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December 2018

Rating Advent

Rating Advent

 

In a code of context,

Might I say that Advent season is

PG-13

It’s not for children alone

But with parental guidance

 

There are themes here

Songs and rites

Children should enjoy

 

All the peace and companionship

That come near

 

But all ideas are not easy

Some need help

For living

 

For Christ is born not for an easy purpose

And winter can be hard

Summer in the south of Earth

We all need help

From time to time

 

Children should have guardians

Grown-up friends like

Luminaria

To help light the way

 

To the place

And all that is to come

Of Christ’s entry into the world

With theirs

With ours

 

C L Couch

 

 

Chris Dodson

Luminaria

Luminaria event at the Botanical Gardens in Phoenix. It was such a great night.

 

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Philemon’s Pitcher

Philemon’s Pitcher

(Advent, anytime)

 

I pour water from the Brita

And think of Philemon’s pitcher

A wonderful story

I’m not sure about the judgey part

But the provision part

Is glorious

If you don’t know

(and if you do),

There was an old couple in

Still more ancient Greece

Living near a town that was

Beautiful in appearance, though the

People there were

Took glory too far

They were vain and unwelcoming

Of those who were not they

They lived well

Strangers were not taken in

Nor impoverished neighbors,

Such as Bacchus and Philemon

 

They lived poorly

In a hovel

They had worked hard,

But now there was nothing

And one evening they set out

The last of what they had

For they would surely starve by

The next day

A cluster of worn grapes

A pitcher filled with drops of bitter wine

They last meal together

 

Then two persons appeared in the

Doorway,

And they asked for comforts

Food and afterward a place to sleep

Wife and husband exchanged a glance

Then apologized

To strangers

We have little space

And our food is poor

But we are glad to share with you

If you will, be welcome here

With us

 

The visitors were pleased and thanked their hosts

And sat down to eat and drink

What might not even share among

The four of them

But when

 

The wine poured from the pitcher,

It was wondrous

Rich in red and filled with

Savor once tried

And when the grapes were offered,

They appeared full richly on the plate

And were sweet to taste

And satisfying

And the four at table feasted

On small miracles

 

Once sated

All lay down to rest

What coverings there were,

Bacchus and Philemon presented

To their guests

 

And in the morning

The couple woke beneath marvelous cloths

And their raiment appeared richly sewn

Their hovel was a house

Of polished marble, the furnishings all

Castle-grand

 

They walked outside into the sun

And in the valley where the town of

The conceited lay,

There was now a lake

Whose surface shown in judgment

Nothing more was seen

Then they knew

If not before

That they had been visited by gods

Who rendered service rendered

From the welcoming

Like that of kings and queens

And thought unasked for

Reward turned into recompense

 

And so we know

Something of receiving strangers

Who give no cause but need

Be inclined to welcome them

For we might be entertaining angels,

Unaware

 

C L Couch

 

 

https://grabcad.com/library/pitcher-of-wine

 

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With Longing from Earth’s Children

With Longing from Earth’s Children

(Advent, anytime)

 

Lord, this season belongs to you

All seasons belong

Forgive if we’re slow

Or late

Or ornery enough to forget

It is the start of your new year

But the end of our old year

And we’ve sent ourselves an invitation

To go crazy

Worse, there is real need

Deeper than snow can fall

That knows no season’s boundary

It lives within

Sometimes we know it’s there

Sometimes we don’t

Sometimes we choose not to

We all have problems, after all

But some live in places

That are broken

Physical brokenness

That war, privation, indifference

Victimizing cause

And then there’s the other kind

The broken heart

The mind that’s split

The spirit rendered febrile by the world

That might splinter anytime

All this taken possession

By what’s wrong

Without the hope that right

Might have us, yet

 

Your child’s need was not to die

Not to be beaten

Starved and rendered thirsty

Dressed in mockery

Dragged through city streets

Out to a hill

For the devil’s victory

 

But this side of apocalypse

All victories are brief

Even the demons’

Their win broke inside the Earth

And rose in three-days time

 

And where have you appeared since them

To break the bonds of unholy agendas

To release captive spirits

Finally, forever

 

It’s your season, Lord

As all seasons are

Think of us in our deep tracks of mindlessness

Sometimes of our making

Sometimes by other strategy

Think of us

Help us think of you

For the thought might be a start

Or something else of us, an instance of hope

Surprise of feeling

Dawn-like or midnight inspiration

Might spark

 

Remembrance

A shifting of our spirits

Our wills to the favor

Of your power

 

C L Couch

 

 

the title is taken from

Newell, Philip (2011). Praying with the Earth. United Kingdom: The Canterbury Press Norwich Editorial Office. p. 52. ISBN 978-0-8028-6653-0. Archived from the original on 23 March 2012.

