The Pine Forest Calls Me

I remember how it has grown these years.
Yet the spring pinecones are still young,
soft and gentle as skin to the touch.
It is always the green season here, even with future amber
formed golden from bark
with the scent of animal life that passed through.
If a traveler should pass by, it summons,
Stop, come in, stay.
I remember one poet taking a branch of pine
from the winter forest to his dying sister.
It was all she wanted in her last moment.
I have never forgotten the snow dripping
from that branch to the floor.
It is what I want, too,
not so much to have a branch taken away,
but for myself to be taken to this world 

my own life passed through as it does now in the shadows
where sun filters in
to melt snow, quench earth,
that water dripping from trees.
You smell it, too, so let’s remain a while in its shade.
How I love this forest,
where the hieroglyphs of insects
work the inner layers of bark
like monks writing unseen in deep silence,
and if you know the true secret of falling
you might summon that magic language.
I know prayers rise with smoke
the way some people
are so perfectly uplifted
from their first roots.
But when this life of trying is finally over,
bring to my bed a small branch
smelling of green forest,
the melting pure water of snow,
these mysteries discovered
one more time.



--Linda Hogan (1947- ) Chickasaw poet, teacher, novelist, and environmentalist, Writer in Residence of the Chickasaw Nation, from A History of Kindness

Great Spirit Prayer (Prayer of Yellow Lark)

O Great Spirit,

Whose voice I hear in the winds
and whose breath gives life to all the world.
Hear me! I need your strength and wisdom.
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes
ever hold the red and purple sunset.
Make my hands respect the things you have made
and my ears sharp to hear your voice.
Make me wise so that I may understand
the things you have taught my people.
Let me learn the lessons you have hidden
in every leaf and rock.

Help me remain calm and strong in the
face of all that comes towards me.
Help me find compassion without
empathy overwhelming me.
I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother,
but to fight my greatest enemy: myself.
Make me always ready to come to you
with clean hands and straight eyes.
So when life fades, as the fading sunset,
my spirit may come to you without shame.

--Yellow Lark, Lakota leader, 1887 (pictured above)

Annual Giving Campaign Prayer: We Pray that We Will Make Stewardship a Way of Life

Eternal God, we pray that we will make stewardship a way of Life. We acknowledge you as the source of all we have and all we are.

Help us to place you, our loving Creator, first in our lives by becoming more prayerful, more focused on loving and caring for our families and our neighbors in need, and by becoming less preoccupied with material things.

Help us to hear your call to be good stewards, caretakers, and managers of all your gifts by sharing them for your purposes.

Help us make your priorities our priorities and to put our faith into action. Help us plan to “give back” the talents, treasures and time with which we have been blessed.

Help us plan to serve our church, our community, and our world with your gifts.

May we serve you and pray with a joyful spirit of mind and heart.

Amen.

(from the Episcopal Diocese of Washington

Red

In his new poem

the red autumn woods

are a metaphor

for leftist martyrs

We are traveling east through a maple forest

that blazes the hillsides on both sides of this winding

back-country road Look at the trees I want to tell him

Listen The trees have their own stories to tell

like the story of fire deep within the heart They too

have been martrys in the long war against the land, a nation

cut down, children denied

A hundred years ago these hills were bare of trees

the stone walls that wind through them

the illusion of ownership Now the hills are red with maples

My heart is leaping out to meet them, my eyes

cannot be full enough Though acid falls from the clouds

maples have gathered on the hillsides

in every direction See how they celebrate

They are wearing their brightest dresses

Come sisters, let me dance with you

I offer you a song

Let me paint

it red with 

passion 

You are

all the women

I have ever loved

-- Cheryl Savageau (1950- ), Abenaki/French-Canadian poet and nominee for the Pulitzer Prize from Mother/Land (2006)

Invitation to Communion: Full of Faith or Doubt

Come to this table,

you who have much faith 

                            and you who would like to have more;
you who have been to this sacrament often
                            and you who have not been for a long time;
you who have tried to follow Jesus 

                             and you who have failed.

Come, it is Christ who invites us to meet him here.

--used in Diocese of Missouri worship, source unknown

Neighbors in October

All afternoon his tractor pulls a flat wagon
with bales to the barn, then back to the waiting
chopped field. It trails a feather of smoke.
Down the block we bend with the season:
shoes to polish for a big game,
storm windows to batten or patch.
And how like a field is the whole sky now
that the maples have shed their leaves, too.
It makes us believers—stationed in groups,
leaning on rakes, looking into space. We rub blisters
over billows of leaf smoke. Or stand alone,
bagging gold for the cold days to come.


--David Baker (1954- ), Missouri-raised poet, essayist, and critic, from The Truth about Small Towns.

October

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

--Robert Frost (1874-1963) prize winning (including four Pulitzer Prizes) American poet

Canticle of Creation

O Most High, all-powerful, good Lord God,

   to you belong praise, glory,
   honour and all blessing.
Be praised, my Lord, for all your creation
   and especially for our Brother Sun,
   who brings us the day and the light;
   he is strong and shines magnificently.
   O Lord, we think of you when we look at him.
Be praised, my Lord, for Sister Moon,
   and for the stars
   which you have set shining and lovely
   in the heavens.
Be praised, my Lord,
   for our Brothers Wind and Air
   and every kind of weather
   by which you, Lord,
   uphold life in all your creatures.
Be praised, my Lord, for Sister Water,
   who is very useful to us,
   and humble and precious and pure.
Be praised, my Lord, for Brother Fire,
   through whom you give us light in the darkness:
   he is bright and lively and strong.
Be praised, my Lord,
   for Sister Earth, our Mother,
   who nourishes us and sustains us,
   bringing forth
   fruits and vegetables of many kinds
   and flowers of many colours.
Be praised, my Lord,
   for those who forgive for love of you;
   and for those
   who bear sickness and weakness
   in peace and patience
   - you will grant them a crown.
Be praised, my Lord, for our Sister Death,
   whom we must all face.
   I praise and bless you, Lord,
   and I give thanks to you,
   and I will serve you in all humility.

--attributed to St. Francis of Assisi (ca 1181-1226)

In Storm-Watch Season

The foaming clematis
Has finished blooming
The autumn
Equinox is here
The air is very still
But day and night
Storms in the Caribbean
Keep the Atlantic roaring

The ocean
Is pouring fog
Into the trees
And with it the fresh smells
Of eel grass and of kelp
Float inland from the torn
And churning beaches

In the storm haunted evening
A cricket
Has begun to sing
A street lamp shines
Deep in the fog
A burr
Of golden light

In three months’ time
We will have snow
In three months’ time
The savior will be born.


--Anne Porter (1911-2011), poet and devout Roman Catholic, from Living Things: Collected Poems