December 2020

Signed, Shakespeare

(x = space)

Signed, Shakespeare

It never happened

Maybe for some real estate

Or for companion ownership

In buildings,

In a theatre

The printing press came ‘round

At last

And with it the first suits

For plagiarizing

But his world

Her world

Dealt in manuscripts

Of which we don’t have any

For who would want them

When the players

And producers

Are all done with them

And we’ve moved on

In the production season?

So who was he

Or she?

Shakespeare was

As in existence

And we fight over that

What’s in an origin?

Ask mothers: they can

Tell you

In love and in labor,

There is a person

We have the plays as progeny

Thirty-eight or thirty-nine

And all the poetry

Was the name a pun—with a

Shaky hand, a quill (a spear) to write?

Maybe it’s to say

I do not care;

How much do you?

I think he was

And is through text

And liveliest

Performances,

Recitations,

Reservations,

Happy box offices

And officers

Plus venues and listeners

For poetry

Signed, Shakespeare

Has not happened for us

Yet or will

(or Will)

But when the flag is flying

And the gun has sounded,

We go in

Maybe there will be oranges

To eat

Because they do not rhyme

C L Couch

Photo by Mathew MacQuarrie on Unsplash

December 14, 2020 1

Chargers

(x = space)

Chargers

Yesterday the car

Broke down, because

There haven’t been

Enough complications

We could have had

Trains, but we chose

Cars, and I enjoy driving

My small colleague

That is now sleeping at

The garage where I

Take it, when I have to

Long-suffering it’s been:

It doesn’t have a name,

I clean it when it rains,

I fill it with supplies

As if it were a buckboard

Brought into town on

Saturday and I for a shave

Above the saloon

And now and then a horse

For a hero

C L Couch

Photo by gaspar manuel zaldo on Unsplash

December 12, 2020 0

Fate Unravels

Fate Unravels

(for Rosema in pandemic time)

I don’t know what to say

Today, it’s Friday

Hanukkah

Christmastime

Specifically, the Advent

Season

Who is coming to my house?

No one, for above the

First floor, we are not friends

We’re good as strangers

And a little worse

It’s so pretty outside

In a pastel way

It’s not as cold

As December should be

Around here

But it’s within the comfort zone

Generally,

Forties to seventies,

And I should not complain

A murder mystery

And if there’s no one to admire

Or a hero garnering

My admiration,

Then I’m not sure how much

I’ll care,

Since it isn’t real death, after all

So I’ll close the book and choose another

I’ll choose another day

Simply by waiting,

Persisting through this one

Not that it’s bad

But it’s the same

Under the aegis of pandemic

An aegis that’s a weight

Upon the mind, the heart, the soul

That we’re supposed to love God with,

All three

As for festivities,

It’s all right to have them quietly

Under a cellular radar

And should,

Like Penelope or fate,

We have to unloom the loom

Each night,

We’ll have another day

To reweave

With what we have

To raise our masks

Like players on an ancient

Stage,

To love close up

And as current love requires

From far away

CLC

https://areadingwritr.wordpress.com/

read her great and open work

Photo by Josh Redd on Unsplash

Kansas, USA

December 11, 2020 1

A Wish for Light

(x = space)

A Wish for Light

Deep blue

And silver

Dreidel

Chocolate coins

An outsider’s perspective

Become somehow wistful

Eight candles

Sometimes nine

What do I know

But this is festive

Quiet for prayer

Then noisy with the spinning

Did they know,

The temple keepers,

Did they ask for miracle?

Or did they use up what

They had,

Oil in lamps,

Then settle in their minds

For darkness after?

Did they ask for miracle?

Do we ask?

Deep blue and silver—

Light!

Eight days for festivity,

Community

Many blessings

In both solemnity

And fun,

Contemporary miracles,

And simply

Happy Hanukkah

C L Couch

Image by Danny H. from Pixabay

December 10, 2020 0

2 poems about parochial gods

(x = space)

2 poems about parochial gods

Anvil-Thinking

Sheesh, I wake up with more

Headaches

Under the metal

Of the skin

Someone has been hitting with

A hammer while I slept

Or gave a go

To anyone who suffers

With these things,

I’m sorry;

For those of you around them,

Take a moment to consider

I don’t know if it’s pollution

Of some kind

Or the tyranny of thought

That keeps us from free thinking

Well, more power

To you from the utility

Of time and grace

And maybe a surprise, that if

We try everything we know

(keep it safe, please—no

candles in the ear)

Then both of us will have

A better morning,

Thanks to

Maybe all our household gods

Leave an offering

Of grain upon the hearth

Photo by Bruce Kee on Unsplash

Patrica, Italy

No Contest

(1 Kings 18:20-40)*

Are there false gods

Or gods who are false?

