Do Not Be Kept by Flowered Fields

(x = space)

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Do Not Be Kept by Flowered Fields

(from a teacher)

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Hump day, Amanda

Be nice, learners

Work and play with

Discipline and health

Do not rush to poppies

Or what might become

Another monument

We need you,

The young,

So much

On Wednesday

And for all the other days

You are so much more important

Than entities named

For exhausted gods

Than entities

At all

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C L Couch

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Photo by Malik Skydsgaard on Unsplash

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Infinite Pleasure

(x = space)

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Infinite Pleasure

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There are things that

Enthuse me:

People learning

Youth ascending

Good things to read

With sight to see them

Pleasance in sounds

Or none

Peace in the small things

Peace in the ideal

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The spirit of God

Moving across the water

Separating night and day

But keeping both

And rendering them

Necessary

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Brownies with walnuts

In them

Someone said it’s popular

Now

To talk about the smell of Jesus

(that smells like Jesus)

I think Jesus

Smells like brownies

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C L Couch

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Photo by Eugene Golovesov on Unsplash

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A Child’s Precocious Prayer

(x = space)

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A Child’s Precocious Prayer

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Help me

To be good;

Help me to be good

Again,

When I am bad.

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Keep my family safe,

And show up

More

When we are not.

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Help your poor world

To be rich,

Because you give us everything,

And we should share.

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C L Couch

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The Moon and a Tree

Photo by Andy Henderson on Unsplash

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We Prayed Today

(x = space)

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We Prayed Today

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“Today is a privilege” she said she’d

Embroider on a pillow

And on the other side, “I’m still

Breathing”

Because for all the despondence,

The despair we take to prayer

In our group,

There is beauty and joy

And so much to love

In fact, it’s what we love that turns

That often

Leads us to prayer

Compels us

We pray for the good things, too,

Wanting the goodness

We pray over cherishing the messed-up

World we have

And the messed-up lives we care for

And our own

We say amen

Knowing it’s never

The end

And we say thank you

With intention

We mean it

We are grateful

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C L Couch

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Photo by KARTIK GADA on Unsplash

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In My Father’s Now-and-Then Kitchen

(x = space)

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In My Father’s Now-and-Then Kitchen

(and backyard)

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My father could cook many things

Well, six things

The rest were disasters

Like shipwrecks on rocks

On waiting shores

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He could make—combine,

Stir, apply, bake—apple pie

He taught me how to have

Cheddar cheese with that

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He could make blackberry cobbler

Blackberries, maybe, because of

Growing up

In Olympia

Where there were

Berry trees and bushes in abundance

Real crust (back to the cobbler)

Made from many ingredients

The right amount of sweet and salt

To savor

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He could make bean soup

Ham and bone kept from another meal

Beans soaked for days

It seems

He might have made the cornbread

That came with it

Maybe my mom made that

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Have I got to six?

Well, he could grill adept

If maybe nothing challenging

The usual suburban fare

Meat and vegetables

I’m a plebe

I like hamburgers

I was satisfied

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My mother cooked everything else

Too bad you can’t taste

Her corned beef with cabbage

Carrots and potatoes

With the cornbread

(Southern)

That she made

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I can’t taste it anymore

For many years

Except to remember

I’ve found nothing close to hers

In waking time,

Since

Sigh

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What else my father cooked

Was awful

(shapeless shapes

on plates)

He was the only one

To eat those things

He made

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C L Couch

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Photo by Daniel Gamez on Unsplash

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poems about early life

(x = space)

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poems about early life

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around the green S chair

(Rick and me)

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there was an S chair

green, upholstered

with that kind of hard,

bumpy brocade that was

uncomfortable

kept in the basement

and there were other things

as basements tend to have

and around the chair

and through the other things

there was an oval

made that we would run,

my older brother and I,

while the Three Stooges

ran on television

and we ran in opposite directions

to each other, and when

we passed each other

we would whoop in high-pitched

voices like the

Stooges whom we thought

must be having fun

in black and white

as we were

around the green S chair

and everything else

pushed to one or the other

in the basement

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a child’s Sunday night

x

everything was difficult

except sometimes on Sunday night

when we were downstairs

after baths or showers

pajamaed, robed

slippers over wrinkly toes

the TV set warmed up

Disney about to start

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the younger ones on Friday night

x

on Friday nights

we often would

gather ‘round the kitchen table

with popcorn

and malted, chocolate candy

playing The Game of Life

sometimes Careers

we were taught Rook

the Southern person’s bridge

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we played many games

and were okay

as long as my dad was winning

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I never sang for my father

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my dad took it on himself

to ridicule me

so that he might look bigger

somehow

whatever is in the mind

of the bully

I don’t know if that worked

inside

for him

while inside of me

as you might expect

there was resentment

and it grew

I had to win

and when I did,

I no longer cared

there was next to nothing there

and in the nothing

no relationships

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C L Couch

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I Never Sang for My Father is the name of a play and a film.

