venerated day
worship the creator now
when all days began
c l couch
photo by Jennie Razumnaya on Unsplash
(x = space)
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sorry, long
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Three, One, Three Again
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1
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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(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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clcouch123 
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