Good News
Imagine a day
when good news fills the newspapers,
and war and violence are a
special section on Thursdays.
A Hundred Monks Pray At Sunrise
the front page announces,
and below the fold,
Wild Geese Gather At The Shores
followed by: Double the
number from last year.
Day after day, a rising chorus,
Neighbors Plan Local Assistance,
and Gray Whales Sing New Songs,
and Ballerinas Dance In The Streets.
Imagine a world
enthralled by our daily rituals
of love and good works,
TV news looping endlessly
upon yesterday’s weddings, poetry readings
and bat mitvahs. Awed parents
with newborns shown again and again:
we never tire of watching.
And oh, on certain days in Section H of the paper,
we read that thus and such country is still
bearing arms, and we neither stare
in fascination nor look away,
but offer a small blessing
and assistance to Doctors Without Borders.
And we close the newspaper–
notice morning sun illuminating
the blossoming apple tree.
We have whales and monks
and weddings and geese in us,
and we prepare then to fill the our days
with such good news as we have seen,
because what other thing is reasonable
with these bodies of ours,
these opposable thumbs, these hearts
that love with such fierceness,
the earthy sunlight streaming
like crazy gold all around.
Prayer for all Beloved Life
Thanksgiving, 2007
Pray for the beetle, that she patter across the grasses
and for the hoary toad, and the brown frog,
for the pond that is their lives,
thick with marsh grasses and tiny minnows.
Pray for the earth that is the sacred bowl for the waters.
Pray for the birch trees at pond’s edge,
for the fallen leaves of the season,
that they may find their way in the season’s dying.
Pray for your heart as it skims its way
along the bleak edge of what is known,
over-warm oceans, tides swinging
into cyclones, thousands dead in Bangladesh.
Pray for the thousands dead, the eighty year old grandfather
carried in the arms of a stranger
to the flattened earth of his home,
his family drowned as torrents washed him kilometers away.
Pray for him. Pray for the young man carrying him.
Pray for the rice field, the earth in the throws of growth,
pray for what we eat, for the creatures who pull the plows
in Bangladesh, the men who drive tractors
in Iowa, fields of wheat and corn.
Pray for the food on your table, bowls overflowing,
bread in warm wrappers, your daughter’s hands
pulling the slices, melted butter, cranberries.
Pray for all that. Pray.
Pray for the bulbs underneath the earth,
the future they hold, the coming beauty.
Pray for the cold that will nourish them,
pray for winters, and ice, and ice caps,
and the tundra. Pray for Greenland,
and penguins and snow.
Make blessings to the sun, that she be gentle.
Lay in the grasses, and pray for the lady bug
and the grasshopper, the hummingbird
and the honey bee. While the flowers still blossom,
glory in them, and pray. While the earth still grows,
make her your beloved. Walk outside in the morning,
remove your shoes, stand on the cold earth.
Glory in all blessed life. And pray.
Carolyn Brigit Flynn is a writer and teacher dedicated to language as a pathway to soul and spirit. She is the author of the poetry collection Communion: In Praise of the Sacred Earth, and editor of Sisters Singing: Blessings, Prayers, Art, Songs, Poetry and Sacred Stories by Women, and The New Story: Creation Myths for Our Times. Her poems and essays have appeared in literary journals and anthologies nationwide. She teaches writing groups and retreats in Santa Cruz, CA and in Ireland.
Imagine a day
when good news fills the newspapers,
and war and violence are a
special section on Thursdays.
A Hundred Monks Pray At Sunrise
the front page announces,
and below the fold,
Wild Geese Gather At The Shores
followed by: Double the
number from last year.
Day after day, a rising chorus,
Neighbors Plan Local Assistance,
and Gray Whales Sing New Songs,
and Ballerinas Dance In The Streets.
Imagine a world
enthralled by our daily rituals
of love and good works,
TV news looping endlessly
upon yesterday’s weddings, poetry readings
and bat mitvahs. Awed parents
with newborns shown again and again:
we never tire of watching.
And oh, on certain days in Section H of the paper,
we read that thus and such country is still
bearing arms, and we neither stare
in fascination nor look away,
but offer a small blessing
and assistance to Doctors Without Borders.
And we close the newspaper–
notice morning sun illuminating
the blossoming apple tree.
We have whales and monks
and weddings and geese in us,
and we prepare then to fill the our days
with such good news as we have seen,
because what other thing is reasonable
with these bodies of ours,
these opposable thumbs, these hearts
that love with such fierceness,
the earthy sunlight streaming
like crazy gold all around.
Prayer for all Beloved Life
Thanksgiving, 2007
Pray for the beetle, that she patter across the grasses
and for the hoary toad, and the brown frog,
for the pond that is their lives,
thick with marsh grasses and tiny minnows.
Pray for the earth that is the sacred bowl for the waters.
Pray for the birch trees at pond’s edge,
for the fallen leaves of the season,
that they may find their way in the season’s dying.
Pray for your heart as it skims its way
along the bleak edge of what is known,
over-warm oceans, tides swinging
into cyclones, thousands dead in Bangladesh.
Pray for the thousands dead, the eighty year old grandfather
carried in the arms of a stranger
to the flattened earth of his home,
his family drowned as torrents washed him kilometers away.
Pray for him. Pray for the young man carrying him.
Pray for the rice field, the earth in the throws of growth,
pray for what we eat, for the creatures who pull the plows
in Bangladesh, the men who drive tractors
in Iowa, fields of wheat and corn.
Pray for the food on your table, bowls overflowing,
bread in warm wrappers, your daughter’s hands
pulling the slices, melted butter, cranberries.
Pray for all that. Pray.
Pray for the bulbs underneath the earth,
the future they hold, the coming beauty.
Pray for the cold that will nourish them,
pray for winters, and ice, and ice caps,
and the tundra. Pray for Greenland,
and penguins and snow.
Make blessings to the sun, that she be gentle.
Lay in the grasses, and pray for the lady bug
and the grasshopper, the hummingbird
and the honey bee. While the flowers still blossom,
glory in them, and pray. While the earth still grows,
make her your beloved. Walk outside in the morning,
remove your shoes, stand on the cold earth.
Glory in all blessed life. And pray.
Carolyn Brigit Flynn is a writer and teacher dedicated to language as a pathway to soul and spirit. She is the author of the poetry collection Communion: In Praise of the Sacred Earth, and editor of Sisters Singing: Blessings, Prayers, Art, Songs, Poetry and Sacred Stories by Women, and The New Story: Creation Myths for Our Times. Her poems and essays have appeared in literary journals and anthologies nationwide. She teaches writing groups and retreats in Santa Cruz, CA and in Ireland.
