Poet
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Sometimes I feel like I’ve forgotten how to be a poet or how to compose songs. In the silence that seems like writer’s block, those critical internal voices grow deafening. For example, since early October, I’ve been trying to wrestle my thoughts into a sonnet. That otherworldly rattling call of the Sandhill Cranes crossing overhead
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Missing in action. That’s how I’ve felt, creatively (and emotionally), for the past two months. Little time to pay attention. Little time to be astonished. Little time to tell about it. I’ve failed to live by Mary Oliver’s instructions for living a life. Fall has always been a season brimming with activity: school starts, I
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I’ve come back to Mary Oliver after she popped up in the book I’m reading for enjoyment between preparing for school and repairing our fleet of cars! The book is Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman (I know: enjoyment?), and Mary Oliver shows up on page 104. Of course, this sent
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Having not posted anything by Mary Oliver in awhile, I wondered if she had any poetry related to Independence Day. A quick online search led me to a post on “Improvised Life: A Treasury of Inspiring Ideas.” Allegedly, a poem my wife has loved for years, first read in Mary Oliver’s Why I Wake Early,
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The end approaches. We’ve moved past counting the days; now we’re counting the hours. Another school year, my twenty-fifth to be exact, comes to a close. In the heat of wrapping up the year and managing life outside of the classroom, my wife (at my son, Theo’s leading) sent me the following poem. Balancing the
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On Valentine’s Day I became a grandfather. Our first grandson! My wife was blessed to be there to prepare for and help with the delivery, as well as provide extra support for the first week of Liam’s life. By late spring, I will be a grandfather twice over when we welcome our second grandson into
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Tonight I came home from work to the day-to-day needs that swarm me almost as soon as I open my car door. The younger boys want to head to Walmart; my middle son’s basketball practice begins at 5:30; my wife and daughter have their book group meeting this evening, so we need to order pizza
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All the world’s a stage,And all the men and women merely players:They have their exits and their entrances;And one man in his time plays many parts,His acts being seven ages. Jaques, from Shakespeare’s As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7 Time. Shakespeare notes the Seven Ages of Man. Others refer to the four seasons
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Tennyson remains one of my favorite British poets. As this year winds down and the new year dawns, Tennyson’s bells ring loudly from the past into our present, ringing out hope for the future in something bigger than we can touch or see. Rather than waste your time with my preface, I’d rather you slow
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I came across this poem searching for Christmas stories by Wendell Berry. Last year, I listened to his novella Andy Catlett: Early Travels, set during Christmas of 1943, as I painted a home we were renovating. Honestly, I wanted something a bit shorter to share with my students, more along the lines of Truman Capote’s
the deepening ground 