Summer
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As summer’s curtain drops and the stage resets for another academic year, I return to my only camping excursion in late June with my second youngest son. We gathered with a group of friends and fathers to camp and kayak. The food and fellowship were wonderful and our time on the Allegheny River, including stops
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Midsummer passed without much fanfare. Yet for me, it’s a harbinger of late summer and the beginning of another school year. Like nearly every summer, the days flit by without much structure, despite attempts to bring order to the wonderful chaos, and now I begin to feel that growing sense of unpreparedness. I haven’t even
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By the calendar, summer has yet to fold back the cluttered page of Spring. By the end of the school year, summer has spread out like endless fields before me. As I wrap up grading student essays for the AP English Literature exam tomorrow (it’s been a prose year for me…but I’ve enjoyed it), let
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Summer draws to a close, a new week begins, and I return to the deepening ground of Mary Oliver’s poetry. Hear the invitation to spend our lives “on some / unstinting happiness,” but not according to the world’s definition. Rather, the simple overlooked gifts that poets like Mary Oliver and Wendell Berry capture so beautifully.
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My daughter brought home a container of Magnetic Poetry, the Receivables Custom Edition, from work last week (she works at our local library). Since then, the refrigerator has become the deepening ground of our home with everyone chipping in to various poetic “masterpieces,” including the eight and ten-year-olds (grandma has not felt poetically inspired as
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When I began crafting this poem, I fully intended to mimic the style of Geoffrey Chaucer’s “General Prologue” to The Canterbury Tales: “When that August with his beastly heat…” However, I found the set meter and rhyme too restricting for the random wanderings of a father and his young sons up and down the stream
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And so it comes to a close… Another summer wraps up within the next ten hours for me. Tomorrow morning, I will rise in the dark of a new day, put on my dress clothes, perhaps even don a tie, and head back to the high school where I have served as an English teacher
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The boys upstairs await my final call of “Lights out!” I’m camping out with them in their room this week while my wife and two children are away. They’d much rather read until I come to bed for a few moments of reading myself before nodding off, book in hand. The days begin to take
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I am out of rhythm. Summer always greets me with its welcoming arms of rest and renewal, but in the name of rest and renewal, I neglect some of the basic rhythms of life. I am not rising early. I’m not going to bed early enough to rise early. There’s little to structure my days
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When we were children, storms tended to frighten us. I’m not sure when the switch happened, but for me, they inspire reverence. Over the past week, we’ve had our share of storms where I live. This took me back to a poem I wrote almost two years ago, birthed out of a similar storm-gazing experience.
the deepening ground 