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A New God

A New God

 

We hear

There is a new God in the world

And we’ve been told it’s jealous

Human words testify,

But there is supposed to be citation

This God promises to mete another kind of

Justice

 

The older things will happen, finally

Fire and damnation

Things you already know

But there is something first,

Something deserving awe for being new

To terrify the agenda-holders who believe

They have it all, and it is right to

Want the rest

 

Before their destruction, there is a surprise

Offered quietly, persistently, even with fragility

It is love

Obviating Armageddon

For a time

 

The merest wish for this

And it will offer to take charge

At least to guide

Sublimate all misdirected sense of

Dignity in righteousness

(though dignity itself is good)

To make, in fact, the person whole

Gently bring one to the altar

There to cry the truth

Then to reach for something better,

As it’s offered

All the time

Rather freely

 

The who have arrived in faith already

Know already about this

Try to live, fall, live again

An uneven, promising, frustrating

Celebratory kind of life

Whose delight in giving will give out

Just in time for paradise

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

 

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Dear Santa Claus,

Dear Santa Claus,

(not a child’s letter)

 

I believe in you

All the yous

We’ve owned some magic

From the original story

Though I try to keep

The faith from that one,

Too

We wish, don’t we?

We wish like another saint

That all be well

She has more faith than I,

Claiming that

“All shall be well”

But I have hope

I don’t have much to ask

This year except for

Reading glasses, extra-large socks

(they feel better)

Maybe, maybe a new winter

Coat—in these parts, it does get cold

Wait, how boring is my list?

Each day bears its own need for wishes

I can take part in these

If my list should go beyond

Then

I can ask for love, romantic and

Erotic (yes, at my age)

Though really

The kind that keeps

Not only on a shelf (in case I should

apologize for all the elves)

But on both sides

Of the doors

Of the human hearts

Involved

So I’ll close, dear Santa Claus

Thanking you for Sandy Paws

And all the softer

And the harder things that

I must keep for Christmas

Trying for year-‘round

With love

And respect,

Robin

 

C L Couch

 

A Note on Names

 

Robin

Is a nickname

For Christopher,

Hood, or Goodfellow

I’d choose Topper second

But neither name of these names counts

The rules say nicknames

Can’t be self-selected

(though Lewis somehow decided on

“Jack” and got to keep it),

Rather gained, for better or worse,

At home or on the playground

By good fellows

(male and female)

 

Or maybe, maybe in a hundred-acre wood

When we were

Very young

 

teddy bear slippers

Image by TanteTati from Pixabay

 

(image above) Vincent Guth on Unsplash

Mývatn, Iceland

Iceland lake, Northern Lights

 

10

Beforenoon

Beforenoon

 

After coffee

From a broken mug

(I broke the handle yesterday)

After texts

With my sister

(if the car is totaled, remove

the EZ Pass transponder, please)

After sleep

Broken like the mug

After anthropomorphizing

The computer

(the broken cup)

And everything

 

I have this

A modicum of time

To choose an ignorance of

A pressing world

Freedom that’s a cheat

A conceit

Is this the will that’s free?

 

I think it should be better,

More aware

Not through lidded eyes

Or lidded heart

Or half-closed anything

 

A mind in fact that tries to trap—

I can say wall—

Unpleasant things away

 

Discretion

Might be valor on an open field

Before a battle

Honor, claims Falstaff

Is a body slain

But

 

Fair fat fool

(how I can relate)

What help providence?

 

A friend in inner mischief

Pushing distractions off

The field or a working table,

Even real and less-real things

 

So that we might go through it

Later,

Say,

After polishing the lenses

Until clarity

Becomes our friend again

 

A presence

Help us look not needing eyes

For everything inside,

Once ready

 

For everything inside,

We take chances

 

C L Couch

 

 

Image by Republica from Pixabay

 

 

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Proof for Faith, There Isn’t Any

Proof for Faith, There Isn’t Any

(then Quo vadis?)

