Where Wolves Have Slept (JM) (expanded version)

 (Joseph MacRae, 2003)

Where Wolves Have Slept

(Alaska journal, Noyes Island 1993)

How welcome is dawn on a day off! To walk this beach, the dew still fresh. To find this meadow that overlooks. Wolf tracks that head out. Lively deer hearts spring everywhere -- except in two bowls, bedded down. The ground, it is still warm.

Morning Wakens --

where wolves have slept. A tuft of fur

left in wild deer hearts.

 

Audio Axioms (WC)

 

(April 25, 2021, Palm Sunday (with its singing of "Hosanna in the highest..." above) in the Orthodox Church. World Day of Prayer for Vocations. Feast day of Saint Mark the Evangelist. Poem is today's NaPoWriMo poem. Image from here.)

Audio Axioms

(after Jane Mead)

You are no better than anyone else, and nobody else is better than you. 

--NASA Mathematician Katherine Johnson's father's maxim

Do you hear the outstretched earth?

Art around, doves sound, through my window. 

River near, is silent here. Silence louder than the cars 

and murmurs. Meanwhile--Joseph, buttering toast in 

the kitchen, pouring his tea. With honey of course, he's

part bear. Growls of contentment. Quite the symphony.

Do you hear the outstretched earth?

Your own note, no better than any other.

And no other note any better than yours.

*From prompt: freewrite as inspired by Jane Mead's The Outstretched Earth, from Lisa Freedman 's Breathe/Read/Write, April 23, 2021.

The Mountaineer Tree (JM)

(Joseph MacRae, poem revisted in response to prompt (Phillip Metres' One Tree; from On Being/The Well's Mindful Poetry Gathering), April 21, 2021)

The Mountaineer Tree

On the five mile drive,
at Point Defiance,
the huge Mountaineer Tree standing quiet.
Four hundred and fifty winters, it's understood,
he has stood like a silent sentinel.
I have passed this tree many times,
never stopping to admire.
The Red Man say "Wise old tree will talk,
Share with you much wisdom,
only White Man never ask"...
One day as I passed, I took the time to  stop and ask.
Like a spiritual voice, from the bowels of the Earth,
it came to me, from the tree,
in a voice that only I could hear.

More than four hundred fifty winters
I have watched over this Sacred Land.
In the springtime of my life
this was a quiet and beautiful land
ruled only by Great Mother's hand.
Baked in the sun, caressed by wind, washed by rain,
teased by lightning from the sky.
Only the moon and stars shone at night.
My only visitors were of the earth.
A quiet land.
I once remember
the song of birds, the call of animals,
the Red Man quietly paddling his
hollowed canoe.

As summer arrived with new and strange
beginning,
witnessed the first wooden ship,
sailing in on evening tide.
As men claimed this land, in foreign names,
in the name of Crowns, of Kings and Queens
across the sea!
From distant ports they came to trade.
Ships sailed in, and ships sailed out,
bringing new people of different color.
The air now full of new sounds, sounds of chopping,
of huge trees falling to the earth.
Of men at work, and beasts of burden,
carving a new civilization,
from a wilderness land.

Then came merchant ships, lumber schooners,
ships of war, and fishing vessels large and small.
Later came new sounds. Steam ships,
their whistles echoing across the waters.
The sawmill's song, as steel teeth and
timber meet, as steam locomotives
shake the ground.

My season turns to fall. The land and sky,
no longer free.
People and machines are moving faster.
The air is no longer fresh,
the water no longer clean.
Man tries to rule with fire.
Many brothers and sisters visit my park.
Some come to admire the beauty of nature,
others come for amusement and pass in haste.
Some come to play, and carve upon my bark.
throw bottles and waste against my feet.

I am strong. I have survived, through storms,
forest fires, and the hands of man!
I will be a mark on this land for
many more winters...
When the Great Mother takes back her land,
I will be here.
Long after I die I will stand like
a proud buckskin.
When I decay and fall to the ground,
my stump will stand as a tombstone.
My epitaph will be,

I have served this Earth.
I have taken care of her.
I have been the home to many of the
Great Spirit's creatures.
Listen to me brothers and sisters
of the Earth:
Be like a tree and serve your
Mother Earth!

Sailing Upon a Mystic Ship (JM)

(Joseph MacRae, 1992)

Sailing Upon a Mystic Ship

Sailing upon a mystic ship

upon an endless sea,

of emerald and blue.

Passing nearby stars,

onto the distant planets,

passing galaxies

into an endless journey.

Provision (WC)

  

(February 11, 2021, feast day of Lady of Lourdes, Saint Theodora the Empress (above), Saint Caedmon, World Day of the Sick, and eve of Rosh Chodesh/new moon, for Hebrew month of Adar. Image from here.)

Provision

(after Jane Kenyon)

I slid out of bed today,

strolled 'round these our walls.

It might have been otherwise. 

Feasted on quinoa porridge, its

nutbutter, squash, swirled. 

It might have been otherwise. 

Prayed in Ireland, phoned to Portland, 

read to France, studied in Seattle, wrote to

rhyme, with lay-overs on cozy bedsheets, 

         cycling in space.

