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2 poems about Epiphany

(x = space)

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2 poems about Epiphany (small e, large E) or the epiphanous

Here are two poems about this date, religiously and globally.  It is Orthodox Christmas, however (and Happy Christmas!), with Orthodox Epiphany twelve days from today.

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Epiphanies

(track the Es)

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Merry Christmas

To the Orthodox

Though it is Epiphany

For the west

And west of east

Epiphany is day for

Discovery

In class we might be taught

That epiphany small-e

Denotes a moment when

Things come together

And we realize

Something grand

About life

And living

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The catalyst isn’t something

Well-known

It’s not the wedding day

Or the trip to Disneyland

Not even

Hiking to the peak

It is washing dishes

Playing with children

(don’t let the moment

get you struck

with a game ball)

Beholding the postal carrier

Who knows

Something for

Each one of us

What we realize

Is that

Life is this

And shall not be the same

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For an example

You might have missed

In school,

Stephen Daedalus

In Portrait

Espies a woman by the water

No one he knows

And will not see again

Yet he discovers

Realizes

How the world is

And his part to play

While she is not Arthurian

And Excalibur

Is not presented from the water

The scene is ordinary;

No one else could

Tell

And we know

Because we have the story

Only here

Not worthy in a ledger

Or a history

Or an age

Or of a people

x

It might be

That each of an

Arthur

Or a king

Between genders

All of us

And one by one

But that is an essay

To argue a metaphor

For an assignment

As Arthur learns a destiny

For Camelot

So we discover

What we have

In a realm of one

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Could this be

A partnered thing?

Modernism

Would say no

But now that we are post-,

Why not?

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Epiphany large-E

Means discovery

As the Magi come upon

The child Jesus,

Understanding all the prophecy

That hinted in a star

And in old narratives

That someone

Would be here

To change the world

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There is another such

(same day)

Recalling Jesus with

His cousin John

And baptism by the Jordan

Jesus is grown now

And insists

His cousin dedicate

Jesus with water;

John demurs,

But Jesus shall have it in

No other way

And when the water pours

The sky opens

There is a dove descending

And a voice to hear

Announcing

And approving

Jesus to God

And back to Earth

This is the discovery

(large E)

For him

The prophet

And the human world

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For us beholding

Realizing

Changing us

Perhaps

However evangelism

Falls

Like a descending dove

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The Patrick’s Day Party

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Today is the sixth

Of January,

A date that could live

In infamy

But won’t

The government is stable

Except for Republicans

And Democrats

Who decided that

Polemics is the better

Form

Of politics

Shall there be a conservative

Democrat?

Shall there be

A liberal Republican?

By no means

Not here

Not now

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Perhaps it’s time

For other parties

Our parent founders

Did not have in mind

Only two

We could bring back Whigs

I don’t know

What Whigs are

I still imagine them

In wigs

Of a past design

The Know-Nothing party

Is too on-the-nose

For how things

Go today

The Federalists?

The Loyalists?

The New-Year’s-Eve?

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I’d go for the

Saint Patrick’s Party

We could all wear green

To treat each other

And our planet green with

Sainthood

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C L Couch

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Photo by Malcolm Lightbody on Unsplash

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2 poems about ecumenicity

(x = space)

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2 poems about ecumenicity

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Many Things to Make

(nothing like a rant but a ramble)

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And there are other great traditions, too,

About which I know next

To nothing

Remembering the Gulf War when

Some of us felt ecumenical

And took part in gatherings of Christians,

Jews, and Muslims

Where I got to hear the testimonies

Of the followers of each

And who they were as persons

And believers

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There was a young woman

Of Islam

Who articulately smoothly,

Even beautifully

That who knew her better than her parents

With regard for her

And so who better to arrange

A marriage for her?

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And I was convinced

And I disagree

And there was beauty in the

Disagreement, too

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Doubting that we changed much

Of anything—there

Was still a war, and our young

People left to fight—but

In the moments

Of these hours

There were the points of light

The President then

Had been asking for

Inside the nation

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There is so much more

To learn

About my neighbors

In the nation

And the world:

Who are the believers?

What do they believe?

What is the story of their faith?

Might they respect

The disagreements, too,

So that our world

Has a chance

To survive

To prosper

To believe

So that with integrity

We might reach for another world,

Too?