 

Proof

You want proof

There isn’t any

Maybe in the nautilus

Contemplative-minded people

Seem to like the spiral

Turning and arching toward

Infinity

Lately, I’ve been looking at

Where the spiral’s going

When the photograph is stairs and not

A shell

Often, there’s a black space on

The image

Mystery, an unknown place of

Arrival, I imagine

Sometimes, the square is light

But also undefined

Then there are creative renderings

Steps made of windows,

Graphically

Sometimes of stained glass

Where are we going? all the frames

Of any kind seem

To say

 

Quo vadis?

I suppose there is in indication

Typically

We are traveling up

Though shift a little, maybe

Going down

Perhaps there is no depth or height

And we are moving in

Into something

On to something

Maybe something good

We don’t know

The final patch is indeterminate

The question, then, remains

Not of proof

But of starting

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Sven Read on Unsplash

Karlsplatz, München, Germany

This is a staircase in a public building in Munich, Germany. It looks quite amazing from the bottom.

 

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Reach

Reach

 

I’ve been drafting

I’ll try one more time to get it right

It’s not that I’m miffed

Far from it

(and how much would that matter)

I simply want to pierce a little

Just a little

A slice of shard

Of the dark glass

I don’t have a method, really

An art or a science

Theory of a skill

But I have a desire

Not to prove a staff can be a snake

A stone turned into bread

Angels dancing on a pin

(it’s not merely an exercise)

 

It’s not merely an exercise

I want enough

To tell another

That faith might be unseen

Unheard, untouched, and so on

But that it’s evidence enough

Understood, felt, guessed-at

So that we might

Talk about it

Or simply live

In having it

 

But here’s a thing:

The process is at best

A matter of unseeing

Untouching, untasting

That if, really, our senses

Could be quieted enough

(just some—I’m not recommending

deprivation tanks)

We might know

Through the intimacy of knowing

That our senses have

An ally

 

That we have an ally

It might be an angel or

A second guess

It might be real enough

For jazz or maybe

A hit toward the backfield wall

 

It isn’t only us

Not one by one

There’s something to cooperate

In us

That can reach out

And understand the other

Not so alien

I evangelize, excuse me

Take me or leave me

And I’ll understand

(either way)

 

You are beyond me

Yet there is something

Here

Call is a bond or simply

The pleasure of acquaintance

But if there is ineffability

To touch

(without hands)

Then there might be something

More

 

That’s all I’m saying

Now, I’ll listen

 

C L Couch

 

 

Image by Vytalis Arnoldus from Pixabay

 

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Christ for the Celts

Christ for the Celts

 

At Whitby, they were quieted

We were told to keep it Roman

None of that wildness in

Worship, thank you very much

No more statues with odd lumps

No more the branches and

The flowers and the bonfires

Stop the dancing, too

The music we don’t recognize

 

Romans one, Celts zero

 

The Celts respond

You say

But in a thousand years, you will

Be asleep

And it will turn out we’ve only been

Resting, waiting for the time

To waken and resume

The merging of our styles

And traditions

 

Sorry, Augustine

(first Canterbury)

We want to respect you

But we were hoping for a little back

Before the final gavel

So we’ve taken to the trees

Under earth and over skies

 

We believe

And we believe

Maybe you’ll find out how much

And how thoroughly

God and creation

Christ who bought us from the devil

The Spirit that transpires

 

Who is the better negotiator

And keeper

Of us all

 

C L Couch

 

 

Iron Age Castro culture triskele, reused in a barn. Airavella, Allariz, Galicia

José Antonio Gil Martínez from Vigo, Spain – Trisquel de AiravellaUploaded by Igrexas, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20104869

 

I saw the title Christ of the Celts (from my list) and thought for a moment it was Christ for the Celts.  I imagine Christ is for the Celts.

