All Saints' and All Souls'- A Last Beatitude

And blessed are the ones we overlook; 
The faithful servers on the coffee rota, 
The ones who hold no candle, bell, or book 
But keep the books and tally up the quota, 
The gentle souls who come to ‘do the flowers,’ 
The quiet ones who organize the fete, 
Church sitters who give up their weekday hours, 
Doorkeepers who may open heaven’s gate. 
God knows the depths that often go unspoken 
Amongst the shy, the quiet, and the kind, 
Or the slow healing of a heart long broken, 
Placing each flower so for a year’s mind. 
Invisible on earth, without a voice, 
In heaven their angels glory and rejoice.

--Malcolm Guite, (1957- ) Anglican priest, poet, singer-songwriter, and philosopher

Be

Lost 
On a painted sky 
Where the clouds are hung 
For the poet's eye 
You may find him 
If you may find him 

There 
On a distant shore 
By the wings of dreams 
Through an open door 
You may know him 
If you may 

Be 
As a page that aches for words 
Which speaks on a theme that's timeless 
While the One God will make for your day 
Sing 
As a song in search of a voice that is silent 
And the Sun God will make for your way 

And we dance 
To a whispered voice 
Overheard by the soul 
Undertook by the heart 
And you may know it 
If you may know it 

While the sand 
Would become the stone 
Which begat the spark 
Turned to living bone 
Holy, holy 
Sanctus, sanctus 

Be 
As a page that aches for word 
Which speaks on a theme that is timeless 
While the One God will make for your day 

Sing 
As a song in search of a voice that is silent 
And the One God will make for your day

-- Neil Diamond (1941- ), American singer-songwriter, from the Grammy-Award winning soundtrack to the movie Jonathan Livingston Seagull, 1973

(When I was 9, my mother took me to see this movie, and this song and scene left a very deep impression on me. This remains one of my favorite Neil Diamond songs of all time, and the lyrics are beautiful.)

When the Frost is On the Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock, 
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock. 

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

--James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916), the "Hoosier Poet" who was a genius at poems employing dialect

All Hallow's Eve; a Sonnet of Reclamation

Though Satan breaks our dark glass into shards 
Each shard still shines with Christ’s reflected light, 
It glances from the eyes, kindles the words 
Of all his unknown saints. The dark is bright 
With quiet lives and steady lights undimmed, 
The witness of the ones we shunned and shamed. 
Plain in our sight and far beyond our seeing
He weaves them with us in the web of being 
They stand beside us even as we grieve, 
The lone and left behind whom no one claimed,
Unnumbered multitudes, he lifts above
The shadow of the gibbet and the grave,
To triumph where all saints are known and named;
The gathered glories of His wounded love.

--Malcolm Guite (1957- ), Anglican priest, poet, singer-songwriter, and philosopher, from Sounding the Seasons, 2012

Song to a Seagull

Fly silly seabird 
No dreams can possess you 
No voices can blame you 
For sun on your wings 

My gentle relations 
Have names they must call me 
For loving the freedom 
Of all flying things 

 My dreams with the seagulls fly 
 Out of reach out of cry 

I came to the city 
And lived like old Crusoe 
On an island of noise 
In a cobblestone sea 

And the beaches were concrete 
And the stars paid a light bill 
And the blossoms hung false 
On their store window trees 

My dreams with the seagulls fly 
 Out of reach out of cry 

Out of the city 
And down to the seaside 
To sun on my shoulders 
And wind in my hair 

But sandcastles crumble 
And hunger is human 
And humans are hungry 
For worlds they can't share 

My dreams with the seagulls fly 
Out of reach out of cry 

I call to a seagull 
Who dives to the waters 
And catches his silver-fine 
Dinner alone 

Crying where are the footprints 
That danced on these beaches 
And the hands that cast wishes 
That sunk like a stone 

My dreams with the seagulls fly 
Out of reach out of cry

--Joni Mitchell (1943- ), Canadian singer-songwriter, poet, and artist, from Song to a Seagull, 1966

