Life
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Advent: December 14 By Vincent H. Anastasi 2022 You don’t really think our vulgar presence, pungent smell and uncouth ways have a place in this pageant announced by heavenly choirs?
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Advent: December 13 By Vincent H. Anastasi 2022 In the beginning you had to take it on faith; it couldn’t be seen, impossible to conceive, carrying divinity!
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Advent: December 12 By Vincent H. Anastasi 2022 No room. No room. No difference between the inns and my crowded heart where worry lodges with fear and that trickster, wealth, checks in.
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Advent: December 11 By Vincent H. Anastasi 2022 Huddled round the fire, warmed by more than dying flames, we share our stories and laugh the hearty laughter of the unashamed and free.
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Advent: December 10 By Vincent H. Anastasi 2022 Sometimes the business of living robs the season of its sacred joy: Time’s teeming expectancy like children counting the days.
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Advent: December 9 By Vincent H. Anastasi 2022 When we left our home we were no more than scandal – (a virgin with child!) – but this love-gift changes all, turning gossip to gospel.
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Advent: December 8 By Vincent H. Anastasi 2022 The empty places like the white space on this page define what remains and gathered round the table we embrace our lives left full.
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I just couldn’t sit on this one, even if Walt Whitman Wednesdays sounds catchy. I’ve known this poem since I first heard it years ago in the movie Dead Poets Society starring Robin Williams. A fellow AP English teacher I’ve followed for the past two years shared it in her post this week (along with
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Wendell Berry never ceases to amaze me. Here, I am reminded of the hours my father spent behind one of those old clunky VHS camcorders of the late 1980s. Rather than taking part in our family vacations, he served as video historian and ended up watching us and everything we experienced through a small lens,
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Autumn has always been my favorite season. Perhaps my birthday coming shortly after the autumnal equinox has biased me in favor of this rich time of harvest and change, but as I meditated on turning forty-six and my desire to live to be one hundred years old, the following sonnet emerged. I struggled to capture
the deepening ground 