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Pray the world lasts

Until we meet upon Megiddo

Not to fight

But have a meal,

Exchange apocalypse in faithful terms

And human

For a conclave

And a celebration

Of each other

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Reasonably

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Most of us believe

And there are those who don’t

Though binary’s not enough

There must be more

Than defining one thing

By its opposite

Humanists

Secularists

Unitarians

People of the Renaissance

Who gave science a category

Near faith

Without faith

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Objectivists

Phenomenologists

People of reason

Rationality

Naturalism

Modernism

Fitter for post-modernism

Than the rest of us

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Who could lead the way, in fact,

In appreciating

Difference

And diversity,

The creative celebration

Of the mind

And the experiment

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Sorry I must

Define these as an

Other

But they must be

Welcome at the table

They could welcome us

We could invite each other

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coda

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Yes, which is not to say

Believers are irrational

Some are

Some want to be

And there are those who keep

Their faith as

Something in the wild

Those who lost at Whitby

But kept the Celtic

Style and ritual

Below

And now in daylight

Seek in celebration

Understanding for the rest of us

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But faith has reason;

Might we say

That reason is creation

By creator?

Say no

Say yes

But allow for some very smart people

To believe

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No one has to change

Except in violent intent

It should be an instinct to

Understand oneself

When understanding others

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Keeping in mind

With hopefulness

That the one requested

Will in turn

Turn toward you to say

And what is your story?

Delightfully,

Be ready

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C L Couch

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I was writing before dawn and thinking about the seasons that are upon us now, wonderful times—and that in the spirit of this or that we might serve each other not only better but also for the first time, the stakes being, well, everything

now it’s dawn

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by M. Garlick/University of Warwick/ESO – http://www.eso.org/public/images/eso1627a/, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=99645426

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two poems for Thanksgiving

(x = space)

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two poems for Thanksgiving

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The Godmother

(Sarah Josepha Buell Hale and Thanksgiving)

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In the USA

Other nations have

Their days

It was Hale

An editor

Who lobbied

Above Washington’s

Claim as a foundation

That

The nation needed

Officially

Thanksgiving

Hale wrote to Lincoln

Other Presidents

Before

That this day was

Needed for a nation

Even in the

Horrible paradox of war

To say thank you

To whomever we should

Be saying thank you

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Lincoln conceded

Gave a proclamation

That would not be set

For many years

Long after Hale’s

Life on Earth

Was done

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A first Republican

Then a long-serving Democrat

(who liked new deals)

Sealed the deal

And so we have it

Fourth Thursday

In the ninth Roman month,

November

To you and me

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The Day We Have

(on Thanksgiving)

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Football and turkey

Then more football

Stuffing and cranberries

Maybe ham

Or roast beef

Or sandwiches from

The many places

Selling sandwiches

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I suppose there will be

Beer and wine

(beer before wine is fine)

Water

Juice

Soft drinks

People ‘round the table

Between quarters

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If turkey,

Then turkey sandwiches

(little mayo,

cranberry sauce)

Before the day is done

With

More sustenance

Kept inside the box

For tomorrow

And tomorrow and tomorrow

Since there’s too much

Lucky us

Who have too much

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C L Couch

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Photo by Morvanic Lee on Unsplash

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Thank you!

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courage

(x = space)

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courage

(compash)

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the brave leaves

are in fact

leaving;

the wind has done its work

there is inescapability

in the season passing

if I wrote useless things

upon electronic leaves

perhaps my season

will be passing, too

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it is a pledge, I guess

the old word tontine

a formal offering

to work

to put down

to express

to depict

to make my painting here,

unfit for a museum

maybe for local work

the verses in the subway

a slogan on a placard

should I reach

and arrive so far

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like glory in the sky

parochial sky

parochial of one

should I hear myself

out there

constructively

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c l couch

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photo by jeremy bishop on unsplash

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haiku (3) after Hallowtide

(x = space)

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haiku (3) after Hallowtide

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seasons ending in

new seasons beginning to

take hold then let go

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red leaves like children

bright and shiny always changing

into something else

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evergreen until

needles wither due to lack

of water and air

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C L Couch

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Red of Fall

Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash

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two poems for young people

(x = space)

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two poems for young people

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Youth

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They (you) look so young

Not like those near altars

Of antiquity

Who are forever beautiful

But cannot move

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These might be cared for carefully

That youth might be preserved

Youth cannot be preserved

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Youth might invest their own

(your own)

So that the coming days

Are rich

With age and wisdom,

Maybe things put by

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But (you) run without avarice

Or even long ambition

Become parts of a transitory mural

That is bright

All colors

Shapes

At least three dimensions,

Which will have no museum

Save in memory

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Locksmithing

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Who holds the keys?

Why are there keys?

Why are their locks?

What is kept?

What must be freed

Up with which

From being locked?

