don't eat alone

penultimate

it was the night before
though I suppose I could
say it was the last night
but that is not how I’ve
ever thought of it

nothing was ending
everything was beginning

we gathered everyone
we could think of in the
fellowship hall to tell
stories eat barbecue
and mark the moment

nothing was ending
everything was beginning

the guys gathered to share
communion afterwards
as many groomsmen as
Jesus had disciples
and then I tried to sleep

nothing was ending
everything was beginning

more than a quarter of
a century ago
we are sharing some wine
planning for tomorrow
and I’m ready for sleep

nothing was ending
everything was beginning . . .

Peace,
Milton

discovery

the longer I live
the more I find
I have yet to walk
where there are
no footprints

columbus didn’t
discover anything
he only became
aware of what
he did not know

Peace,
Milton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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