don't eat alone

we walked tonight

at sunset just in time

to see the fading sun

reach across town for

an old building and

bask it in the splendor

of what was left undone

home now my kitchen

smells like that sunset

full of sorrow and stories

while the singer reaches

for what is as true as

the light on old buildings

and I sing along . . .

Peace,

Milton

forty-seven octobers ago

i was eleven

dad was thirty-nine

and we lived in a shotgun

apartment for missionaries

who had come home

from the field . . .

I didn’t know much

about america, but

I loved the boston red sox

though we had never been

to boston in the fall

and I was not much

of a baseball player . . .

forty-seven octobers ago

the sox made it to

the world series — when they

still played afternoon games

and as I left for school

dad said, “do you want to come

home early and watch with me?”

he wrote me a note for every

afternoon game

I walked home and

we sat on the couch

together while the red sox

raised my hopes and

broke my heart . . .

the favorite memory

of my childhood

is crisp and alive

in the autumn air

and the leaves letting go

like dad did this summer

let’s go red sox . . .

Peace,

Milton

I was driving to work yesterday and saw a sign in front of one of the storefront churches that inhabit our downtown neighborhood that said, “This is the year of great grace and great growth.” The rhythm of the words, when I said them out loud so I could remember them, pulled me towards writing a villanelle, which is a very specific form of rhymed poetry. (Think Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night” or Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art.”) Here is what came from my encounter and effort.

Reminder

Caught by surprise by this statement of faith,
Drive-by wisdom from a church-front sign:
“This is the year of great growth and great grace” —

A slogan of hope I’m compelled to embrace,
As my grief-colored life undergoes redesign . . .
I’m caught by surprise by this statement of faith,

Black plastic letters, declarative case,
I hear more invitation than I do bottom line:
“This is the year of great growth and great grace.”

Though the scars left by sorrow are never erased,
My heart, ached with absence, can choose to incline
To be caught by surprise by this statement of faith,

Even as I keep driving, feeling lost and misplaced,
Somehow I am pulled by the simple punch line:
“This is the year of great growth and great grace,”

Which reminds me that grief is a gathering place,
Where we call one another to do more than resign
And be caught by surprise by this statement of faith:
“This is the year of great growth and great grace.”

Peace
Milton

today

we walked to the farmers’ market
sunshine flowing like a cape

some are gathering in washington
to hope and dream out loud

linda ronstadt said she has parkinson’s
and will never sing again

I watched a little boy of joy dance
in the middle of the coffee shop

marks three weeks since my dad died
and our little dog, too

I will write this poem and then go
back out into the sunshine

Peace,
Milton

the first poem
I learned was
for my father
and was the first
poem he ever learned:

missing

has anybody seen my mouse?
I opened his box for just a minute
just to make sure he was really in it
and while I was looking he jumped outside
I tried to catch him, I tried, I tried . . .

I have spent the day
reciting the lines
of my life
moving from memory
hoping to find

something to ease
the empty space
the heavy space
the palpable absence
and all I can muster is

missing

Peace,
Milton

if I count my way around the room
we are twelve scattered across tables
and couches, close enough to talk
but all engaged by screens and books
silent disciples of different causes

I am facing one who looks troubled
though I cannot see what she sees
only what she shows in her eyes
the brick wall between us keeps me
from asking and her from telling

we have not even made eye contact
so I look around the room at one
who looks angry under his hat,
another pensive, finger tapping lip,
one dozing off, another honing in

all connected to somewhere else
I suppose I could wax critical about
our collective isolation — another time . . .
today I am grateful for an open-armed
room that can hold us all as we are

Peace,
Milton

I realize I have been silent here for a couple of weeks. For a number of reasons, I have found it hard to get here. I could not let National Poetry Month pass without one more poem, however. I have been moved by this image and the story of the discovery of the landing gear from one of the planes that was crashed into the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001, which set me to thinking about the ways in which grief catches us off guard — and how deeply I miss Reuben and David, in particular.

landing gear

it’s been a long time
grief old enough to be
in middle school . . .
then one turn down
a trash-filled alley and
the feelings are fresh

the days give distance
but the pain doesn’t age
a fragment of memory
somehow tucked away
a shard of a song and
my heart breaks open

yes, life layers over losses
but you’re not lost —
you’re gone your’e gone
every time I want to talk
to tell you something
you’re still not here

so I will keep turning
down alleyways tearing
open old memories to
remember you were
here with me with me
that I’ll never forget

Peace,
Milton

these are days littered with losses
the absences seem more present
perhaps because we marked eighteen
months since my father-in-law died

now the news comes of others —
one who made me laugh and one who
reminded me God laughs, too
hard to navigate life without

hitting these pot-holes of the heart
even the ones we know are there
but we keep going keep going
while the wind sings a gospel song

and  calls me to the harmony
as the redbud offers its first bloom
with last fall’s leaves still scattered
over the dust from whence we came

Peace,
Milton

only steps away from the empty
tomb and already we’re walking back
to the cemetery alongside
a friend who must bury his father

most of our footsteps it seems are aimed
toward the grave rather than away
from it — lazarus could tell you that
we are like sheep headed for slaughter

we sat last night around the table
living out love as best we knew how
sharing cornbread chili chocolate
chip cookies on a cold april night

now is not the time for pat answers
that time never comes no never comes
no matter what life’s going to hurt
empty tombs are going to fill up

and we will keep living hand to mouth
heart to heart holding on for dear life
and trusting that the last word belongs
to love and light — even in the dark

Peace,
Milton