I talk you talk we'll talk



Deal-Making with the Lord

(x = space)



Deal-Making with the Lord

(sigh, didn’t work for Moses)



The stomach feels

So tight

I’d like relief



At the source


All my troubles

I can’t escape


Though I could

Escape a few


And is

Escape the answer?

Probably not

(worse the


I imagine there is


By the way of



But some things,

I think,

Can simply

Be made better

Call it grace or


Or one side

Of a pledge


Please, Lord,


The pain

Give me days


The consequences

I’ll work

On the rest,

I promise


C L Couch




Photo by Ella de Kross on Unsplash

New York, NY, USA


Look Out

(x = space)



Look Out


Do I write

For affirmation?

I don’t think so

That wouldn’t work out

There would never

Be enough,

Wrong category


I think I write

To say I’m here

(I think that’s


More so, is to call

Anyone out there?

And there you are


C L Couch



Photo by Pascal Debrunner on Unsplash

The Rise of Orion


Praying from Democracyland

Praying from Democracyland


Okay, God

You and me

Don’t you have

The poor end of the stick

I can rely on the other end

That’s you

I treat you as a friend

Sometimes as a phantom

Sometimes wish you down

Upon my enemies

With fire and menace

But then consider

Those for me

And cease

I have to

That is doctrine

Sigh (a real, stage, and

spiritual direction)


You are the source of power

Start of majesty,

I know

I treat you like a pal

I shouldn’t do that

But you are the source of love, more so

And I don’t know how to deal

In that,

Snubbing all formality

In wanting easy terms

For us


As a suggestion, let’s read your gospel

Much of that has clarity, I know

And honestly the fuzzy parts

Are interesting but not compelling

Either way


So I’ll rely on truth as

I can get it from

A reading and a prayer

You’ll be there,

I know

As in everything you started

The skies

The world

And me

Anyone who listens

Or does not listen

Who hears but does not hear

Sometimes like me,

Though now

This is about you


C L Couch



Photo by Cole Keister on Unsplash

Portland, United States

Condensation and fresh raindrops against the window of our car during a trip to get donuts in Portland, Oregon.


Again with the Sunday-Thinking

Again with the Sunday-Thinking


It’s Sunday, and

I should say something spiritual

But there’s Hamlet’s rub

(not a small town’s)

About mortality or, I should

Say, the end of it,

Which is what the Dane’s discussing

One side of the coin, as

It were, the other side

Well, spirituality

Who’d have thought?


So here we are

The coin I have,

The choice I have

Heads or tails

Or stand it on the edge,

Which I can do


Do you?

This is where we are

Where angels could dance

As slender as the pin

Though it goes around

Another way

Both things, the circle and the sphere,

Are endless

One comes back

And if a mark isn’t made

We’ll fool ourselves

In the illusion

A belief that we are always going


Somewhere else


So we need another metaphor

Metaphors as analogies

Always fail somewhere

Along the way

But we have the vine

The true vine and the faulty

And would that we graft ourselves

To the stronger,

Greener branch

And so grow

Like a magic beanstalk

Toward heaven

Though here’s where plants no longer

Serve analogy

For heaven’s not up

Where Claudius would send his prayers

Not forward, backward

Interior, exterior

Exit, arriving

I think you know

Where heaven is

Open the window of the soul

The air is good, at last

No teaching no longer necessary

Breathe the good and lasting

Air of heaven in

I wonder if in heaven

All we do is inhale


Better than direction

Better than metaphors

Better than Christmas morning

Or a birthday

(not analogies but real

remembrances I trust, I hope)

Heaven is an invitation

Please respond



I want to meet there

And maybe you

Will help me

Though there’s one who

Will bring us, both


C L Couch



Image by Thanks. All my pics are free! from Pixabay

church war syria civil war devastation devastated


Returning Gifts

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)


Heading Home Again

Heading Home Again


I cannot write as Mary Oliver has written

About snow geese and the song of dawn

Over a living pond far away,

Because she’s far away from me

Now more than ever, more than forever


She commanded nature by

Never giving orders

She sensed through more than senses

All she met and came to understand

I think we can rely on her, through

Words and more she left us


I wish like wishing on a star

That I could have sat with her just once

Maybe we would not have been good company

My inclination would have been

To do little more than listen

And maybe she would not have left it that way

But like nature as she cast it

Only settled for full participation


In my place under town lights

I cannot see the stars

But on the inside I can travel like Thoreau

And other theories

And read her words to let them sink

Like stones returning home from the rim they

Had been cast upon, long ago


We can all love the world better

Through our pastored mischief-making

There is need for redemption

But we need to look more closely, all the while

To remember all the places where love sits

Or rises now and then to play


All the people who will take us home

Or simply push on gliders made by wind

As we arrive


C L Couch



Oliver lived in Provincetown, Massachusetts, and Hobe Sound, Florida, until her death in early 2019 [which is now]. She was 83.


Wild Geese

Mary Oliver



John Fowler [destined, if not predetestined] from Placitas, NM, USA – Snow Geese, CC BY 2.0,

Incoming snow geese fill the dawn sky at Bosque del Apache.


Mister Sanders Speaks

Mister Sanders Speaks


I may not know much

But I can wonder

Why the sky is blue

And my balloon is green

And will I reach the tree

With all the honey


Why there is a name on my home

Of someone I don’t know

Who counted out

The hundred acres of our wood

And why does Piglet

Help me in all the plans I make

Despite the fact that

I am of small brain


He is so good, my human friend

He could come by more often

Maybe find a way to keep

The tail on the donkey

So that we could

Hunt the Heffalump

And play

And find more honey


And better still,

Eat more honey


Christopher Robin Couch



EllenChan / 1110 images



Home Keys

Home Keys


I know who I am

Do you?

It’s not a challenge



Maybe it’s a way to say

That if we talk

And as we listen,

It will go better if

If you have some understanding

Who you are

Me, too


C L Couch


At 5 a.m., How and Why

At 5 a.m., How and Why



You are there

And I am here

The distance between us need

Be no more than a filament

The breadth of a capillary

A pulse between two nuclei

Or the space can be

The width of a world


That has more to do with me

Since no qualifying of divine will stands

Beyond the condition you placed upon yourself

For a savior


One who redeems as God and a person

Flesh molded with spirit

Majesty in ordinary undertaking

To teach, to heal, to live, to die in innocence

And then all will returns

In death defeated


It is a Christian way to know things

It might not be yours


But to God

I wonder how you stayed the angel

Who took the knife from Abram’s hand

But would keep it in the Roman plan

To hack a cross together

Display one who dies because

A decision was made

In Sanhedrin and handwashing

Not for justice but for status quo become murderous


Abraham was flawed, so was Noah

So was Sarah, so was Isaac, so was Miriam

Yet you made them whole

As all were knit together

Except your child

Who was you and yet was not excused from execution

Out of innocence


How do you mitigate your will

And maybe you never do

You allow yourself to bleed

Blood and water, liquids running life


You could have changed it all, and you didn’t

Change a thing

I am amazed and horrified

And would never lift my eyes again


You promise joy and peace

And whoever have I been to argue with you

I must be content


Allow for Easter

For greater pain unknown anywhere on Earth,

Which splits the universe

And renders understanding into splinters

Of crystalline grace

‘Til grace is all that’s left

With which you save


With which you drag us into heaven

From drowning in deep waters

Filled with tendrils from wary sources

Always ready, in fact plotting

To bring us down

Away from light

From one day into eternity


I don’t get it

I don’t have to

I am here

You are there

And here

Closer in than I shall ever be

My God


C L Couch



Photo by Dane Deaner on Unsplash



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