraig Ó…
A friend and I used to collect oxymorons: jumbo shrimp, student teacher, El Camino Classic. The current state of affairs has given us another one: social distancing. As I turned it over in my head today, I went to a list of phrases I have been collecting from various sources and put this poem together….
minor gifts when it comes to campaigns major donors give big bucks minor givers give lesser gifts and are, thus, less on lots of levels but minor in music means melancholy a flatted third makes a home for sadness and songs in the key of grief one note changes a chord one moment changes a…
threat landscape who knows what’s out there hiding in the hills or in a handshake I could get hit by a bus or a brick or the morning news hard enough to knock me flat on my back what happens next is just waiting until I drop my guard or my keys I don’t know…
something was in the air today weather waiting to happen more than once we asked each other do you think it’s going to snow? the forecasters on television cover multiple micro-climates so they say things like two to twelve inches when it comes to snowfall and we start postponing and cancelling and hoping it happens…
I have a growing list of words and phrases I have collected from things I have read and heard. I am hoping to use them as kindling for a poetry book. Tonight, I offer one of the poems to you. The inciting phrase is “the compliment of your curiosity.” Here is what it set to…
nothing matters from my window seat I can see a bench concrete sides holding wooden slats under the tree that has taken a century to grow beyond the telephone pole meet me there with nothing other than a cup of coffee, or a pup leave anything that beeps or vibrates and we will linger with…
I’m preaching tomorrow at First Congregational Church in Guilford. Since it is my church, I’m going to wait to post the sermon until tomorrow, since I want to make sure no one gets a sneak peak. Instead, here’s a poem that grew out of my preparation. sermon prep what can I say what should I…
nothing matters from my window seat I can see a bench concrete sides holding wooden slats under the tree that has taken a century to grow beyond the telephone pole from my window seat I can see a bench concrete sides holding wooden slats under the tree that has taken a century to grow beyond…
tell the others on a hillside of tombs only one stone was moved life surrounded by death which is how it feels this morning with news of “coordinated bombings” (should that be a phrase) christ is risen, yes and we are dying both things are true we have to live with that we have to…