lenten journal: chance of rain

when it rains like this
I wish for my old vinyl
records and the songs
that seep back into
my heart like water
into our basement

its something other
than mere melancholy
or even memory
the melodies have worn
rivers in my heart
whose beds grow dry

from time to time . . .
and then it rains words
and music – blossom
smile some sunshine
and I close my eyes
and sing along



Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: keepsake

there are some nights
when the sky turns
the color of friendship
and fades into the crisp
darkness of gratitude

we ate with friends
drank and talked as well
and then walked away
dropping bit of hope
like breadcrumbs

along the sidewalks
and silent porches
finding our way home
to our porch light
our beacon of belonging

summer will come
and winter will follow
and footprints will fade
but not this indelible
wisp of memory

Peace,
Milton

the greens of yesterday

This is the week of found poetry for me, or perhaps I should call it delivered poetry: words given to me. Here’s a comment from my friend, Mitch, on one of my recent blog posts.

hey milt:

up above, you wrote "the chards of the past" . . .

just wanted to point out that what you MEANT to write was "the SHARDS of the past." glass that breaks is spelled "shards;" the vegetable is spelled "chard" (i.e. "swiss chard").

so, unless you were referring to the greens of yesterday, i think you meant "shards."

Here’s to the chards of the past -- and to kind and friendly editors.

the greens of yesterday
(shards of chard)

start by breaking the rainbow
stems at the bottom of the leaves
stack them like wood
and chop them into dice
toss them against
the side of the sauté pan
sizzling with acceptance
as they slide through the olive oil
be patient
tenderness takes time

lay the leaves flat
one on top of the other
like scrapbook pages
and then roll them up
tightly from one side
the way Cuban women
once rolled cigars
while readers unwrapped
novels to pass the time
and share the stories

slice the leaves
across the rolls
chiffonade is the name
which must have a story of its own
the chard segments fall
first in tiny spirals
and then unravel
like a good story falling
into layers of meaning
shards of suggestion
on the cutting board
like unread tea leaves

when the chard first
hits the pan it makes
a sound somewhere between
applause and anticipation
the moisture evaporates
shrinking the size of the leaves
distilling flavors
memory reduced to essentials
to how we want to remember
to what we want
to carry away with us
when we leave the table.

Peace,
Milton

ties that bind

I’m writing this morning from a hotel in Napier, Illinois, which borders Wheaton, Illinois, home of Wheaton College, which, for the last four years, has been home for my nephew, Scott, who graduated yesterday. As much of the family as could get here gathered to celebrate him and his achievement, as well as making time for Mother’s Day and closing it all out with Ginger’s birthday celebration at Portillo’s, a Chicago favorite (or so we were told).

Scott is one of the good guys. No -- one of the great guys. He has a strong mind, a huge heart, a free spirit, a great voice, and he plays a mean guitar. Saturday night we got to hear his bluegrass band, The Creepers, play their final concert together. The band was born out of their friendships. When they arrived on campus four years ago, a bunch of guys on the same hall started jamming together on Saturday mornings and from there they grew into a band that has been, arguably, the biggest draw on the Wheaton campus. The families of the guys gathered at the house of the sister of the fiancée of one of them and listened and laughed with them for a couple of hours as they sang their way back through their memories into the present tense and the tangible bonds of love that we could see connecting them as they serenaded us.

I couldn’t help but think of Pierce Pettis’ wonderful lyric to “You’re Gonna Need This Memory”:

if all we got for all our trouble
is just this box of souvenirs
still it's worth a lot just to remember
just so we know that we were here

We were altar builders, conspirators of indelible hope, singing and clapping and laughing and loving our way into a memory that marked us all. We did not leave the same as we had come because the guys dared to friend each other (if I can borrow a Facebook verb) with such reckless abandon. They spent four years singing and playing and caring about each other without plans to hit the road or record a hit; they have been friends for the sake of being friends, singing their own soundtrack, and are now striking out in different directions, yet still tethered by the bonds of love.

I’ve only got a couple of paragraphs before I have to pack and start working our way back to Durham and the ties that bind us there, but I’ve spent the morning in memories of my own, grateful for friends from dorm rooms long ago, with whom I gathered for jam sessions of our own (even singing some of the same songs) – grateful that I can say to Scott with some certainty that love of friends and family travels well, reaches far, and reminds us who we are.










Peace,
Milton

out from under the pollen

Through all of our years in Massachusetts, we had more than one Easter that left the children hunting for eggs in the snow. North Carolina offers warmer climes, but snow of a different sort: we’ve been knee deep in pollen. And I’ve sneezed and sorted and snuffled all week long. In my mind’s yellow haze there is room, however, to sing Paul Simon’s song, “Allergies” (from my favorite of his solo albums, Hearts and Bones):

I go to a famous physician
I sleep in the local hotel
From what I can see of the people like me
We get better
But we never get well
So I ask myself this question
It's a question I often repeat
Where do allergies go
When it's after a show
And they want to get something to eat?
Allergies
Allergies
Something's living on my skin
Doctor please
Doctor please
Open up it's me again

I am still in the transition from kitchen to classroom (seven more double shifts to go), so the days have been both stuffy and short. As one who has lived my whole life with allergies of varying sorts, part of the rites of spring is my asking why they have to be part of the mix. On some theological level, it does me good to ask the question because the question calls me to look beyond my misery to any number of more severe circumstances that people live with and through that don’t make any more sense than my sneezing. Not all pain is purposeful; some of it just hurts.

My relief came in being able to sit down to dinner with Ginger and Cherry and let the evening wind down and another layer of pollen fall while we tightened the bonds with pan-fried cod, good conversation, and a whole lot of laughter. I am looking forward to being home for dinner on a regular basis. While I was cooking tonight, I reached for a couple of James Taylor CDs I had not heard in some time, One Man Dog and Walking Man, which added another layer of memory and meaning to the evening including thoughts of an old friend I miss dearly when I heard:

Little David, play on your harp
Hallelu, hallelu, little David
Play on your harp, hallelujah
Little David, play on your harp
hallelu, hallelu, little David
Play on your harp, hallelujah

It’s late now. The darkness has fallen heavier than the pollen and I’m still snorting around, trying to the words out of my congested head and into some coherent shape. There’s no earth-shattering message to share, other than to say thanks for a good day and a wonderful evening, even in the middle of a pollen storm.

Peace,
Milton