Silence

I wrote these fourteen sonnets in 1966 when I was 20 years old and rediscovered them cleaning out my home office in 2015. At 68 years old, I am both amused and amazed at what I wrote. I have typed them here exactly as I wrote them 49 years ago, realizing they include a number of things I wouldn’t do today, such as using “man” to refer to humankind of both genders. I know some folk fuss about “political correctness,” but I would contend this reflects a real shift in how language is used in the past half-century. These sonnets were also accompanied by prints of my own wilderness photos. Though printed from 35mm slides by a commercial photo lab, the dyes have faded considerably. I readily acknowledge being inspired by the Sierra Club wilderness books (I still have and enjoy This is the American Earth) featuring the photography of Ansel Adams and others. Though I have no illusions of even crudely approximating those works of art, I do recognize themes that continued to unfold in my writing and preaching in subsequent years.

To the glory of God,

The preservation of

His wilderness,

And the renewal

Of some soul.

                               I.            Dawn

                            II.            Small Man

                         III.            Worship

                         IV.            Symphony

                            V.            Summer

                         VI.            Autumn

                      VII.            Winter

                   VIII.            Spring

                         IX.            Diversity

                            X.            Joy

                         XI.            Fantasy

                      XII.            Promise

                   XIII.            Struggle

                   XIV.            Heaven’s Gate

Dawn

How early was a dawn to come in time

That we could not have heard or see its first

Approaching, or have felt its falling fine

And light upon a darkened earth, and burst

In regal righteousness through clouded sky

To smile down on a new created life-

Wondrous watching to see it live and die,

How long before man brought to earth his strife?

Before a minute mar was made on earth

The striking sound of dawn had long been heard

To tiptoe o’r the hilltops telling all

The great creation that a new day’s birth

Had come, and then without a wicked word

Proclaim a silence which wrought miracle.

  

Small Man

And then we entered Eden, you and I,

In the midst of morning’s perfect stillness

We felt quite feeble underneath the sky

Which spread above our heads as an endless

Holy canopy, and we dared disturb

The water’s, hence unwrinkled, sacred face

With ripples which the wind n’er moved, perturb

The silence and bring on ourselves disgrace.

But our light trespass didn’t stop the smile

Of aged awkward trees, nor in anger

Did the colossal sky collapse to venge

Defacing of the deep, and all the while

Nearly nonexistent winds would whisper,

Small man, live lightly or face revenge.

Worship

Yet where we never trod there still is found

The same perfection that in Eden dwelt

Before we stepped, and scared the once unbound

Wilderness which before our time was built

From the building block of nothing on the

Cornerstone of Passion’s peaceful purpose,

To provide a sanctuary for the

Renewal of a searching soul in loss.

And now we’re called to a simple worship

Which demands a rare purity of soul,

Discerning to worship the creator

In his tabernacle, and not worship

The temple for itself, but seek the goal

Of finding peace, alone with Creator.

  

Symphony

No greater symphony has come from pen

Moved by the daring dreams of enchanted

And much moved souls and minds of mighty men-

Than the age old song the wind has chanted,

Composing it anew each day, blending

With the caprice of the clouds eternal

Touching tunes that are forever playing

On the organ of the immortal hill.

In stillness let us sense the strains that sing

From off the mountain sides and cross the sands

To touch our tender ear with tunes of life,

So rest and hear the message that they bring

Of beauty of the willing work of hands

That moved and molded, touched, and made a life.

Summer

And standing softly, taking in the sun,

A single hearty flower will on dry

Scorchéd desert bloom, and it will come

To fruit and seed, and summer’s majesty

Has made this flower king and calléd him

For sun – the flower follows then the path

His namesake sets and in the twist of stem

Will turn in thanks for the light life he hath.

The perfect primitive sun hast burst

In glory from the grass to grow in light,

To be both shrine and subject of the Sun

And striving seldom, satisfy the thirst

For streaming strength that flows from the sun’s might,

And live in freedom even as his run.

  

Autumn

Aflame in power and in beauty all

Its own, the autumn frost bursts stem and leaf

In unison of hue which shall enthrall

An easy, sleepy, unencumbered earth

As never blossom could have hoped to do,

For now each leaf has felt the spell and touch

Transforming it to rival and outdo

The finest work yet fallen from a brush.

