Jim's Poem a Day 2026

At a time when we feel we must guard against oppression and violence, how do we let our guard down enough to experience both fear and joy? In an era when we feel we must close ourselves off from harm, how do we open ourselves to goodness and healing? At a moment when we feel we must don protective armor, how do we loosen that armor just enough to let love in? Right now, in this place of relative safety and warmth, in this place of caring and compassion, let us a take a moment of silence to imagine dropping our guard, at least a bit, opening ourselves up, to the extent that we can, and removing our spiritual and emotional protective gear so that we can feel the joy of being together. Breathe in peace. Breathe out love. Throughout the rest of today and the days to come, may we remember with each breath  that we are held in compassion and that love and peace are available to us  in each and every moment of our lives. Amen!

Fearing sleep—perhaps equating it with death,  or at least conflating it with memories of going  under ether from childhood surgeries when I was  certain that I was dying—I have always struggled  going to sleep. Last night, I had a nightmare, the likes  of which I hadn’t experienced since I was maybe  10 years old, in which a man whose facial features  kept changing and who smelled faintly of halothane,  brushed up against me, and the next thing I knew  the man was trying to get into bed next to me,  and I kicked at him until my wife woke me up  and I realized I was kicking the dresser next to our bed,  my toes sore and bleeding. And now at least I have  something to talk about in therapy next week.

Nothing on earth is more powerful than voices lifted together in song!

Just outside the window, a robin works, rooting around on the February ground, no longer frozen hard but not yet thawed. He scatters the remnants of last fall’s leaves as he tries to find worms or whatever else it is that robins eat. He pauses, meets my gaze, and then hops away out of my view, giving me hope for all of us who peck away, looking for something that will sustain us just for today.

It’s Lectionary Year A, so as I begin my Lenten Bible Study, we will puzzle through Chapter 2 of Genesis, in which God threatens death if Adam and Eve eat of the Tree  of the Knowledge of Good and Evil but changes his mind, and so begins the long, sad history of bad parenting, broken promises, and rooting for the underdog.

I woke up early and went back to sleep only to dream for the next two hours of a crazy church day, involving actors and children and outdoor services and everyone having a nervous breakdown as absolutely nothing went as planned, and me in the middle of everything, completely convinced I knew just what to do, if only I could remember it.

Shortest longest month of the year, February drags on much longer than its 28 days would suggest, much longer than leap year’s 29, much longer even than 30 or 31, as the messiness of transformation from winter to spring begins, much like an emerging poem or the untidy miracle of childbirth.

O God of sun and moon and snow and stars, God of rainy nights and greening muddy days, God of wind so strong it sends trash cans rolling, God of rivers, filling, rushing, roaring, overflowing, O God, hear our prayer of fear and thanksgiving. We fear for the lives of those who are vulnerable even as we ground ourselves in your majesty. We fear for the future of our country in disarray even as we find awe in every single day we are alive. We fear for the death of compassion amid terror even as we discover beauty in every step we take. O God of mercy, God of love, let your blessings flow, let your blessings bring life all who are bereft, all who yearn for comfort, all who are barely hanging on. May all know what it is to be held in tenderness, in unending cycles of life, now and always, Amen!

Cold air crept through crevices in the house as wind blew last night, and tree branches in a neighbor’s yard danced in front of a streetlight, casting shadows on the street that moved like wild animals scurrying for their lives.

Thunder began as I lay down to sleep late last night, rumbling through Pittsburgh’s hills and valleys, bringing noisy rain that pelted windows and washed away remnants of piled snow. Thunder in February doesn’t happen often, but, when it does, it occurs purposefully, announcing to one and all that something big is happening and it’s happening now.

When I woke up, I drew the curtains back and looked for trees as I almost always do, no matter where I am. Even here in a motel somewhere in Maryland, I find the trees. Here they inhabit the unpaved space between the parking lot and the interstate, reminding all who look the real world is never far away. The trees were here before us and will remain after all of us are well dead and long gone.

No more and still is how I want to start all of my poems for those words convey more than any others how it is to be human in time when all that was is no more yet still is here.

