practice
I spent the evening
singing harmony
with a pick-up gospel choir—
songs I didn’t know
parts I didn’t know
offering me the
gentle reminder
that listening comes first,
then you sing.
Peace,
Milton
practice
zacchaeus
zacchaeus
when I think of the tiny tax
collector clinging to the tree
waiting for Jesus to pass by
I imagine my father there
a short man with low self-esteem
willing to go out on a limb
hoping love would call him by name
somehow my mother is there too
taking Jesus by the arm and
saying, “oh please don’t pass him by”
she spent her life calling his name
so he would know he was worthy
I believed the bible story
because of the way she found him
day after day for a lifetime
not just one afternoon for tea
Peace,
Milton
stopping by fenway on a chilly evening
Last night, Ginger and I got to go to the Red Sox game, thanks to our friends Fez and Maggie. It was our first time in the park in five years. As I reflected on the train ride back today, I channelled Robert Frost.
Stopping by Fenway on a Chilly Evening
Whose house this is I think I know—
Been here a hundred years or so;
It’s so familiar stopping here
To watch the game and feel the glow.We Boston fans all think it great
When Papi steps up to the plate—
Tonight he even stole a base,
And helped our team to dominate.We’re just beginning his last year,
So strange to think he won’t be here
To swing and smile and raise our hopes
And call us all to persevere.Ortiz, he stands so Boston strong,
And on this night we all belong;
So good—we all can sing along,
So good—we all can sing along.
Peace,
Milton
narrative
A pilgrimage is a journey set in a story.
— Paul Elie, interview for On Being (as best I can remember the quote)
narrative
I love to tell the story
says the old hymn—
not I love to tell the
doctrine; we do well to
read in the beginning
as another way of saying
once upon a time.
like frederick said faith is
not so far away from
the willing suspension
of disbelief, which is to say
being willing to trust
the story of mangers and
miracles of prophets
and parables, of golden
calves and broken folks,
is to find ourselves grabbing
at coats in the crowd,
or waiting for help by
the troubled waters
and struggling a bit
when he turns and asks,
do you want to get well?
Peace,
Milton
prine time
prine time
the first time I saw John Prine
we were both much younger
he sang fish and whistle—you
forgive us and we’ll forgive
you—and then the one about
the angel that I learned too
the last time I saw him was
the night before his cancer
had returned and he sang
for almost three hours, as
though his life—and ours—
were riding on the melodies
I thought I had seen him for
the last time—I think he did
too—my friend Terry and I
drove home talking about
dreams rolling by, the speed
of the sound of loneliness
today I found just one thing
that I can hold on to: he is
playing not so far away
come September—one more
chance to sing along again as
though time can never fade
or perhaps it’s because I know
it’s like he says, memories
that can’t be boughten—I’ll
go to the show and then
we’ll say goodbye and go back
home when the day is done
Peace,
Milton
workout
workout
I started the day by going to the gym
(things I rarely write for 400, Alex),
wishing the process of lessening my
presence on the planet did not involve
rooms with pumped up jams and rows
of televisions blasting morning shows.
I came prepared with headphones and
the podcast of a poet—Mary Oliver,
and as the soft animal of my body
began to pour with sweat i listened
to her talk about a grasshopper
eating birthday cake from her hand.
Four miles later, I had worked up a
sweat going absolutely nowhere,
except for the journey of her words,
the exercise of the heart and mind
that lifted the weight of my world,
stretched my wild and precious life.
Peace,
Milton
wordless
I spent the first ten days of April back in Durham, doing some book things, some cookies business, and seeing good friends in a place that feels like home to me. In the process, I haven’t kept my promises to write each day during April. Here is my defense.
wordless
I know I’ve been silent,
even after I said I would
write a poem everyday,there are blanks where
poems should have been.because I thought about
a question I once heard
asked of photographers:what’s the best picture
you didn’t take?and I chose to stay up
late talking and laughing
rather than writing,keeping only the images
my heart could carry.
Peace,
Milton
window
window
the late afternoon
light is the color
of gratitude
wouldn’t you say
as the shadows
grow longer and
the coming chill
pulls us closer
what else is there
but thank you
Peace,
Milton
question
question
It”s Opening Day . . .
(well, the Red Sox start tomorrow)
I have moved from coffee shop
to brewery trying to catch
the metaphor.
Is it as simple as
the pitcher misses the strike zone,
the catcher misses the tag,
and I miss my mother,
who has been gone half a season
and won’t be here to see
Big Papi take his last swing
at Fenway?
Peace,
Milton
suspended animation
I had every intention of using National Poetry Writing Month as an impetus to keep me writing regularly during April, and then I spent the day traveling yesterday and missed Day One. So, I will begin my quest on Day Two.
suspended animation
I’m sitting at a shared table
late on a Saturday morning
in a coffee shop born of dreams.
the couple next to me are
talking over their computers;
the man on the other side is
whispering into his headset,
as the rest of the room swirls
with people staring into screens
and smiling into faces; one
baby is asleep in the crowd.
above us all hangs a small troupe
of wax figures, colored with
spices and caught in a fearless
free fall of hopeful abandon–
or so it seems from below,
as I ponder what lies ahead.
Peace,
Milton