in her father’s and her mother’s house
(for Saint Patrick’s Day)
Brigid
told her father
about faith
and made a cross of straw
to make her point
that Christ
and faith in Christ
is made of
ordinary things
even life in the spirit
even faith
because the spirit
has been with us
since creation
and was
the cause
of creation
and he believed
and made a kingdom
of it
which might
not seem fair
since
everyone should make up
their own minds
so as
to understand the stakes
and that
the stakes are high
in choosing
one way
or another
which is why
conversion by
a literal sword
let alone doctrinal
isn’t the
best strategy
and
in fact
far from it
believe or not
one by one
and two
and then whatever
however
a family is defined
as in
as for me
and my house
because the house
believes
and then
a group
a temple community
or in said houses
where the faithful
used to meet
at first
you know
where people lived
wherever
sometimes while
persecuted generally
and so to meet
in a hiding
of some sort
with symbols on the outside
exchanged
in a kind
of code
and so Brigid
took her chances
even
with her father
since rule was absolute
back then
and it all could have gone
another way
but she was
and is
connected to the ages
and the land
and maybe she knew
how everything should
fit
and how a cross
of straw
might seem
to teach it all
like bread
and wine
and other things
(straw
a shamrock)
might have an added
use
for spiritual matters
worship
or evangelism
so Christ be with you
in every way
the breastplate indicates
and the faith
as Brigid knew
the cause of Christ
but only
one by one
and then two
and then the group
of however many
is defined
first as family
then a wider
(not political)
community
c l couch
photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash
‘Til the End of Time
(Ireland forever, as it’s said)
My, it’s a grim day outside
There may have been fog
That is yet lifting
All I see is white and gray
It’s unsettling, first thing
To look outside
Today’s the day for green and
Orange
Remembering all the snakes
Driven out of Éire without
Wondering where they went
Well, Guinness is dark
And celebratory
So despite the virus going ‘round
I should perk up a peg or two
Remember the McAnallys
Look for some colors, since
The Irish own the rainbow
If not the gold where
The magic arc
Must someday land
All are Irish? I don’t think so
But all are welcome
Into the saint’s day
A saint who wasn’t Irish, either
But came to own the land
In spiritual ways
Who is remembered for all
Intents and purposes
As a native
Might we remembered, too,
For something spiritual
And native
Created beings of earth and air
C L Couch
Photo by Wynand van Poortvliet on Unsplash
Banshee
She calls death one at a time
And only she can do this
How many of her kind
Might number all the realms
She does not know
She cannot
The grammar is of one, no
More
No more can exist at a
Time
There is no plural here, for only she
Can split the night
A responsibility of one, and then
Not even that
She folds into time until
Her nature is invoked again
To rend the cloth
To terrify even the somber parts
Of night
Dawn becomes mortality
All this is hers
C L Couch
Free for commercial use
No attribution required
(Pixabay)

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