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Poetry and Senses (3 poems)

(x = space)

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Poetry and Senses (3 poems)

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Upstart Clay

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God will help us through

By being quiet

Leaving all the noise to us

Except the wind

Maybe the water that descends

To strike the surface

Maybe on the ancient

Mountaintop

That moans

Or the young one that must explode

Or pushing geysers through

The scalding

Earth

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So there

God might be noisy

After all

To take a part in all this

And remind us

Of the presence

And natural participation

Of the maker

And the making

Which is us

Fashioning our noise

Into making something

Too

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The Color Wheel

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There is yellow

There is red

Then blue

There are the colors

In between

Orange

Purple

Green

And there we are

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No white

Or pink carnation

For a crayon

No black to see

Though depending on perspective

Black might be suffuse

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We love our color wheel

Couldn’t get along

To see

Without it

And the colors might turn concepts

To explain

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To touch sometimes

Though there is no distinction

Doing that

To smell the color

Which is to smell the paint

Nothing to hear

Unless the wheel

Be turning

And there is humming from an engine

Or a supplicating gear

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Imagine Earth the wheel

Us the fashioners

How are we doing

Are we colorful

Do we six colors

Bordered

Unattended

Or do we mix and blend

And have a globe

Outstanding

Then when turning

Make a noise

Send a message

To the others

Here we are

Introduce us to yourselves

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Wheels within Wheels

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Wheels within wheels

That had been said

As it’s been invented

With clay

With metal

In the mind

Over centuries

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As a metaphor

Plots within plots

Every smaller

Going out

Ever larger

So that families

And nations

Are affected

Even over thrown

Reinvented

From parts left over

Rounded

And toothed

To have new rhythms

And redesigned

Noise

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Wheels that press

Or parts caught

Inside gears

Or there’s so much pressure

So much lack of space

That something crushes

Unless so difficult itself

Breaks the gear

Breaks the wheel

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And someone

Victor

I suppose

Must rework everything

So that we’re round again

And might make music

This time

As we turn

Through space

And time

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C L Couch

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Photo by Matt Seymour on Unsplash

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Arborism

(x = space)

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Arborism

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What will God tell us

To do good

x

Well, to do good

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What if we’re feeling

Old and sick

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And virtue

Seems too hard

x

After surgery and all

Or simply years

Of needing the investment

To get by

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I don’t want excuses

Or to have them

Excused

I want resources

Energy

And time

x

Great things to consider

Though not so much when

We have them

We complain

We grow complacent

We choose bored

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We all have something

For the whining

A tonic

Say

Say

Reality

Sometimes admittedly

A herculean lifting

Of a desert screen or

Something we believe

Might be on

Fire

To keep it there

Like Atlas with the world

Or the elephant upon

The wheel

Upon the turtle

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Balancing

Then yes

With risk

Reaching under

That heavy

Skim

Detritus and illusion

To deal in the truth

To clear the roots

Spruce up

Our perception

Look at

What’s holding up

The holding up

And what is healthy

What needs

Pruning

What needs sliding off the top

For good

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Maybe we leave the balance

Then

Clear roots

Above which

Sits our world

Our own

If there is something

x

A little easier

Or at least more visible

Atlas might not shrug so much

But smile

(the turtle, too)

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C L Couch

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Photo by Clint McKoy on Unsplash

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Pilotless Wheel

(x = space)

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Pilotless Wheel

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God is great

Traditions affirm

Many of them

Most of the living world

And the world before

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God is good

A source of mercy

Even for

Those who do not know

Those who deny

Given space and time

Mercy in these

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But, God, what kind of

Rotten world governed?

There is beauty

There are delightful moments

There is too much injustice

Too much lack of protection

Too much destruction

In the name

For the cause

Of politics and profit

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You are in charge

We are

It is a war itself

Of wills

We think that you arranged this

We believe

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In this alliance is

The cause of misery

Of evil

The stakes are high

They must be

This is real

Everything must matter

Assignments

Consequences

The religious call them covenants

And so they are

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Sometimes the wheel is left alone

Sometimes there’s a grab for it

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C L Couch

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Photo by Maximilian Weisbecker on Unsplash

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