 

(image)

William Murphy from Dublin, Ireland – Celtic Cross – Glasnevin Cemetery Uploaded by AlbertHerring

 

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Nearly Mostly

Nearly Mostly

 

Nearly mostly,

I try to find you

In the shortness of a winter day

In the length of a summer’s evening

In the annals of my life

That go far beyond my journal

 

In memories

In hidden places

I can only look for,

Such are the limitations

 

Nearly mostly,

I want to know you

I’d like to stay with you

Or you with me

Or we have coffee in a café somewhere

Along the edge

Away from chaos

Nearly mostly

 

Then when I leave

I’d like to go your way

If you’d care for company

And would consider me

Fit enough, at least for a while

Nearly mostly

 

C L Couch

 

 

CC0 Public Domain

https://pxhere.com/en/photo/1232581

 

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Retreat and Then Return, Advance

Retreat and Then Return, Advance

 

For everything unfinished,

There is a place

Like the Island of Misfit Toys

A place where all uneven edges,

Things that are torn,

Even misplaced socks are

Borne;

 

It’s a place where you and I belong

Though only for brief visits

Like the real creatures who cannot stay

On the island,

The actual world beckons with

Immediate agendas

Worthwhile plans,

Campaigns;

 

Stay with me, then, in this land that

Celebrates the broken

We’ll enjoy the harbor

Sip tea and nibble cookies while

The water keeps us safely in,

Protected from the storms outside

For a time

While we are here—

Call it vacation

Then we’ll return;

 

Space was given us to wonder ‘round inside

Time to fill with wisdom

The power of reflection on

Still water,

The comfort now of things outside

Readier to take them in

After misfit not misspent time

 

C L Couch

 

 

KingMisfit.jpg

Public Domain Super Heroes

 

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As We Are, as We Want to Be

As We Are, as We Want to Be

(Advent, anytime)

 

There’s an invitation

For new year’s

Please join

I don’t know how we set the dates

I don’t think we know

There are forgotten, buried stories

Maybe we’ll unearth someday

 

Some have already started

Some will start today

Some will start tomorrow

In the vigil

Many will wait until the planet begins

To turn the other way

And many, many more will wait until

It’s been decided that it’s time

 

In the north, the cold time will begin

And though it might be harder,

The days will be getting

Shorter

Maybe it makes more sense in the south

 

But I’m here

And you are where you are

Maybe here,

And we’ll have what we have

And, ironies aside,

It’s still something new

 

Earth-angling

The season

More importantly, inside

As new as we want or need

 

New year

As we are,

As we want to be

 

C L Couch

 

 

By Henk Caspers/Naturalis Biodiversity Center, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=45342382

 

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Nearing the Solstice, Eastern Pennsylvania

Nearing the Solstice, Eastern Pennsylvania

 

At this time of year,

The sun will set over Main Street

And traveling west will be a challenge

An illusion in dropping the visor

On the driver’s side

(it won’t do much of anything)

The town isn’t an observatory

The angles are not checked

Against the movement of the Earth

Unless Google Earth

Or NASA

Or NOAA

Or the observatories at Dickinson

Or Penn State might do that

Above my little street

In my small town

 

What I know is that the sunlight

Will hurt my eyes and make me

Wish I and all the other cars in motion

Were someplace else

For a little while

 

What I don’t know is the timing of the solstice

Is the road, as it goes east or west,

A Stonehenge kind of needle?

Will the sun on 21 December

Take a Druid turn

To match the light that splits

The altar there?

 

Many of our roads are built upon

Native paths set centuries ago

Maybe they were marking time in an

Old way, and we are

Its surprise

In my age that simply wants to get

To the next town in time for dinner

 

Funny how these layers work

Moderns upon ancients

Unwary of the centuries

That moved upon on the ground

As though we were traversing with

The spirits of creation

 

All to give me trouble with my eyes

Driving to friends’

On a Friday afternoon in December

 

C L Couch

 

 

(at) http://dzhingarov.com/celebrate-winter-solstice/

reminds me of a painting by Bruegel or by Bosch (the life that art imitates)

 

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Ashen

Ashen

 

In a corner of

Winter-quiet

I have borrowed,

Since everything

Is lent from God

Even the words

 

Note what we take with us

Nothing but some spirit

And flesh, which will need renewing

 

I wonder here

In the great gray sky

Or underneath the ashen earth

Or in refugee molecules of

Water, trying to escape

Once the desert rain is done

 

About what quickens everything

Who decides

How and why

 

In what is my hope today

My reason

Validation for my purpose

For anyone’s

Anyone who seeks the truth in light

 

For the darker reasons

Tread another path

They disappear

I do want to go with them

 

My hope must be in

God who has arrived

Bringing a longer day

And promise of green seasons

 

coda

 

I am impatient and unknowing

Unknowing and still impatient

Insight comes in parts

In fits

In gold-hot coals

That want to touch the tongue

 

There is a price for growth

Sometimes only for

Having another day

 

Sad assessing,

There it is

It does not count for grace

And considers nothing of

Another’s mercy

 

We have the day

We have the moment

What shall we do

 

Why not live

Uncertain of the defining

But having it

A spark if not a prophecy

 

Is having life reason enough,

You know, it is

 

C L Couch

 

 

Wikimedia Commons (image)

 

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Old Dachshund

Old Dachshund

(a parting)

 

If I haven’t already told you,

Old Dachshund has died

He lived years beyond

The average for his breed

He was friendly and mischievous

(both, always)

 

He loved the life that rushed

Through his black nose shiny

(not unlike Rudolph’s red)

To the painter’s brush-tip of his tail

Consuming energies of no mean quantity

From his own exuding engine

 

Old Poodle persists

He wandered as if lost for a while

He can still jump a little

With an assist (admittedly)

So that he may join Mom and Dad on the sofa

When it’s time

 

It’s sad about Old Dachshund

We wonder how we will get on

We will

 

It will be long-going for a while

‘Bye for now, Old Dachshund

Co-maker of insistent verse

In

Sniffles, whines, and barks

That might invoke a muse

To bless the space irascibly, too

Around his little

Universe

 

C L Couch

 

 

https://dumielauxepices.net/sites/default/files/sketch-clipart-dachshund-764596-9565772 (png)

Picasso

 

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