Are there true gods

Who like to lie

And treat penitents with

Indiscretion?

Does Ba’al not exist

Or did it not give its profits

What they wanted?

Maybe it cows before

The God of Israel

Who holds the truth

That displays

Are for the chumps

While true belief

Has no need

And so Elijah won

The contest because to him

It was no deal:

Light a fire on wet wood?

Not only is it nothing

It proves nothing

Belief is a fire

Somewhere else,

And faith lives out a lifestyle of

Easy miracles

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20Kings%2018:20-40&version=ESV

*verse 40 is especially brutal

Photo by sarina gr on Unsplash

Forest

Campfire at night!

C L Couch

December 9, 2020 3

Fractured Confession

(x = space)

Fractured Confession

I haven’t said anything

About God today,

Which isn’t true

I wrote above,

Commenting on

God’s judgment

And its fairness against

Earthly powers

Sometimes, I think,

The issue is

Power versus prophecy

With God surprising us

In interpretation

When it rolls

And tolls

Like justice

Over Earth,

All planets,

Our sun,

And all stars

C L Couch

“Earth and All Stars,” a Christian hymn (with rather ecumenical lyrics)

Image by WikiImages from Pixabay

December 7, 2020 0

Whistling for Practice

Whistling for Practice

(sabbath-making)

Take a breath

And enter into Sunday

Or Saturday or

Thursday or whatever

Day is counted by tradition

Or simply needed now

Call it sabbath

Or a free hour

Or ten minutes

For lighting a candle safely

Or in the mind;

Turning a bulb so there’s

Small light also counts

Do you need a totem?

A symbol you can hold

Or a memento?

Certainly, that’s fine

Maybe you’d like to write:

A prayer journal

Or simply some words

On paper or the screen;

You could sketch something,

Too, a desire

Of your heart

Or allow yourself to

Look off into space,

Into the room, that is,

Without worrying

About concerns

For craziness, your

Concerns or someone

Else’s

There is outer space

And inner space—find

Them both, if you will

What is on that asteroid?

Who is on that ring of Saturn?

Someone might be waving,

Seeking a friend on Earth

Arrange a special sound,

If you can—if not, don’t

Worry; for

The world is a noisy place

And you’re not

Responsible for that

Raise your burdens

And look under:

There is a dream,

Maybe an epiphany

Waiting to be let out

And change your life

Or maybe it’s the stillness

That the curriculum is after

Should you make a habit

Of this, if you want to sanctify

Some time this way again,

As for one I hope you do

Don’t’ elongate this time

Against necessity, though

I hope it becomes

Necessity again,

Maybe tomorrow

If this sabbath-making

Makes today a good reminder of

Who you are

What are your better affiliations

What is the name of God

Or simply a presence

To call on

Or maybe nothing—you

Don’t have to have a

God in order to be still,

Enter into recesses

To fill them with

What you say is good

This is in no way

A condemnation call

Or rationale-building for

Judgment, far from it

The universe might judge

An indifferent planet;

That is not now,

That is not here

In fact,

There is good humor

As in ice cream;

Let laughter out

To complement the serious

If you’ve been reading,

Maybe enough time has passed

And, if you’ve not,

That’s fair

Need I say again

The time is yours;

Now find what there is

To cherish in the day

That’s left

Or maybe has begun

And if there’s someone,

One or many

Or a company of one,

Make a presence of yourself

To offer anyone

Or no one,

Readier to meet

To work or play,

Whatever a new day

(from here on it is

if only for a moment)

May now be newly

Negotiated

Breathe better

Savor what you can

Remember there is love

From one or two

And onward to infinity

Or, if you will, eternity

Be loved

C L Couch

Photo by Hans Veth on Unsplash

December 6, 2020 1

The Darkest Days – Winter Ghost Stories

After all, the most famous ghost story is a Christmas Eve story.

Celebrating the strange and the shadowy, the damned and unseen

There is an eerie feeling to this time of year. An uneasy energy in the air. It’s something I’ve felt since the days when I still believed in Father Christmas. I lived for that feeling, for that energy. When I could feel it start to gather in the last days of November, a change would come about me, a change that’s hard to describe, though it’s something I still feel every winter time.

Telling ghost stories during the beautifully bleak and cold days (and nights) of winter is a hallowed tradition stretching back centuries. The bitter, chill breath of death always felt that little bit closer in times of old, creating conditions that were perfect for imaginations to run amok what what might be waiting beyond the grave.