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Three, One, Three Again

(x = space)

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sorry, long

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Three, One, Three Again

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Creator, savior, guide

Maybe I understand the trinity

Maybe not

They are lively

And immediate

They are at work all the time

And understand rest

They commend a sabbath

And the days on either side

They are all efficiency

And all love

We have access to them

And, as teachers and advisors

Not to mention

God,

They nudge us

All the time

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What kind of commanders

Legions at their call

They give us time

And patience

Before anything like

A final battle

Victory assured

I mean in this moment

We wait and wait and wait

Or, worse, deny

While they withhold rejection

Until the moment

Past the moment

Before judgment

Should decide

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They give us time

Keeping everything at bay,

Which is love

All love

Splicing revelation

Tailoring salvation

For each one

Each encounter

How wondrously and thunderously

Special

What kind of God

What parts of God

Can do this

And then do it

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Hear, O Israel

And all other nations,

Catch them in the human heart

Live as one

Each one as all

Repair the ruin of the Earth

There is so much faith

And good work to do

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They are mild

They are also Armageddon

What kind of love

What kind of God

Three then one

Then three again

They live in constant relationship

So should we

Within the parts

Of ourselves,

Each one

And then

Altogether

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More than one in one

We can have that, too:

Remember might

Remember love

Both mingled in each moment

Quicksilver

And slow water

Everything that moves

And tries to rest

They show us the way

To give us something every day

Then just after our last day

After work

And battling

And sabbathing

To lead us home

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C L Couch

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Maybe it’s not my tradition, but I mean to be respectful of the Shema.

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Temple of Edfu, Egypt

Photo by Jeremy Zero on Unsplash

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Signed, Shakespeare

(x = space)

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Signed, Shakespeare

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It never happened

Maybe for some real estate

Or for companion ownership

In buildings,

In a theatre

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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

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For who would want them

When the players

And producers

Are all done with them

And we’ve moved on

In the production season?

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So who was he

Or she?

Shakespeare was

As in existence

And we fight over that

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What’s in an origin?

Ask mothers: they can

Tell you

In love and in labor,

There is a person

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We have the plays as progeny

Thirty-eight or thirty-nine

And all the poetry

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Was the name a pun—with a

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

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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

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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

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Maybe there will be oranges

To eat

Because they do not rhyme

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C L Couch

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Photo by Mathew MacQuarrie on Unsplash

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