In the autumn chapel now let us bow

And burn to bring our praise to Holy One,

Who has with but a tiny bit of breath

A giant icon hung and will allow

Us humbly to approach and reverent come,

And so renew a soul with holy strength.

Winter

And even through the seeming endless dark

And cloud of winter, rays of sun will shine

But just enough to kindle and to spark

A glowing that is glorious in its time,

And stud the leaves, the twigs, the sky, with stars

Of light, and sacred, holy, mystic gems

Will glow to grant our true desires

And needs, and shall accompany our hymns.

When in the midst of darkness of a cloud

A ray of light will seem to seek us out-

To stimulate, intensify – the part of man

That loves the holy life of earth is bowed

To worship at this shrine and not to doubt

That even winter’s silence betters man.

  

Spring

In silence spring seeps cross the sleepy hills –

Without so much as a little fanfare

The opening opera of creation fills,

And swirling swells the all attentive air

With songs and stories that the players

Forever sing and tell, in the humble

Playing of a part which the creator,

In anxious expectation, sees them fill.

And where unmarred by man’s great greedy hand,

Catastrophe is covered, and barren

Burnéd land is refreshed and soon renewed

By advent of spring’s spirit in the land –

Forever, and much more, will creation

Continue if spring can still be renewed.

Diversity

Even rocks themselves have now been painted

In vibrant color and in changeless hue,

Now they stand as monuments erected,

Even lifeless, to remind us who blew

The breath of life and many unique souls

Upon the earth to learn to live, to love

The varied creation, when even soils

Are as diverse as skill of him above.

No movement to be seen, no sound to hear,

And yet the holy rocks in stillness move,

And now in sacred silence seem to sing

Of multitudes of variation here

Now found in simple sands with serve to prove

Creator’s care for even this small thing.

Joy

A child has found true satisfaction in

The simple blowing of a milkweed puff,

And he has known great joy away from din

Of the tense grownup world, and a huff

Of primitive delight has spread the seed –

By the holy instinct he always knew,

He holds nature’s hand will surely heed

Her call to loft the seed to wind which blew.

Then let us all return to our childhood

And the simple joys which had been stunted

As we thought that we have been growing up,

Let us find again the instinct which good

Great God at our first creation planted

In us, which we forsook on growing up.

Fantasy

There’s a magic in the shaded quiet

Of tumbling streams that casts a sacred spell

On the spirit of man, if a moment

Will he give to let holy water tell

The mystic sounds too powerful for word –

Nothing short of the supernatural

Could ever hope that when its voice was heart

It could capture as wilderness enthrall.

Reject the right and wisdom that had made

Discord in the earth and in fervent fear

Flee the trappings of tragedy and cling

In awe to the fantasy that is made

In real reality where one may rear

A child to know the spirit of living.

  

Promise

Has insignificant, audacious man,

A single species placed upon the earth,

By some unwitting, foolish act or ban

Doomed this holy habitation of earth

From which a creation cannot escape,

But each kind is kept at the mad mercy

Of so few men – How great does this grave gape

Before the eyes of man who claims to see?

But blazon in the sky a bold banner

Proclaims that there is found hope, a promise

That the wisdom that created Eden

At the first, will not permit men to mar

In finality, but will surely stop us

And purge in time to build a new Eden.

Struggle

How then can this small man begin to know

The overwhelming power of universe,

Or be enchanted by the blissful blow

Of wind upon its wondrous wide traverse

Of mountain peak and sacred valley floor;

How shall this easeful creature ever find

A spell to lose it apathetic core

That stops the soul as it subdues the mind?

An understanding of an holy earth

Is only gained by blood and sweat and toil,

Since in the struggle nature takes one in

And teaches reverent love for birth and growth

And death, to be in tune with sea and soil;

Exulted, struggle light and few to win.

Heaven’s Gate

If we have struggled in our pilgrimage

To come to worship in the wilderness,

If then in our time we have sought to gauge

Our lives, our loves by standards nothing less

That those our blood and sweat and toil demand,

If in humility we can employ

The simple constancy nature commands

For the survivor’s soul, then shall be joy.

The wilderness shall lift us light and free

To a reality past our ideal,

Losing mortal limitations, though late

We shall enter Eden, and we will be

Standing with sacred supernatural

At skyway door – in Heaven’s very Gate.