Autumn Song

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 

How the heart feels a languid grief 

Laid on it for a covering, 

And how sleep seems a goodly thing 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain

Falters because it is in vain,

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf

Knowest thou not? and how the chief

Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf

Bound up at length for harvesting,

And how death seems a comely thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

--Dante Gabriel Rosetti, (1828-1882) English poet and artist, founder of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood

The Skylight

You were the one for skylights. I opposed 
Cutting into the seasoned tongue-and-groove 
Of pitch pine. I liked it low and closed, 
Its claustrophobic, nest-up-in-the-roof 
Effect. I liked the snuff-dry feeling, 
The perfect, trunk-lid fit of the old ceiling. 
Under there, it was all hutch and hatch. 
The blue slates kept the heat like midnight thatch. 
But when the slates came off, extravagant 
Sky entered and held surprise wide open. 
For days I felt like an inhabitant 
Of that house where the man sick of the palsy 
Was lowered through the roof, had his sins forgiven, 
Was healed, took up his bed and walked away.

—Seamus Heaney (1939 - 2013), Nobel prize-winning Irish poet and translator, from Seeing Things: Poems, 1991

Scripture reference: Luke 5:17-39

Colorado

Hey, Colorado 
It was not so long ago 
I left your mountains 
To try life on the road 
But I'm tired of that race 
It was much too fast a pace 
And I think I've found my place 
Colorado, I want to come home 

I had a man there 
But I left him far behind 
I could have loved him 
If I'd only had the time 
Ah, but I stopped along my way 
Just long enough to say 
That I'd really like to stay 
But my baby, you know I have to go 

I was too young 
To know what I'd done 
I made my plans 
But I was wrong 
Yes, I was wrong 

Colorado 
Is it too late to change my mind?
I've done some thinking 
And I'm trying hard to find 
A way to come back home 
'Cause I've been so very long alone 
Won't you take care of your own? 

Colorado 
I think I'm coming home 
I want to come home 
Let me come home

--John David Souther (1945- ), American singer-songwriter and actor, recorded by Linda Ronstadt on Don't Cry Now, 1973

Lord's Prayer Cycle Prayer 1: Holy be Your Name

Our Father in heaven, 
loving Parent and Creator, 
tender Mother, 
we pray that your name be made holy. 
Let what we do hallow your Name, 
for it is through our actions that You are made known. 

Let the words of our mouths enlighten darkness, 
dispel enmity, 
and heal ancient wounds. 
Let us act honorably and compassionately
toward the least in our society,
that all may live together in justice and peace. 
Let us remember that your Love is a sacred calling, 
and that as your people 
we minister in Your Name in everything we do. 
Grant us the strength to be gentle 
and the wisdom to be foolish 
in the name of Love. 

Watch over those 
whose needs we now remember, 
especially those we now name.

Amen.


--Leslie Scoopmire, from my prayer blog

Lord's Prayer Cycle Prayer 2: Your Kingdom Come

Our Father in heaven, 
loving Parent and Creator, 
tender Mother, 
we pray that your kingdom come on earth
as it is in heaven.

Reign over us, Almighty God,
that we may live our lives in service to You
and to each other.
Let us always remember
that You are God, and we are not.

Make us humble, compassionate, and unified,
re-enacting the broadness of God's table of kinship in heaven. 
Let us be dedicated to doing your will
by being a holy people
founded upon mercy and fellowship.

Let us denounce and end the systems of oppression
of which we are a part,
that steal from the poor to enrich the powerful,
that justify the terrorization of the marginalized;
that imprison children and rips apart families
who seek refuge from famine and wars
from which we profit.

Let us instead work to bring your dream for humanity to life,
and demand justice and equity of ourselves
and of our leaders.

Watch over those whose needs we now remember,
especially those we now name.

Amen. 

 --The Rev. Leslie Scoopmire, from my prayer blog