he started obsessing about death,
as several of his family members
had died at that age, and then
he had a series of small strokes
and started seeing people
who didn’t seem to be there,
like the old man he saw
sitting on the hearth
just staring into space,
not in a mean or scary way,
but as if he’d lost his train of thought
and was trying to remember
what he’d been saying
before he sat down
next to the fireplace.
its lines wandering away from the page,
its purpose shaky, its direction unknown.
This is the poem that was lost
and was never really found but reinvented
itself somewhere along the way.
This is the poem that was lost:
be on the lookout for works in progress
that may have strayed but are there still.
Praise the leafy trees and flowers and grass!
Praise the rabbit, the squirrel, the groundhog!
Praise the hills, the rivers, the rich, dark soil!
Praise the clouds, the rain, the air, the smell of summer!
Praise music and poetry and dance and painting!
Praise beautiful, imperfect, compassionate people!
Praise this amazing, awful, wonderful, humdrum moment!
Praise, praise, praise! Praise praise! Now and always, praise!
who, at 20, comes and goes
as she likes, now at her internship,
now at the beach, now at the gym,
now at college, now at the coffee shop,
just as she is meant to do at this age.
But the dog and I still remember her
as a 10-year-old holding a fuzzy
8-week-old puppy in her arms, smiling
as if nothing else in the world
could ever matter more.
I can tell it’s cooler than it’s been in days.
Grass and leaves are wet with last night’s rain,
And birds are singing spring, not summer, songs.
Life is hard and it’s going to be a rough July,
So it’s good to get a reprieve, a cool moment
Before the heat and storms and wars return
And our days are marked by chaos and tears.
of mercy amid the bitterness of cruelty.
How warm the kind embrace
of love amid the chill of fear.
How beautiful the smiling face
of welcome amid the vileness of hatred.
through the wilds of West Virginia
with Lucinda Williams cranked up
singing about gravel roads and love
and death and honky tonks and loss
and bittersweet childhood memories
that echo and resonate with these hills
and harmonize with the wheels of my car.
Maybe the rain tomorrow
will end this late-June heatwave
I have been living through
in post-apocalypse West Virginia
in a beautiful cabin on a hill
next to an idyllic goat farm
overlooking devastation
from the last time it rained
and destroyed roads and houses
and trailers near the river
where there are people
who thought they had
already lost everything
only to find there is always more
to lose when you have nothing
and storm clouds are gathering.
I saw the devastation of last week’s floods—
roads washed away, debris piled high everywhere,
whole houses bulldozed in heaps here and there,
dirty sinks and clothes and toys mingled together;
But here on top of this hill the cabin is pristine,
untouched by rapidly rising and receding waters,
unscathed by the ravages of the passing storm,
nothing but light and comfortable amenities
and lovely views of trees—amazing, green, alive.
To hold in community all our joys and sorrows,
To experience time in the form of spirit,
Sabbath time, time set apart from ordinary time,
Time to reflect, time to re-frame, time to refresh,
Time to live into the mystery and wonder of life.
We pause now for a moment of silence
As we share sacred time together.
May we sense in this moment the spirit of life,
May our lives be shaped by compassion and justice,
And may Love be our guide and companion in all we do,
Now and always, Amen!
A prophecy impossible to hold,
A politician’s promise unfulfilled,
A corporate lie contrived to sell more bombs,
Or just this moment lived in simple grace?
on the leafy green Pittsburgh suburbs
and everywhere, axial precession
performing its magic once again,
causing season to follow season,
a circle game of torque and time
that we experience here today
as the longest day of the year;
and I will be in meetings all day.
thunder falling heavy like the rain,
rain hitting windows like gravel,
lightning flashing everywhere;
and, in the morning, peace.
clover and dandelions thriving,
nameless weeds stretching skyward,
vines lengthening and stretching,,
nature reveling in its resilience,
while I make dreaded plans to mow.
Even here in the manicured suburbs
Where squirrels and rabbits,
Groundhogs and chipmunks,
Deer, raccoons, and sometimes
A fox will visit our yard,
All simply living their lives
More deeply connected to everything
Than the neighborhood’s people,
More unselfconsciously alive
Than mere human beings.
Opening channels of love
Available only in this way,
Making space for memory
And the present moment
To dance with each other,
As something new emerges.
to consider the call of love.
Love calls us to be caring, to be kind,
to be open, to be welcoming;
Love calls us to be accepting,
to be understanding, to be compassionate;
Love calls us to be present for others
even when it is difficult or inconvenient;
And love calls us to be fierce and unrelenting
in our work for justice for all,
Especially for those who are most at-risk
and vulnerable in our society.
As we pause for a moment of silence,
Let us listen for what love is calling us to do.
May we be caring, kind, open and welcoming.
May we be accepting, understanding and compassionate.
May we be present for others and for ourselves.
May we be fierce and unrelenting
in our work for those who are vulnerable.
And may we listen for the call of love now and always,
Amen!
in the Middle East,
in Russia and Ukraine,
in Sudan and Myanmar,
California is under siege,
tanks are rolling in D.C.,
and people are dying
throughout Africa
because the United States
has a reality-TV president
who has normalized
apathy and cruelty.
And this is how
the world ends.
hymns of praise for sun and rain,
ballads sweet of green abundance,
dirges of remembered winter cold,
lullabies melodious, entrancing,
evensongs of grace foretold fulfilled.
on east-facing surfaces of trees
and shrubs, and on long patches of grass
between the shadows of houses—
light spilling and splashing like paint
from the brush of Turner on a day
in his later years, a day when at last
sadness lifted and he saw things clearly,
a day when he realized the truth of words
he later uttered on his deathbed, weak
but with eyes opened: “The sun is God!”
And it is not business as usual.
It is the responsibility of poets
To reveal truths, even hard truths,
And there are so many these days,
So many ways in which we see
Freedoms disappear in torrents
And trickles, we must sing
Or scream at the top of our lungs
Until our voices are heard
And truth begins to emerge.
Its leaves and branches dancing,
Jostling, bouncing, and returning
To almost still. Each leaf moves
Singly, each branch on its own,
But every part of the tree deeply
Interconnected with other parts,
With the breeze, with the earth,
Sun and moon, and whims and will
Of humans, too often disconnected.
To breathe together in this place of welcoming,
To breathe together in this place of warmth and caring,
To breathe together in this place of compassion.
To breath together: Breathing in, breathing out.
Breathing in peace, breathing out love.
Continuing to breathe together
As we pause for a moment of silence.
In all the moments of our lives,
Moments of fear and distress,
Moments of joy and celebration,
Moments of grief and sorrow,
Moments of healing and wholeness,
In all the moments of our lives,
May we breathe in peace,
May we breathe out love,
And may it always be so.
Amen!
disheartened, dispirited—
words that describe
what we experience
when love is devalued
and fear runs rampant.
that isolationism among nations
ultimately leads
to suffering, violence and war.
So too does social
and spiritual isolation lead
to distress, conflict and struggle.
Learning how to coexist is not just
a nice thing to do—it’s essential
in order to survive and thrive.
no surefire formula,
no simple steps,
but, always, only,
the next right thing,
and then the next.