verse (and prose) poems that could be sermons for tomorrow
1
no more than we can handle
is that in Scripture
don’t be anxious
do not worry over things you don’t
worry over
anyway
such as the numbers of small
nearly
might as well be
microscopic things
sands in
by the sea
the smallest and the largest love
of God
even that we try to emulate
then for the things we can and should
do
well
do them
pray
and live life in prayer
not autonomically
only a series of reflexes and right words
but
truly
as if truth matters as an old friend
as well as a new guide
care is not
indifference
nor is it fretting to become an occupation
for
Mary and Martha both got it right
though spending time at the foot of God
should set the tone and be the reason
why
everything else gets done
as for worry
well
some of it’s escapable
and we are human
there is the fear of the unknown
and what
to do when we feel we must do something
yet
if we could slip some worry as a piece
of paper
or a candy
into the pocket of whatever God is wearing
then
even the worry
needed
not needed
should go better
what is the old song
we tend to sing in a tired way
take it
to the Lord in prayer
and then
as in other antheming
so
march on
even
ride on
in majesty
but it’s
so much homelier than this
go to God
expect and answer
and
some timing
then do everything there is to do
that’s
ours to do
even a little more
like the persecuted follower
and never
think we have to move
without help
because for all the isolation we might feel
or
how tired
emptied out we might become
there is presence
and assistance
as of
the grace and majesty of angels
while
sometimes
seeming more than angels
it’s us
with the help of agencies
and God
2
so the Bible might not say we are given more than we can handle, since sacrifice in service might lead to giving up one’s life (harsh, I know) but that God is with us in our struggles, always inspiring, sometimes more directly helping as with miracles and always with grace (the free offer of God’s love and salvation through the death and resurrection of Jesus)
so we worry, though we don’t have to or, in franker reality, don’t have to so much; not that loving mindlessly—any more than doing in that way—is called for; it’s our hearts and minds that should be turned toward God and in the love of God (those two commandments) to each other
my eyes hurt and my nose hurts
I feel isolated
put upon
by the world’s lies
and sometimes by my own
it’s not enough
simply to say
we got it wrong because we’re human
then learn
nothing then go on
we should not excuse ourselves
so easily
though we should look toward
reliving others of supernal responsibility
even worked out as
the small things of the day
we have to love each other
otherwise
it’s enmity
indifference
or shoddy showing of regard
because
we’re supposed to
though we want
to get out of service
as quickly as possible
not that
leaving for a while
to wander the hills
or the Hundred Acre Wood
is not
desirable
since such wandering’s preferred
and might be called for
to walk about
and also be alone
then
to be with each other
it’s like the mother who said
to Christopher
her boy
don’t walk with me
but be here
when I return
and greet me as if I had been gone
a long
long while
so love
when necessary
learn to live without even
what we’re sure we must have
to do it
like the stump at the end of the story
the tree is useful
honestly
I feel so alone as I write
maybe you’ll come to see me
we’ll see each other
better
than with eyes
with awareness of each other’s terms
practically
and sentimentally
of each other’s love
with the guidance of the source
who speaks to us like mountains
or like
sparrows
knowing God loves you
then
and so do I
c l couch
some sources cited
1 Corinthians 10:13
Matthew 10:29-31
Psalm 16:11
Exodus 33:14
a few old hymns
The Enchanted Places by Christopher Milne
The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
photo by P A on Unsplash
(x = space)
x
x
The Bridge to Thursday
(Holy Week)
x
It is the middle of Holy Week
Who’s noticing
Who cares
Those huddled in churches
Mouthing with the pastor
Liturgies and litanies
All the holy words
And since it’s near enough
To Lent, there might be no
Communion,
Even practicing for Easter
x
Some of the fun churches
(there are those)
Will bless baskets on Saturday;
All sorts of folk with
All sorts of baskets
Containing elements for
Sunday dinner
Will be there
x
On the Friday before,
There will veneration
While on Thursday
An official working out
Of some kind
For the Last Supper
And the “maundy” part
Of Maundy Thursday
A command (mandatum)
To love one another,
Good reminder
For starting out the Triduum—
Or the rest
Of one’s
Of a church’s life
x
But today is Wednesday
Nothing to see here
Or hear or taste or touch
No smell of
Incense, either
Wednesday doesn’t rate
Another hump day
In the USA,
Anywhere else that arches
The week that way
x
Calm before the storm?
