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Truer than Stone Is True

Sometimes Agnostically Yours

(x = space)

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Sometimes Agnostically Yours

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God, what shall I pray

To you?

I’m sorry for my sins

And I mean that

I ask for forgiveness that

Frankly

I struggle in receiving

x

I ask for daily bread

That might be

Bread

Or

Something else

I need

Pretty much right now

x

And I shall wait

Probably

Pretty badly

While I wait

x

Since need often

Feels punished

And faith

Is much

From an invisible God

To wait for

x

And yet

Stones for bread

Is inhumane

And undivine

And so

I’ll try to anticipate

Exactly the right thing

Provided

x

Sorry

Thank you

Amen

x

C L Couch

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Matthew 6:9

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Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash

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Touchstones

Touchstones

 

I’m looking for

I’m always looking for

Something small and elegant

Like a Fabergé egg, perhaps

Or an egg-sized trilobite

The larger things

Belong in museums

Where we can see them safely

Mostly

Hoping crowds can keep themselves at bay

They can’t

 

I’ll take my palm-sized treasures

Though, like moon rocks, the Fabergé

Would be too much

I’ll take my fossils

Or a stone polished by water

Or the found things

I’ve made into tableaux

Enjoy retired moments

Before I go

Outside again

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Kunj Parekh on Unsplash

 

31 January 2016 (in the global north)

31 January 2016
(in the global north)

I still wake up with jittery feelings. The sun is bright. The snow is melting down. Maybe I need it gone. But is that the boundary of my fear? I sit and look outside to see the beauty. I am inspired to come back and write a verse of two. Still, fear jumps inside me. At least it doesn’t leap. I’ll feel better, once I write a bit. Drink a hot drink, maybe take a pill or two pills. I know that on a good day my heart still operates in an iffy way. I know that what happened here was momentous. It’s momentous, still, outside. As in ancient Arabian architecture, I cherish space and righter light. Not simply looking out into amorphous glare. Rather the view of a virtuously bright and blue-skied world above with earth of desert browns beneath. Through arches made of genius and of grace, numbering the stars within each stone’s embrace.

I dream this is all easier, if not delightful, in a desert paradisal scene. Where arid becomes beautiful and free air moves through all, spirits borne and carried along. Maybe heaven’s healing wind will pause and wave upon me there, and I will feel and know something of the serene aspect of God.

Too much romance and earthly-bound, I know. But I need this. My fear frankly needs it, as does my hope and peace.

Celtic Understanding

I have little words of life, posted below and next. The Celtic circle is from my ethnic heritage. No doubt the circle has meaning, aged and new, from many other people and places. (Places have age; people are always new.) What does the circle mean from you and yours? Treasuring, the next poem-post, is about small glories we might live.

Celtic Understanding
(say it like hard K)

The circle tells us always
That all things are one
That we are one

Cut it into wood
Grind it into stone
Ring it round a fire
The fire is one, too

And part of us
And we with it

Sacred, secular
Reality is this
Circle ever moving
Without end

We do not end

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