August 5, 2026: “For Three Days,” Miracles, “On the Roof”

It’s been a long day of meetings and work.  In fact, as soon as I’m done typing this post, I’m probably going to sleep.  I’ve had dinner.  My breakfast and lunch for tomorrow are packed and in the fridge.  I even took my puppy for a walk.    

Marie Howe writes about her brother . . .

For Three Days

by: Marie Howe

For three days now I’ve been trying to think of another word for gratitude

because my brother could have died and didn’t,

because for a week we stood in the intensive care unit trying not to imagine

how it would be then, afterwards.

My youngest brother, Andy, said:  This is so weird.  I don’t know if I’ll be

talking with John today or buying a pair of pants for his funeral.

And I hated him for saying it because it was true and seemed to tilt it,

because I had been writing his elegy in my head during the seven-hour drive

and trying not to.  Thinking meant not thinking.  It meant imagining

my brother surrounded by light—like Schrödinger’s Cat that would be dead

if you looked and might live if you didn’t.  And then it got better, and then

it got worse, and it’s story now:  He came back.

And I did, by that time, imagine him dead.  And I did begin to write the other

story:  how the crowd in the stifling church snapped to a tearful attention,

how my brother lived again, for a few minutes, through me.

And although I know I couldn’t help it, because fear has its own language

and its own story, because even grief provides a living remedy,

I can’t help but think of that woman who said to him whom she considered

her savior:  If thou hadst been there my brother had not died, how she might

have practiced her speech, and how she too might have stood trembling, 

unable to meet the eyes of the dear familiar figure stumbling from the cave

when the compassionate fist of God opened

and crushed her with gratitude and shame.

It’s a familiar story—Lazarus dying, Mary (his sister) getting pissed at Jesus, Jesus weeping, and Lazarus rising from the tomb.  Howe’s brother is Lazarus in the ICU, dying, and Howe is Mary, waiting for a miracle to arrive.  

Sometimes miracles are answers to desperate prayers--Please save the life of my brother.  Other times, miracles are smaller, not even recognized as miracles--I had nachos for dinner tonight that were so good they tasted like grace.  I've said it before, but it bears repeating:  human beings are surrounded by miracles all day, every day, but we are simply miracle-blind from years of indifference and distraction.

Let me a share one of these little miracles that happened for me tonight . . . 

About a week or so ago, my son applied for a job at the local Children's Museum.  He made a resumé, dressed up, put his hair in a ponytail, and went to the interview.  This evening, he told me that he got hired.  He starts his training on Friday.

I am so proud of my son.  First job interview results in his first job.  At the end of a long, long day, this news was just the miracle I needed to lift my spirits.

Plus, Saint Marty wrote a new poem (another little miracle) . . . 

On the Roof

Peter White Public Library

October 28, 2026

by: Martin Achatz

I imagine I'm standing inside

God's blue lung where gulls circle,

scream, and the waves swell & recede,

divine sighs full of fishy hope and

sadness.  Not many people have access

to this place so close to heaven.

Maybe that's why, on this morning

after I trapped my mother's last breath

in my hands, felt it slap my palms

like a panicked sparrow, I climb

these steps, open my fingers, watch

that breath rise and rise and rise away

from this eggshell world.

August 4, 2026: “The Dream,” Ten Million, “Thaw”

I never remember my dreams.  As soon as I wake up, whatever movie has been playing against my eyelids simply fades quickly, and I’m left with whatever vague emotion the interrupted dream evoked.  Sometimes terror or sadness.  Other times, joy or lust.  But there’s never any dream hook to hang this emotional hat on.

Marie Howe dreams about death . . . 

The Dream

by: Marie Howe

I had a dream in the day:

I laid my father’s body down in a narrow boat

and sent him off along the riverbank with its cattails and grasses.

And the boat—it was made of bark and wood bent when it was wet—

took him to his burial finally.

But a day or two later I realized it was my self I wanted

to lay down, hands crossed, eyes closed . . . 

Oh, the light coming up from down there,

the sweet smell of the water—and finally, the sense of being carried

by a current I could not name or change.

Funny.  Howe’s version of death isn’t all that terrifying.  In fact, it’s almost comforting with its sweet smell of water and rocking current.  This isn’t Emily Dickinson’s Death, stopping by in a horse-drawn buggy to take you for a joyride.  As I said, I never remember my dreams, so, if I’ve dreamed about death before, I have no recollection.

Of course, I’m afraid of dying.  Everyone is, or else they’re lying.  It’s the unknowable.  As a Christian, I suppose I shouldn’t say that, but I just don’t buy the whole wings and clouds and harps jazz.  Do I think there is life after dearth?  Yup.  I’m just not sure what that ghostly life entails, and I’m in no hurry to find out.  

Perhaps sleep is just practice for death, and dreams are sneak previews of what lies beyond this mortal coil.  I don’t know.  But I have dreams.  Real dreams.  A couple days ago, this little blog that I started over ten years ago just exceeded ten million page views.  In June alone, over one million people visited Saint Marty.  That blows me away.  Perhaps my little poetic musings make a difference in the world.  That seems like a dream to me.

And dreams sometimes do come true.

Here’s another little poetic musings from Saint Marty.

Thaw

by: Martin Achatz

I’ve always loved the word thaw,

which sounds a lot like raw,

and that seems appropriate, considering

those days of early March, sometimes April

or May, when the rime of white holding

Superior’s waves at bay begins to recede

the way my hairline receded in my 20s,

and soon the ice is chattering its teeth

on the sandy shores and beach grass.

We use the word thaw all the time,

when we’re cooking Thanksgiving turkeys

or Christmas hams, or when we find

a piece of frozen wedding cake in the freezer,

decide to eat it for dessert after 30 years

of marriage.  Just invoke the word, say it

three times when winter seems eternal.

Thaw , , , Thaw , , , Thaw , , .

Maybe Rumpelstiltskin will appear, promise

to spin the snow into golden summer.