Hardly
There are storms, here and there
As happen
(one is brewing
outside the window),
There are the hungry
Who need big pieces of baked bread
And safe water
And more-real food
In order to sit up
Straight in church
For the coming days
x
Feed the children
Feed each other
This would make a Wednesday, a
Holy Wednesday in a holy week
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by yvo bergers on Unsplash
x
(x = space)
x
x
Imposition of Immortality
x
The tree outside looked as if it were leaning toward the window. I mean big parts, think branches and the bow. Black against a gray sky, it all looked dramatic. Worse, a little scary. Trees have fallen down before. In the back, a large one, bringing many wires with it. In the backyard of the house I grew up in in Pittsburgh, a tall and wide willow. Fell in the night, covering the backyard to be seen in the daylight. The first big thing to fall in my nascent awareness. Will the new tree fall? I don’t know. Who does? The squirrels and dogs walked by? Qué será, será, the Spanish say (and Doris Day). It is what it is, we say these days. All we are is dust in the wind. I guess that goes for imposing trees as well.
x
C L Couch
x
x
Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
x
Photo by Diane Helentjaris on Unsplash
Old carved tombstone of a weeping willow tree in a cemetery in the countryside near Purcellville, Virginia in Loudoun County. The cemetery was integrated with the graves of African American and white Americans as was the nearby church.
x
Life in Fiction
I can’t recommend it
Though I’ve tried it
There are dangers
You can enumerate as well
As I
But we can incorporate
We like our heroes, after all
And want to have them with us
Better yet, inside us
Or the ingenue
The clever mentor
Master-mistress of arms
Or the crafty villain
Who may or may not repent
There are heroes in reality
To emulate
Such as the Ganders in Newfoundland
On 9/11
But sometimes exaggeration helps,
Which is what we get in stories
Sometimes in poems
Certainly in sagas
C L Couch
Gregory Peck publicity photo for the film To Kill a Mockingbird, 1962
Universal Pictures – eBay, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=67270089
The Day the World Came to Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland by Jim DeFede
Where Is Davy Jones and the Daydream Believer
The news today is bearing down, pulling at me, down. Police shot and killed a man in a church parking lot in York (county if not the city). The man had numerous parking violations (tickets?) and tried to take his car and run down cops. They shot and killed him. Of course, they did. They had to have. It’s not the police; it’s the merger of everything: church (a Church of the Nazarene), a winter’s night, a man who thought his car should be a weapon, police doing what they must be even in an ancient sanctuary spot. And all I’ve read and heard preceding this. Too much. Too many excesses. Too many opposites that are supposed to merge but don’t. Where is life in, where is the lifestyle in this.
C L Couch
http://www.wgal.com/article/police-incident-closes-part-of-susquehanna-trail-in-york-county/14768424
Valentine’s is Tuesday. A day whose origin is in sacrifice and martyrdom. In the pesky chapter of Ephesians, it’s how the role of husbands in marriage is described. Like the role of Jesus to the church, his bride and for whom he gave his life. The saint exchanged messages of love from his prison cell with his followers outside. (Who knows but someone might have been in jail with him.) Red is not for romance but for the color of the final cause. Enjoy the greeting cards—I will—and chocolate. And flowers for an augur of spring in the north. But there are higher things to think of, among them how we love this day. And to the next.
C L Couch
One One September
It’s September, soon enough becomes September eleven nine-One-One used in mockery of our emergency-numeral series one plane crashes in my state; I’ve been driving by the site as it’s reclaimed
Remember, remember, eleven September—maybe we’ll be Singing that someday; not yet for the hurt only begins in telling launched a war already waged elsewhere: rightly or wrongly, it’s mattered in a vital way since then—we know the cost of some complacency, and maybe one day we’ll move on toward waging peace that has been paid for in a cost of surprise and blood broken bone and steel, symbolic of a need to fix our raging planet
Psalm 29
a song wanting simplicity
Innocence or stupidity, I want a simple life. I want my books and films. I want to write. I want a few nice things to wear. I’d like to keep my health in check. I’d like to be able to get around, not in an extravagant way. I’d like to quiet my ego by layering it over with love. I’d like a loving life. I’d like a faithful life. I’d like a life in which the Spirit guides me, even if that might ruin all the rest. Sigh, I’d like to follow God.
My Own Valentine
(prose poem)
My own little Valentine celebration. I guess we celebrate feast days, though these are the days in which the saints have died. Martyrdom—we celebrate? Well, I bought little round pink plates with small square napkins to match. I am drinking coffee with little croissants on one of those pink plates, dabbing with a small square napkin. Watching the pope visit Mexico.
Where is love? Is it there? Is it here? Is it intertwined through both places and all other places? And the people? Are we bound in red silken ties of love? Free to move yet tied so that, when we might fall, others are there gently (remember, silk) to pull us up and on.
Quizás.
Goodness, the president of Mexico is good-looking. He speaks of “a better community” (translated), “a better society.” A better world, I imagine. Why not? Here’s a chance to speak of objectives and ideals in a country toward which too many look askance.
Quizás.
clcouch123 
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