Artist – Linda French Griffin
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[ poems by Les Brown, Maura High, Walter de la Mare, Jane Western,
Jennie Boyd Bull, Sam Barbee, Julia Nunnally Duncan ]
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The Bear
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The black bear lies beside
our green plastic picnic table,
sprawled on the grass like a Labrador.
Her pale brown muzzle,
tipped by black twitching nose,
rests on her massive paw.
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She is dark. Her two-inch
claws curl from rough
gray pads haloed with long hair.
Her midnight coat is smooth,
with a hint of brown
shining in the early morning sun.
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Her ears are round and soft,
erect and dark inside, armed to hear
the rustling of mice, vole or rabbit.
Her relaxed core is ready to wake,
to pounce her massive frame
upon the furry morsels.
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Her sense of smell
acute for finding gnawing
grub, tender roots, ripe
huckleberries on distant bushes.
She knows her mate
by his musky marks.
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She will rise and wander
the forest into the night,
under the dense laurel canopy,
travel to meadows and cliffs
under Ursa major in the indigo sky
and drink in reflected moonlight.
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Unlike Calisto who was placed
among the stars, she is not safe
as she returns to the deep woods
to live with baying dog,
and men in camouflage
cheating the natural order.
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Les Brown
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This poem came from seeing a bear lying outside our window in the mountains where it taught us to remove our bird feeders. I was reflecting on the peaceful majestic bear and the dangerous world it had to return to.
— Les
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❀ ✿ ✾ ❁
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Native
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There’s Merrill
with his binoculars
in the Holly Shelter Game Land
in high pocosin with birds
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so many birds
with their songs silhouettes plumage
perch and flight patterns
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as in the trees and sky
over Paradise
patterns
created and evolving
before the Great Naming
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he names them
in languages that birds fly through
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tsi’squa song sparrow ti’nti’wa Passiformes
among the pond pine and titi
greenbrier gallberry
sundew pitcher plants
calling
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chitter chek-check tweet
warblers cardinals finches
call
and he calls back to them
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one by one
as if they were kin and he was glad
to be among them again
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Maura High
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It was hard to choose just one poem that celebrated the Earth, but this one, “Native,” comes closest to demonstrating what’s so important about conserving our heritage landscapes and how vital the people are who protect and guide us through them. I visited this 64,000-acre game land on a field trip and was inspired not only by the land but also by the person who features in the poem, by his delight, knowledge, respect, and sense of connection with this environment.
— Maura
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The Listeners
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‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
. . Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
. . Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
. . Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
. . ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
. . No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
. . Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
. . That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
. . To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
. . That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
. . By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
. . Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
. . ‘Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
. . Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
. . That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
. . Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
. . From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
. . And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
. . When the plunging hoofs were gone.
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Walter de La Mare
selected by Jane Western
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I think the poems [presented this month for Earth Day] clearly shine a light on “place,” the setting, humans on the earth, and how it is that we are solitary individuals yet never alone…. These paths we walk do guide us toward deep connections.
— Jane
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❀
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Morning Prayer
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Let us pray in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.
Most powerful Lord of all Creation,
We praise you in the movement of the Universe:
in the great spinning Galaxy,
in every tiny particle quivering with your Spirit,
in the gentle breeze and the forceful hurricane.
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We praise you in the foundations of the Earth:
from the towering mountain ridges
to the low soft sandy beaches.
The living desert declares your majesty.
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We praise you, O Creator, in the miracle of living water:
Sustainer of all life; without it, there is nothing.
In the falling rain, trickling streams, muddy rivers,
calm lakes and crashing oceans, your power humbles us.
In the cool quenching of our thirst, we praise your name!
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We praise you in the comforting glow of the firelight:
where, throughout the millennia, your people have safely gathered
sharing nourishment and preserving your ancient stories.
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Kindle this same flame in our hearts now.
Spark our self-awareness,
that we can confess our own transgressions.
Burn away our sins of the past.
Purify our hearts that we may humbly accept your forgiveness.
Release in us the flame of forgiveness toward others.