It might have been otherwise.

Even at night's mulling it's sensed: it might 

have been otherwise. But it's warm here by the 

heat with Joseph. Fresh bread, tea, incense and 

yes, chocolate. And candlelight. And it's this last

one catches. Croons "stop now, hold to heart", 

safekeeping for day the rest 

might be otherwise.

*From prompt: Freewrite as inspired by Jane Kenyon's Otherwise...a gratitude list, varying some short sentences with long one(s); from Esther Lin's Quarantine Write-in (Hugo House, Seattle, WA), February 11, 2021. 

Sustainable (WC)

(February 5, 2021, feast day of  the Seeker of (or Recovery of) the Perishing Icon of the Mother of God, the Elets- Chernigov Icon of the Mother of God (above) Saint Agatha of Sicely, Saint Agatha Hildegard of Carinthia, and Saint Theodula. Image from here.)

Sustainable

When my oldest daughter read the story of St. Ia, I asked her what stood out most to her about it. "I think it's cool how God uses ordinary things, like that leaf, to perform His miracles," she replied. - Seven Holy Women: Conversations with Saints and Friends, Melinda Johnson, et all.

A tree born

has sap for nurse. Flows 

from root to sky, and

branches out its pulse, 

as world. Till

"That one," the man donning

logger hat says, and a pile forms

of smooth glow

concentric circles. Till

"That one," the artist says,

palms its weight, traces paths

form a slanted Cross. Carves

out the hollow, then stem. And

"That one," I think, turn to

favorite wooden spoon. "Why 

it's like a tree, look!, this handle its 

trunk," tell my Joseph. Who glancing

at his old logger's hat, drifts 

to forests all his own.

*From prompt: Freewrite as spurred by David Hernandez's Moose In Snow, following a familiar object's history, in reporter's laying down the facts and chronicling tone, ending with full circle moment when the object is present in your own life; from Esther Lin's Quarantine Write-in (Hugo House, Seattle), February 4, 2021.

By Kindly Light (WC)

(a previously written poem, revisited January 24, 2021, feast day of Our Lady of Damascus, Our Lady of Tears, Saint Francis de Sales (above), Blessed Paula Gambara Costa, Saint Xenia of Rome, and Blessed Xenia of St Petersburg.)

By Kindly Light

(through the Hours)

Lead, Kindly Light…

Keep Thou my feet;

I do not ask to see the distant scene;

one step enough for me.

–Saint John Henry Newman

1. Lauds (morning prayer)

They say voices shape a place.

His voice carries in the morning.

No matter the sleepless night or

frantic dream, voice of prayer

now. Anchor. He's 

at the benediction:*

We thank you, O Lord,

for bringing us to this day in safety.

Take us by the hand today on Your Good Red Road.

Help us to treat this day with reverence and holiness.

And bless us, O Lord, through the prayers of

Your Saints. Amen.

2. Vespers (evening prayer)

Voice inside now, sun's waning. Day's

mulling. The waters have smoothed a 

stone. What was it he said? 

Saint Francis de Sales. Something about the 

between. God's everywhere. Yet simpler, vaster. 

So must look between. He is both our 

deepest longing and hard reality. But He'll

show you deeper, where they meet. Between.**

Where the medicine lies. Where didn't look.

Where regret’s a jagged

edge. For that road turned from, Yours.

Road so pure, so gentle, I thought they'd

never want me. And You Lord, so 

pure, so gentle, I thought could You

forgive me. But I'm asking. And for that 

road again too. If only,

O  Lord, would You

show me now?

3. Compline (night prayer)

His voice again, softer at night. Untier 

of knots. Evening prayer, he's

at the benediction now:

Lord, watch over us as we sleep.

May Your angels surround and protect us.

May we dream of Your Holiness, and

Of Your Holy Name.

And may we be allowed to reach

another day in safety, to praise

Your Holy Name. Amen.

4. Matins (prayer between night and morning)

Voice inside again.

They say you can pray without ceasing.

Even in sleep. 

I sleep but my heart

waketh.***

When the body waketh too, listens,

you can feel the lay of the land. It's the 

nature of the between. 

Between night and day regroup, repair. Where

the jagged edge, the jump, the scatter,

glare. There the stranger's voice. Pray for

me when stuck here. And I'll pray for

you. Because our only hope is the Shepard.

Know His voice but it gets buried. So to

spindle, to unravel. Where it last

quivered was it in a verse?

A kindness perhaps?

These small stones, must be in here

somewhere. To hold, to turn, over

and over. The ones for rebuilding the Wall.

The ones because they sing. And voices

they say shape a place. And the

place between, there

sounds can narrow

to a single note.

Deepest quiet, never silent.

And tomorrow, God willing, will

dawn another day.

Amen. 

*The Hours are an ancient tradition of praying throughout one’s day/night. The benedictions here, at Lauds and Compline, were prayed out loud by Joseph for us during the High Holidays some years ago. His benedictions are formed spontaneously, vary.

**See theme II (in the introduction) of Frances de Sales, Jane de Chantal: Letters of Spiritual Direction. Paulist Press, New Jersey, 1988. 

*** Song of Solomon (Canticles) 5:2