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Photo by Amanda Jones on Unsplash

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Doggone Dog-Here Dog Days

(x = space)

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Doggone Dog-Here Dog Days

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Dog days

For dogs

Cat days are every day

To cats

Winter might have dog days

But the famous days are

Summer

When it’s late

And there are days of heat

And humidity

When dogs are famous for

Lying down,

Stretched out on boards

Of Southern porches

While the humans

Sip up lemonade

And talk

About the weather

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n.b. for humans

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Keep water close by

And bring them in from

The heat

When you go in

Keeping in mind

That they’re your friends

And mine

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C L Couch

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Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash x

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We Didn’t Know Who You Was

(x = space)

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We Didn’t Know Who You Was

(Christmas Eve)

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Let’s not slice it to death

This time

Let’s simply have observances

Let all the contradictions go

We know there’s folklore involved,

Which should fascinate

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There was such darkness

At hand

Of one kind or another

Of the past, of

The present

Lack of awareness

Of the import of events;

Only to the players

Did things matter,

They in acts

No one to put it all together until Luke

And a little bit in Matthew and in John

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Prophets old and new

We have to say

Knew and know some measure

Of the meaning

Of it all

They are extracted

And we read them, too

x

Such dulled and slow senses

Sometimes history goes that way

Sometimes it’s spiritual

The people walked in darkness

There might be other forces, too,

To keep us from the light

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But it is there

The birth is there

Incarnation as a doctrine

Thought some of it at least

Might have been as any birth

A baby in the world

This one in a cave

And that’s unusual

And all around

The mystery

The strangeness

There was adventure in the sky

And from some people

Who in an iron empire

Chose to dedicate another lord,

Another life to follow

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The child is God

But who knew that?

Mary and Joseph

Angels

And the magi knew something

While the shepherds were told something

As good news

This is the messiah!

Who really understood?

How could a baby save the world

Who is not Caesar

With family, tutors, strategists

Sheltered behind stone walls,

Armies out front

That keep the world

For them?

x

Well, other parts conspired

Into a birth, a life

That through faith

And later patchwork

Yielded doctrine

And a way

The people of the way

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As on that night

(let’s call it a night)

There would be amazement

There would be awful things as well

But wonder now

And wonder later on

And with us, still

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Praise God, for God is good

God is love

God is a spirit

Who wonders now

And offers light inside the darkness,

The kind of darkness that is not

Romantic but it

Stultifies and kills

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Believe the child

Humbly, take the child in

To dwell with you

Maybe like a foundling, at the start,

Then as a teacher

And a savior

And a temple of salvation

In the city of God

(new heaven)

And on God’s free land

(new Earth)

Forever

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Sweet, little Jesus child,

They made you be born in a manger;

Sweet, little holy child,

We didn’t know who you was.

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Didn’t know you’d come to save us, Lord,

To take our sins away:

Our eyes was blind, we could not see;

We didn’t know who you was.

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We didn’t know who you was

Maybe we should have

Maybe we can, now,

And into new ages

Love revealed

Prophecy fulfilled

The child grows up

We grow up

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And for this night we way

Welcome to the world, child,

And everything that starts

Now

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C L Couch

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could be a choral or a choir reading

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“Sweet, Little Jesus Child” is a song of African American origin.  The precise source is unknown, and there are variants and variations.

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This is the third in a creative, liturgical series for Advent and Christmas.  The other two parts are the last two days’ posts.  I think I’ll work on something else now.

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Photo by Agung Raharja on Unsplash

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In Darkness

I’ve been having trouble with WordPress.  I can’t leave comments on your pages.  I get an “error” block that tells me to go back and when I do I still get the “error” block.  I don’t know if anyone has experienced this.  Maybe the problem is with my computer.  Frustrating!

This won’t fix the problem and doesn’t really address it; but if want to get in touch with me (especially while I’m not able to reach you via the blog), you may use my e-mail address, clcouch17055@gmail.com.

CLC

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(x = space)

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In Darkness

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A child is born

Into this?

How cruel

Such cruelty

If God should call this down

A child of God

(a child?)

Then why not to cushions

In a palace

For a start?

Why not with special parents

In a prominent family?

Why not with

Advisors and with teachers

Frankly, generals

Standing,

Kneeling

By?

Why not with a well-known name

Conveying might

Mixed with celebrity?

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Bethlehem?

There are two such places

You are inviting debate

And neither is a capital

An important place

For births

Unless by the mother stopped

By happenstance

On the way to Jerusalem

Or Rome

Somewhere we can argue is

The center of the world

Where we can triumph

(two drum beats)

Where are the triumphs?

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Where are the angels

(bells)

Well, there are

The angels

We are frightened

They say

Don’t be afraid

(we are afraid)

Tidings,

Good news?

To our cynic selves we know

There is never good news

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And who are the shepherds?

Smelly men

Who should be outside town

Yet they pass us by

With purpose

What?

Where?

x

Bethlehem, again

And we people of the world

Maybe we should follow

x

Or, you know,

We could wait for the news

When it’s official

The sky is dark again

With normal night

We have two years

And more,

Should something else

Happen

(two drum beats, bells)

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C L Couch

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A companion piece to yesterday’s.  Another one tomorrow—there you will have a trilogy of liturgy for Advent and Christmas Eve.  Or for some other reason.  Or for none.  Note this verse has sound effects.  They can be left out, I’m sure.

CLC

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Photo by Lasse Møller on Unsplash

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