(Synod of Whitby in 664)

 

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Recollect

Recollect

 

Sometimes the spirit isn’t there

The pressure of zeitgeist,

Although, maintaining

Sometimes it’s just a mortal day

With bread that burns and

Coffee spills,

Liquid things that stain

It’s a day for paying money that

Might or might not exist

(such is the way of penury

to make us all impoverished

mischiefs), though we have to

Try something

 

But then

The spirit’s always there

Always here

God is inclined to stay

Underneath the window sill

Or in the corner where

We pushed the table

(insert a cartoon image)

Ready to intrude

But staying everything

For reason and for love

Until we scrape the bread

And remember that in many places

Still

We can always raise the sash

Or make space in the corner

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Nadia Valko on Unsplash

 

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A Cycle of Faith

A Cycle of Faith

 

Seasons move

And then return

Though nothing stays the same

There is a year and then another, and

Each moment, each molecule is new

There is a cycle

But like the one on wheels

It covers new ground when it must

Or when we like

There is a degree of choice

Stay where we belong

That’s good in town

Strike out anew when we are away

And a wide, open road unreels

Beneath us

 

We believe

What we believe

Does it cycle like the year?

We have it, then we let it go

Like distractions of the seasons

We may like a

Philosophy at home

But then the alarm goes off

There’s smoke

And we run away

Smart move

 

What scared us away

Fear of fire, as it should frighten us

But when fire is a thought

Maybe we decide

 

When I was in school, I read philosophy

I read more now

Not to prevaricate, it isn’t all

The mind

The rest of us makes choices, too

Have you never felt it?

 

Pheromones, some might say

Or other such attraction

Call it a cause, even

Somewhere the heart must stir

It doesn’t have to be

Against the rest of us

 

There’s ritual:

That can get us far

It will not fill up all the years

It shouldn’t have to

All our lives can’t be spent in the temple

Unless that’s our job

And even so

Life outside is necessary

Air outside is different

When it moves

 

So there are factors

And ingredients

With the passing of time

Ineluctable

We choose

And we have faith

Or not

Don’t deny the power that’s in

Miracles or tragedy

Trauma of the ages

In our spirit

Tragedy through time

We think we’re the only one

And we are

Now we’re not

Here comes the sun

The rain on all of us

It’s all right

 

Do you marvel now

We can be moved?

It comes and goes

We need the respites in between

But does it grow

Like arches should we walk upon

An aqueduct in the other way

Toward the source of water

 

The spire grows, if on a side

The arches take us somewhere

Toward the origin

The start of creation, we might say

But the aqueduct’s not made for us

Ours goes the other way

The spire toward the future grows

 

And so the cycle breaks

Its rim cannot hold

We are better than our borders

And, like Aslan, should be

On the move

 

C L Couch

 

 

Luis Rogelio HM – Merida – 045, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=72766771

 

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Pillars of Hercules

Pillars of Hercules

 

Do you believe?

I do,

But you don’t have to

What is there to believe?

What is in front of us

How we feel inside

What that indicates

Things that happen that we see

And hear and taste

The ground we touch

Through shoes

The scents of spring

That time is passing by

 

What else,

Something beyond electrochemical

Ethereal, if not ineffable?

A child’s love

Our own attraction to so many things

When something good occurs

(say, Christmas morning)

Or something bad

(someone we knew

is no longer here)

 

Faith is the evidence of things unseen

Isn’t that a lark?

And if God is so good,

Why do so many bad things take place?

On these two points

So much atheism depends

(note I haven’t brought up evil yet)

I can understand:

How can we respect something

That isn’t there?

Yet I might ask,

What do we see when we are looking at

Nothing in particular?

Our eyes are open

Ears as well

Our fingers at the ready

Like the pianist’s prior to play

 

We are ready, and

What is really happening

When nothing’s happening?

Not convinced of the ethereal,

Not yet?

Give it time

That is more fluid than

We believe we know

Here endeth not a lesson

A suggestion, sure

 

C L Couch

 

 

View of Europa Point and the Rock of Gibraltar from the Strait of Gibraltar. Levante Cloud overhead.

Nol Aders – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4259571

 

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