Our plumber philosophizes while he works and tunelessly hums classic rock songs. He seems to be of the American Pragmatic school of thought as  he believes truth to be what works rather than something found in the ethereal ponderings and turnings of the mind, either human or divine. Truth can be found, for example, in the leaky gasket,  at least for now. And, as it turns out, truth can be discovered beneath the kitchen sink as one probes and hums na, na, na-na-na-na.

From where I sit, I have to lean forward a bit to see a massive pine beyond the dying oak next door, so I rarely see it, but it caught my gaze just now, its uppermost branches swaying in the wind against the palest blue sky.

As days start to lengthen and nights shorten, as winter’s snow and ice begin to melt, as temperatures rise above freezing, we are reminded of the great cycles of life. We are reminded of season following season, of change as the only constant in the world. We are reminded that something is stirring even in the most frigid and fearful of times. Let us take a moment of silence to start to feel that tingling sensation of things just beginning to change. [pause] Though winter may not yet be done with us, we know that spring is on the way. Though the forces of fear and cruelty are still at work, we know that love will find a way. Though the path ahead is cloaked in darkness and uncertainty, we know that, as we take a step forward, the path will rise to meet our feet. May we walk this path together with love in our hearts and a song of solidarity on our lips. Amen!  

It’s not quite true that nothing lasts forever but everything always changes without end and maybe that’s enough.

No, it isn’t summer, it’s only February and the damn groundhog saw its shadow, a couple of weeks ago, scurrying back into its hole and leaving us to deal with it. No, it isn’t summer, it’s still Pittsburgh and the piles of dirty salt, snow and ice will remain well into March, with likely more to come these next few weeks. No, it isn’t summer, it’s American winter and we continue to carry heaviness in our hearts as the political climate and meteorological climate synchronize. No, it isn’t summer, but today is sunny and oh what a difference that makes!

  How beautiful the snow when snow is new, when winter’s chill has only just arrived and hushful quiet, tired souls revived from noise and heat and much too much ado.

After a day of sunshine melting snow, today is colder, cloudier, heavier, while the snow is just messier, dirty clumps of white everywhere, piles next to streets and driveways, still not ready to go away, still hanging on during winter’s hardest days and weeks.  

I’m not entirely sure how I got home yesterday, driving while blowing my nose for the duration, going through an entire box of kleenex between Columbus and Pittsburgh, no music blaring, only wheels whirring and wind whistling and mile after mile of Interstate 70 as tissues piled up on the passenger seat.

Too much nose blowing in this lovely hotel room where I wish I'd slept.

We give thanks this morning for the spirit of life, which we sense each time we are together, the spirit of compassion stirring in our hearts, the spirit of beloved community shaped by justice, the spirit of being rooted in our values and connections, the spirit of being set free by our work for freedom for all. Let us pause for a moment of silence as we give thanks for the gift of being here together and the spirit of life that draws us toward a community of love and justice. May we return to this place of spirited connection again and again. May we carry the compassion-filled spirit of life with us in all that we do. And may we remain thankful for the gift of healing community, Now and always, Amen!

Oh how it snowed as the wind blew drifts everywhere in coldest night gales dense flakes like thickest fog but in the morning the sun prevails.

Nearly three weeks after the storm snow still covers the ground everywhere and it’s so miserably cold and gray today layers of clothing and hope are needed.

It is a holy task to write: to start with that first word of phrase and stop and start, and grow frustrated and walk away and then return and try again, to eventually find the words that are good or good enough, that convey some meaning, some perspective, some small piece of something important or true or beautiful. It’s almost always only fragments, but bit by bit a mosaic emerges.

No inkling of a breeze in the backyards of our neighborhood as the sun shines and snow remains deep on the ground and I gaze out upon a painterly tableau of suburban winter, peaceful and still. How can anyone not love this world?

We need sunlight today, though I expect it will stay cloudy all day. Yesterday, despite the bitter cold, the sun beamed brightly, melting ice on rooftops, trees and driveways, finding its way into our despairing hearts and minds, which have dwelt far too long in darkness, waiting, deeply needing sun to break through.