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Welcome Back Home

i'm walking down the street
patty griffin's heart-cracking voice
jangling in my ears
no bad news today
sun blinking through trees
people taking a second look
yes, it's a paddle

i twirl it around
pretend i'm paddling
think about jesus
behind me in the boat
the handle feels so good
in my hand, just right

i'm floating down the street
jesus is my riverguide
i dare the swat team
to come bug me
me with my paddle
when i walk by my park
my park, their headquarters

me and my paddle
me and my paddle and jesus

And i won't be afraid, i won't be afraid, 
and though the darkness may come my way
i won't be afraid to be alive anymore

no bad news today

me and my paddle and jesus

Poetry Of The Day

Baseball as Etiquette
by Josephine Jacobsen

Baseball is etiquette made beautiful.
A quality pitch is fact, not rumor;
style is high. Do they say to the dangerous batter
who has walked, "Joe, take first?" Never, never.
The catcher, tall as fate, looms over,
his mammoth hand held high,
and the ball thunks his glove in perfect logic,
before the batter tosses his bat.
And when a batter trots back to triumphant home,
does he get his high-fives only from those
with whom he has a beer?
His worst enemy, if he has one,
is perfect in ritual; even in home glory
the pattern holds until the park
is emptied of the ball.
The famous three-movement, velocity, location—
are sacred and do not bow. When the dark takes the diamond
and the unforgiving brown circle of loneliness,
a covenant has been confirmed.



"Baseball as Etiquette" by Josephine Jacobsen, from Contents of a Minute. © Sarabande Books, 2008.

Poetry of the Day

For All

by Gary Snyder

Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.

I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.

--------------------------------------
(I dedicate this to all of you...thank you for all your love and prayers and support and celebration!)

Poetry of the Day

Analysis of Baseball
by May Swenson

It's about
the ball,
the bat,
and the mitt.
Ball hits
bat, or it
hits mitt.
Bat doesn't
hit ball, bat
meets it.
Ball bounces
off bat, flies
air, or thuds
ground (dud)or it
fits mitt.

Bat waits
for ball
to mate.
Ball hates
to take bat's
bait. Ball
flirts, bat's
late, don't
keep the date.
Ball goes in
(thwack) to mitt,
and goes out
(thwack) back
to mitt.

Ball fits
mitt, but
not all
the time.
Sometimes
ball gets hit
(pow) when bat
meets it,
and sails
to a place
where mitt
has to quit
in disgrace.
That's about
the bases
loaded,
about 40,000
fans exploded.

It's about
the ball,
the bat,
the mitt,
the bases
and the fans.
It's done
on a diamond,
and for fun.
It's about
home, and it's
about run.


"Analysis of Baseball," by May Swenson, from The Complete Poems to Solve. © Macmillan Publishing Co.

Prayer Chain

Last week I asked to be put on the prayer chain at HappyChurch. The organizer is one of my favorite people there, and talking to her about the prayer-type help (support, encouragement, energy, etc.) I was going to need over the next several weeks felt better -- safer -- somehow than standing up in church (which means getting the pastor's attention from behind his back, which feels very odd) and talking about it. I have no idea who is on the prayer chain -- both the chain members and the prayer requests are confidential -- but she told me Sunday that the people were so very happy to pray for me. And honestly I have felt a kind of buoying presence as I've worked through the things on my list since I asked for prayer-chain prayers.

This poem that came via the Writer's Almanac this morning made think of that.

Prayer Chain

My mother called to tell me
about an old classmate of mine who

was dying on the parish prayer chain—
or was very sick—or destitute—

or it had not worked out—the marriage—
or the kids were all on drugs—and

all the old mothers were praying intensely
for all the pain of their children

and for life—they were praying for life—
in their quiet rooms—sipping decaf coffee—

I bet they've been praying for me at times—
so I'll find my way—so I won't rob a bank—

I'll take them—the mystical prayers of old mothers—
it matters—all this patient and purposeful love.

--by Tim Nolan