Last Winter Sun
The sun is wan today,
A last winter sun
Spring has been promised
Through the weather
Turns so far
And parochial nature
Will not disappoint
A tiding of her own
New days come forth
In warming days up north
Passion Play
1
Today we wave palms
Or not—some churches
Seem to wait—in an
Enactment, a kind of
Remembrance
Passion starts, a brief
Season of
Intimacy overthrown,
Though given first by
The hand of God through
Child, prophet, and
Teacher
One who was three
On Thursday, many
Christians will recall:
He names adherents
No longer only followers
But now as friends
Goes to prayer, Son of
Us, before taken away
2
Carried with will toward
Interrogation, torture
Final testimony that
Renders him seditious
To the crowd, numbered
Of all the world we
Knew
Beaten and burdened
With his means of execution
He is taken on the way
With escort disciplined
Through a mob that,
More and more, loses its
Human shape and
Recognition
We mock, refute, then
Pierce his skin to leave
Him, a criminal, dying
With due scorn upon an
Iron tree
3
We wave palms,
Festive and endearing,
A likable rite that we
Prepare
Later in the week we
Wrap his wounds in
Bearing our bound
Innocence into a tomb
Beside which stands
A stone door carved
With the world’s skill
Ready to be shut against
All consequence
Following Simplicity
Faith is not stupid
But it has to be gotten
(Be-gotten)
And owned by anyone
I can’t think of an
Authentic tradition
In the world of faith
That does not have
Its scholars
Faith is smart
With aspects of intelligence
That keep generations
Dealing in the finer
Points of interpretation
And practice
This work is nuanced
And important
But faith itself
Can be caught, cared
For, and grown
By anyone
For the blind can see
The deaf can hear
The lame can walk
The path can be traversed by
Whoever each is now
Whoever each is not
In fact, the less the better
To possess
On the way of faith
In Memoriam 17 March
I miss you, friend
I drank scotch (not Jameson’s)
At your wake
You always liked this day
When we celebrate the troubles
And pray through beer for
Peace—you are in heaven, now
While I remain on a
Purgatory of earth
I believe; and I hope to see
You someday, which is more
Of an Amish than an Irish
Thing to say
Be in peace and joy and all
Green in forever living
Lines
the headline is
Nigeria mosque targeted
in suicide bomb attack
the ones with bombs were
women, one woman
inside, one woman outside
to catch those fleeing
from the first
two Muslims targeting
their own, killing and
wounding many
like the group at the
Christian church in South
Carolina, studying the
Bible when one’s own
opened fire
and, like Bible study, the
faithful at the mosque
(outskirts of Maiduguri)
were worshiping in prayer
C L Couch
(source Al Jazeera on 16 March)
Uber Man
Nietzsche misapplied
He is insane certainly
Though for the dead
That is no excuse
Merging of A-I with
Devilry (all tragic kinds)
Mythos and job
Conditions
Mindset foundation
Made of broken parts
And images, like
Rock upheaval when
Nature breaks in anger
Or remorse upon the
Earth
The driving’s done
Next civil movements
Decide and, at the
Last, enact
Salve released into
Chasms
Human libation
Offered in the cup
Divine participation
Hoped
C L Couch
eccentric impoverishment
I believe in odd things
in the creeping things of scripture
in the texture of flower petals
that hold the elixir of hope
for nature
in that which doesn’t last but
really does
kind encounters with strangers
(kind when strangers encount-
with me)
joy in small things
joy even on a day that’s dim
with unlined sky
for creative impossibilities
the world doesn’t value the
arcane
things or my eccentric way of
loving them
so how am I to live
in response
I do not know is first
with fear closely behind
how do I live for real I mean
how does a world set so differently
(or I so differently to it) agree
and arrange to pay for who I am
and what I do and how
how do I find my way with
only colors in the corners
if I must direct myself toward
a blander needle point
but I need the life of hope in
creativity with the world
who salaries that
who pays me
for that artful amorphous
life
Lost World
A borough in
Western Pennsylvania
(towns are called
Boroughs) that
Died when steel died
And, unlike the city
Close by (that is only
Called a city),
There was no
Rising up,
No Easter-kind
Experience
Anything that might
Be beautiful is old
From the time
When beauty
Could be afforded
The bones of
Some buildings are
Strong, while
Others stand ready
To fall over
With a sigh
Children attend
A consolidated
School in the area,
Learning to
Leave already
The bar owner
Can’t afford it
But must have
The place
Open anyway
For where else
Can one
Drink hope
Persistence alone
Without substance
Keeps life
Psalm 32
a song when we are done
Lord, I’ve lost it all
Age and youth
Health and wealth
Whatever I possessed
Is no longer in my
Hands
I wagered life
And sometimes won
Gained much, gave it away
Squandered some
As we are likely to do
Here I am, and there
You are
We draw closer all the
Time
With all that
I no longer have
Do you still love me,
Lord?
The mystics’ reply is
Yes, always
Yes from the Lord
Recent Comments