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Behind the door

Once opened

Nothing might be withheld

But secrets of the arrogance

The avarice in

Withholding

Private parties

Boring,

Frightening without joy

From the absconded powerful

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There might be secrets

For the young to own

(they, you

should have mentors)

If taught or teach themselves

(yourselves)

How to

Break out

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This is the story

Of the end of age’s

Generation

The beginning of another

An ownership

That could calcify

So-called in privilege

Or turn around

Turn everything around

Toward all the growth

In revelation

And unwithheld resources

For life

With invention

Food, that is, and challenge

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Keeping democracy

(boo say some, but)

We need it

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C L Couch

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Burned Out at the Salton Sea

Photo by Tina Rataj-Berard on Unsplash

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Floods, Swords (two poems)

(x = space)

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Floods, Swords (two poems)

could read the second of them while waiting on the first

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Consider Extra Floods

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Jackson

And Jacksonville

Puerto Rico

Cuba

Indonesia

Pakistan

Recently, in Europe

Maybe here on Friday

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The Earth warms

The polar shelves

Send sheets of ice

Into the ocean

Water rises

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Storms increase

Maybe we should

Appreciate complaint

From our own

Planet

From the core to the skies

And those of us

All of us

On middle ground

Between the hell and heaven

Spirituality

Counting its own cost

In faith and lives

Of our own globe

In a waiting cosmos

x

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Consider Broken Swords

(Lord of the Rings)

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Sting was never fixed,

Which would have been bad

For marketing

Though reminding

If not teaching

Us quite rightly

For the story

That the sharpest swords

Don’t have to win the day

And brokenness and heroes

Go together

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The famous sword

The one that sang for Aragorn

Is fixed by Elven smiths

And ready for the final fights

In Rohan

Osgiliath

Minas Tirith

At the Black Gate

At last

These are the heroes whom we know

The king revealed

Wanderer and healer

The sword

That has a greater name

With supernal persona

Magic

In personality,

In character

As it were

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But Sting

Is in a box

In Rivendell

Until it’s brought out

For a hobbit’s use

An unknown being

Anonymity its armor

(which had served the king

for a time)

They would sting another spider

Fill with poison

Topping off the stinging burden

Of an eldritch thing

And promises

Nothing healing

‘Til the mountainside

And going in

To face the fire

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Goodness, there are heroes

There are lives

That serve the world

That sacrifice all pleasures

And promises

To take on one great evil

In front of armies

On one’s own

Inside mountains

At the gate

Of hell on Earth

Of hell on Middle-Earth

For all of us, between

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The small sword

Is character as well

Four heroes, as it were,

Famous

On the surface

Or unfamous,

Inside holes for homes

Then mines and caves

Tunnels without songs

Until at home again

To rest

When things are done

Awaiting passage to

A healing land

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Five heroes

Add two more

Then seven

Then many more

And villainous

And in-between corrupt

Great wars to settle things

The hobbits home at last

We close the books

So are we

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C L Couch

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Photo by Octavian Dan on Unsplash

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poems about early life

(x = space)

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poems about early life

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around the green S chair

(Rick and me)

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there was an S chair

green, upholstered

with that kind of hard,

bumpy brocade that was

uncomfortable

kept in the basement

and there were other things

as basements tend to have

and around the chair

and through the other things

there was an oval

made that we would run,

my older brother and I,

while the Three Stooges

ran on television

and we ran in opposite directions

to each other, and when

we passed each other

we would whoop in high-pitched

voices like the

Stooges whom we thought

must be having fun

in black and white

as we were

around the green S chair

and everything else

pushed to one or the other

in the basement

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a child’s Sunday night

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everything was difficult

except sometimes on Sunday night

when we were downstairs

after baths or showers

pajamaed, robed

slippers over wrinkly toes

the TV set warmed up

Disney about to start

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the younger ones on Friday night

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on Friday nights

we often would

gather ‘round the kitchen table

with popcorn

and malted, chocolate candy

playing The Game of Life

sometimes Careers

we were taught Rook

the Southern person’s bridge

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we played many games

and were okay

as long as my dad was winning

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I never sang for my father

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my dad took it on himself

to ridicule me

so that he might look bigger

somehow

whatever is in the mind

of the bully

I don’t know if that worked

inside

for him

while inside of me

as you might expect

there was resentment

and it grew

I had to win

and when I did,

I no longer cared

there was next to nothing there

and in the nothing

no relationships

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C L Couch

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I Never Sang for My Father is the name of a play and a film.

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Photo by Amanda Jones on Unsplash

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2

two poems for July

(x = space)

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two poems for July

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Watch Your Dogs

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Dogs don’t like fireworks

Many veterans don’t

All kinds of people

Be with them

Sit with them

Support K-9 programs

Support people

Not everyone likes fireworks

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Photo by Yuki Dog on Unsplash

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Hello, July

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Hello, July

It’s hot and humid here

Not much more to say

But, well

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There’s a lot of green

And other colors, too

Not like fall

But everything that lives

Does fly and otherwise

Visit us a season

As if

Forever’s come to call on

Bees and butterflies

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The fireflies

Still have a season

Though, like strawberries,

They flourish in June

Around here

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Storms appear and fall

Blow things around

Hot and wet fronts bumping

Around

Generally, we say

We need the water

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Flavor of Hibiscus

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Flavor of Hibiscus

Photo by Michael Dziedzic on Unsplash

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C L Couch

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