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Fill us with Your Love, O God:
Hear our prayers of intercession for those who cannot help themselves.
Transform our hearts into vessels of mercy, into wells of living water,
that we may become your disciples in service to your world.
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We offer thanks to you for claiming us as your own.
We thank you for who we are and all we have.
It is your spirit in us, around us, and your love poured out for all humanity,
through the sacrifice of your Son Jesus,
for which we are grateful beyond measure.
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Now, with open hearts, we set our minds on trusting you alone.
Position us according to your perfect will
that your love will overflow through us
to all we serve in your Holy Name, from this day forward.
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And so it is, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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Jane Western
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Bird Play
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Birds outside my window
flit to feeder
peck at seeds
perch on railing,
Brilliant cardinal pair
feeds beak to beak
seed to seed.
Woodpecker trundles backward down trunk
nuthatch descends headfirst
titmice and chickadees cavort.
Mourning doves flock below
juncos scratch for seed
song sparrow scavenges.
All play together in home of
sun and wind
leaf and twig
moon and dew.
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Jennie Boyd Bull
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Garden Variety
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Treated timbers frame your raised garden.
Herb boxes: oregano beside mint, and other zest
for your kitchen. Beds burgeoned by your fingers,
raring, seeds rumbling to yield sprigs.
Recommended watering to energize sectors of pods.
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But marring an impeccable walk we bricked-in last year,
familiar weeds flower, screech among your grids.
Each tract sprouts spoils, silver and waxen.
Frilly buds flare, trespass against your grace.
Sour flavors to defile delicate pallet. Invasive
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spines to pilfer sun showers. Corrupt our vision!
Lamb’s ear erupts. Dandelions rage along loam edges.
You react, wring roots. Bristly leaves weep wicked screams.
Defending nature’s zeal, benign growth asserts leniency.
Plead amnesty for each frilly cousin, likewise sun-born.
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Sam Barbee
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“Garden Variety” addresses how we would have nature praise our efforts vs. nature’s essence. Even pesky weeds are part of the natural design.”
— Sam
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Nature
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Yesterday I saw a sharp-shinned hawk
grasping a sparrow in its talons
as it flew toward the woods.
The small bird’s feathers sprinkled the air
as the hawk carried it away.
Later, my husband explained to me
that the hawk would have eyases
in a nest now
and was taking food to her young.
Yet the image of the bird
trapped in the hawk’s clasp
has haunted me
like the memory of the crow
that stole a baby robin from the nest
in our maple tree,
so brazenly carrying the naked creature
through the air
while the parents frantically fluttered about,
chirping in distress.
I watched helpless and horrified
and wanted to kill the crow.
Robert Frost once observed that
nature was cruel,
and when I see the predators around me,
I have to agree.
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Julia Nunnally Duncan
from When Time Was Suspended (Redhawk Publications, 2024)
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I witnessed these incidents involving a hawk and a crow. These were sights that disturbed me, which I express in the poem. The cruelty of nature is my theme, although I understand that animal nature, the desire to survive, feed the young, etc., is nothing unusual. Since I observed the crow seizing the baby bird and felt anger toward the crow, I have come to respect crows through observing their habits and researching them for my essay “Watching Crows.” In my research, I learned of their intelligence and fierce loyalty to family.
— Julia
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* eyas — the unfledged or nestling young of a raptor such as falcon or hawk
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What I know of the Divine sciences and Holy Scriptures, I learnt in woods and fields. I have had no other masters than the beeches and the oaks. Listen to a man of experience; thou wilt learn more in the woods than thou canst acquire from the mouth of a magister.
— St. Bernard of Clairvaux
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If you would know God be not therefore a solver of riddles. Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children. And look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain. You shall see Him smiling in flowers, then rising and waving His hands in trees.
— Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
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Thank you for celebrating the month of April with International Earth Day (April 22) and National Poetry Month. And thank you, Readers, who have selected poems to share that connect us to our planet and each other. We will continue posting EARTH POETRY throughout the month of April – and beyond April as well, of course, since EVERY DAY is EARTH DAY!
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Thanks again for joining the conversation.
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— Bill
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