(x = space)
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An Angel Drops the Mic
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Show’s over
Time for applause
Be impressed with me
The talent
And the portent
The agency
I am
And represent
x
This was fun
Next time you see and hear me
The show will be the last
And best
And afterward
Maybe a revue in
Our new place
x
C L Couch
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Photo by BRUNO EMMANUELLE on Unsplash
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(x = space)
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Servicing
x
God,
I often talk to you
In thought
Do you hear me?
I hope so,
Because I rarely
Think about it
Twice
x
Do you need
The uttered word?
I’d think
You wouldn’t,
Though maybe
My part
Is to speak
x
I think I let you in
A while ago,
You see
And while you’re
There
You might as well
Have the run
Of the place
Including the talking parts
That happen
On the inside
x
Life in the Spirit,
I believe,
With an angel’s assist
I hope it works
This way
I’ll pray out loud
As well
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C L Couch
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Photo by Emil Widlund on Unsplash
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(x = space)
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Abashed
x
We say things
As we do
I’m not sure why
Maybe there is
Something to that
Small angel character
With the devil on
The other side,
Which we’ve seen and heard
In cartoons
Maybe the devil and the angel
Each tell us
What to say
We must decide
Then brush the other off
Both will come back in
The next episode
When we must
Choose again
And act accordingly
The devil, you say
We say
We don’t say
The angel, you say
Maybe in shame,
The kind
That got us
Kicked out of Eden
x
C L Couch
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Photo by serena saponaro on Unsplash
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Whose Calling
I haven’t spoken to my soul today
Or maybe that’s all I do
Some would say the dialogue is prayer
Maybe so
Maybe the angel is
Listening in,
Which is fine with me
How else will it advise itself
Or send for orders?
Then sometimes I’m only speaking with
My duller, outside self
Closer to the surface, anyway
And this is how time passes, while
I’m trying to keep up
With other things
While part of me in silence, too,
Is waiting for the angel to return
With suggestions
Being suggestions I imagine that
Angels cannot understand, since will
By them has been
Perfectly surrendered,
Somehow a war in heaven
Notwithstanding
C L Couch
Photo by Jason marquis on Unsplash
Returning Gifts
Praise the Lord
And all that is in me praise the Lord
Or something like that
How can I praise such a thing as God
When I am such a thing as me?
To God be the glory
How can I glorify
When I am so small,
And my voice is broken?
I know the story of the smallest angel
In the movie, Fred Gwynne as
Mentor angel talks of his mother’s
Brown bread, when all
Were mortal
But in the young one
(newly angelified)
There is purity
And innocence to give
As gifts in the small box emblemize
What have I like these?
And wouldn’t I look at you
To say there is so much
Because there is—I
Guess I need to understand
That everything with life has worth
Even if itself it were a gift
I can turn it over
(so can you)
And that’s the act of service
And of love
C L Couch
Image by Marc Pascual from Pixabay
The Littlest Angel by Charles Tazewell (1946)
Night in a Small Town in Western Asia
(Advent, anytime)
We think of Jesus born at night
Though he might have happened
Any time of day
But we carry into our services
The scene of nighttime
With the shepherds
It’s good
It is romantic
And nearly always it is quiet
As the time of birth is recalled, near
We pray
We sing
We watch the candles in the room
And, if a flame is passed,
For hair that might be singed
In the afternoon inside the stable
Before angels appear
Declaring peace
With a call for good will,
The parents must be tired
Mary must recover
Their shelter is so rude,
Would they welcome visitors?
Maybe the shepherds could
Be all right
They are simpler, frankly most likely unrefined
More importantly, they have
Traversed in fear and
Aspect of wonder
I recall the gifts from shepherds
In the mystery play
Have a bob of cherries
Offers one of them
To the child who is a savior
Who says they don’t know
The true nature of majesty?
Then the sky is unveiled, and angels turn
Like diamonds in a jeweler’s light
coda
Isn’t there something that happens to us
Sometimes
That puts the rest into perspective
If only briefly?
For a moment, the created universe made sense
It had been fashioned for perfection
For the joy of seasons
Provision unrelenting
Delight in foraging each day
For new phenomena to complete the senses
In this night,
It was returned
A promise announced in the sky
An old one, a new one
Everything at first and last as it should be
C L Couch
By Robert Stinnett from Boonville, MO, USA – Small town Friday night, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=69141495
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