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Advent at 1806 President Drive

Advent at 1806 President Drive

(Advent, maybe anytime)

 

I don’t know the count

Of Advent, anymore

I’m tired

And the days don’t match the dates

This is why we have the calendars,

I guess

Except they count out December

Their Advents always twenty-five

 

Ours had images

Years later I found out about the chocolate

But, you know,

I rather like the pictures

(there was chocolate, anyway

and cookies, cookies, cookies)

The last portrait was Santa

In a kind of glory of arrival

And within the dates somewhere

There was the holy family

 

Hey, we got these at the mall

They taught us anticipation

Maybe not well

(considering the clientele)

But with persistence

 

Each day was in a tiny box

With perforated shutters

I think the five of us took turns

In trying to pierce

And leave the day intact

 

Hard for impatience

The season’s and the child’s

But we made it

Our little house inside

The bigger house,

Our fortunes read each day

For Christmas

Yes, it was suburban

There were snow days, too

Chains on the tires of the family car

Fluffed, cottony bunting

On which my mother placed

Plastic sleigh, plastic reindeer, plastic Santa

I remember these fondly

All atop

The console of

Our first color television

 

Oh, my

 

C L Couch

 

 

Gellinger / 3272 images

https://pixabay.com/en/advent-calendar-christmas-2941998/

 

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Night in a Small Town in Western Asia

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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Pink Sunday

Pink Sunday

(Advent, anytime)

 

I’m not sure anymore

I first heard it was for Mary

Then for shepherds

Then for joy

That names the whole season

Third Sunday in this Christian season

Hanukkah is replete and resolved

Ramadan is far off

Kwanzaa near off

Diwali happened in colors that were glory

And Holi, even more color-resplendent, not so far past

For all the other days in

Commemorations,

There are all our calendars

We respect them parochially

By denomination, other division

 

We have a single clock, I guess

The one that keeps mean time

That is also Greenwich

 

Did you know

(I learned this recently) that

The first official mark of the equator

Got it wrong?

There is now a smaller one in Quito

That is more accurate

We do know that leap day

Doesn’t fill in the gap quite right

In earthly Gregorian days

And so the clock, atomically, must

Adjust for that,

Now and then

A second here, a nanosecond there

 

The notion of fill-in time is a relief

Because in it we say

That perfection yet again is an illusion

This side of the divine

Even when our clocks are right,

A change of shape in Earth

Or slippage in the sun’s relationship

And what is set is no longer

Set

And that has to be all right

 

It is

We can rest

(we have to)

Knowing

That precision is a neighborly matter

A finite issue with a ragged edge

As most countable measures behave

 

Not to say we shouldn’t strive for accuracy

We must

But even when we design bridges and

All crucial material constructions

We design from a foundation

Of a transcendental number from an

Unresolved equation

 

So nothing solved for keeps

For something squeezes over here

And crevasses over there

We have to fix it

 

Otherwise, we sit once again

At the feet of Ozymandias,

And the feet are clay

 

This is not bad news

For some design, some build, some fix

So we have a village

With the cities and oases on the plains

 

That is joy

That is pink

That is Advent already here

And like the faultless gerund

Always on the move

 

C L Couch

 

 

<a href=”https://www.freepik.com/free-photos-vectors/background”>Background image created by Freepik</a>

 

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Inking

Inking

(Advent, anytime)

 

I’m tired, and it’s raining

Rainy days are interesting

I like them

As long as they don’t go too far

The sun holds back, because

The clouds have asked them to

And far below, we dodge

The drops or surrender

To umbrella lids, rubber shoulders,

Or wet heads

It drops like verse upon the page

And we are drenched, then, in another way

Which is all right, I hope

One can’t catch cold from rained upon with words

 

I’m trusting

Virus has become interchangeable

Maybe colds can jump forms, too,

And meanings

 

There was a word made flesh

We killed that flesh, but

It walked among us whole (wholer),

At last

Then went away

To return another time

We fear that time and market it

It will come, anyway

And is said to be a glory

 

Let’s not fear our words so much, then

For like the word that died and

Will return

That is with us now

There is inherent resurrection quality

(aspect and excellence)

In what we can say,

In what we like to think

Especially in a season of hope

 

What might be heard

Might change us

In needful and saving ways

On rainy days

Forever

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Caroline Grondin on Unsplash

 

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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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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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