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Posts Tagged ‘james crews’

The Uptight Scheduler Writes to James Crews

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on July 26, 2025| 15 Comments »


 
 
Remember the morning when you and I
were leading a retreat in the old white church
with the bell that still works and it was nine oh three,
and you turned to me and said,
Let’s give folks a little more time to settle.
And I, who had been longing to ring that old bell
since eight fifty six so we could start on time,
well, I sat down at the gingham cloth covered table
and leaned back and stretched my legs,
let my empty hands rest in my empty lap
and a spaciousness entered my limbs
the way the scent of coffee fills the kitchen.
I felt it all day—a new looseness inside the hours.
 
There are moments when we are ready,
perhaps, to learn a new way to meet a day,
and you, on that morning, with your quiet voice
and unhurried step, you gave the one-sentence sermon
I most needed to hear. Time went from constraint to gift.
All around us people chatted and laughed.
I didn’t fixate on nine oh four and nine oh five.
Instead, I opened like a clock without a hand
and became part of that happy, eager noise.

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Looking at the Books Behind Jack and James

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on October 2, 2024| 15 Comments »


                  for Jack Ridl and James Crews
 
 
In the zoom room with Jack and James,
I stare at the books behind them—
books stacked, books shelved,
books slender and thick,
and I think of how we’re all shaped
by words we’ve read. For me,
the wooden love sonnets of Neruda.
The wanderings of Ammons. The wounds
of Olds. The wonder of Oliver.
The playfulness of cummings.
The ravages of Amichai and Darwish.
And oh, how I’ve been touched
by these two men—
their mornings with coffee and tea.
Jack’s dog. James’s flowers.
The ways they fill their hours
with kindness. With silence.
With peeling back the layers
of family and home and self.
If there were shelves inside me,
you probably wouldn’t find
their books there—more likely
strewn about on the heart’s couch,
the mind’s floor. I carry them
with me into each inner room,
Jack’s walks, James’s bees,
and daily, they become me.
And all those books on their shelves
that have formed these men
into the humans they are,
I thank all of those poets, too.
How deeply entwined we all are.
How many lives and poems we bring with us
each time we enter a room.

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