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clcouch123

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clcouch123

In conversation, I prefer Christopher. My mom named me after Christopher Robin, after all. In writing, I use “C L Couch” (or, more simply, “c l couch”) because the form is genderless and also frankly easier to use. I have awful writer’s cramp. I am an educator more or less retired, more or less due to disability. At present, I live in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania (USA). My writing here I mean to be occasional and also devotional. Either or both. The banner and profile photographs are by my friend and peer Debra Danielson. More of Debbie’s work to be enjoyed is at debradanielson.org. Thanks to each of you and both and all for coming to my blog.

Nicole

(x = space)

x

x

Nicole

x

Hammering the east side

(no hyperbole)

Working its way over now

To wreak havoc

Like the dogs of war

On the panhandle,

Then move north

x

We’ll get remnants

No one seems to care

Up here for here

(good)

But six hundred thousand people

Without power

How shall they do?

How shall they cook

And read

And watch TV

Manipulate keyboards and screens

And stay cool?

x

It’s still Florida, after all

x

What can we say

To habitual destruction

Only to build the same, again

And maybe many times?

x

I’ve not been there enough

(not enough)

To understand the charm

x

Their politics are weird

But I wish for them

Electricity,

Dry days

x

I could wish that

This would learn us all

Something of our neighbors,

Their catastrophes

That linger years

In loss and less than everything

In daily rise

And style

x

For now,

Floridians

We pray for you

Really for now

For all the wreckage

You must live through

And as they come

For fair winds

And following seas

And maybe for

A long, long while

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

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1

Our Turn

(x = space)

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x

Our Turn

x

What does God say

But something that

Could be without words,

Could be in a breath

Of moving air,

Could be something

In the quiet

Or in cacophony

x

Order speaks,

Chaos works its way,

There’s miracle in timing

Though the measure isn’t ours

x

Someone else is keeping time

For music we can’t hear

But moves us

Like vibration through the floor

When a band we know

Is playing

x

The universe is a song

Whose senses are involved,

All of them

Measured out

To everyone

x

With a constant invitation

To the dance

Whose steps we know

For having once been made

And being made again

x

Yes, and fallenness

x

Get up,

Step away

Into the dance

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by tabitha turner on Unsplash

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3

Sides, The Earth Is Ours (2 poems)

(x = space)

x

x

Sides

x

If God is for us

Whom shall stand against us

Well, they will

They are they

They will

These are not shadows

Except in meaning,

Haunting for a while

Our better selves and motives

x

They are there

They are ghosts

(with apologies to ghosts)

Who look as if

They are substantial

And their weapons

Somehow

Wound and even kill

x

They (with those)

Tempt us from our fate

One by one

And altogether as

People loved by God

Who have a purpose covered

For the moment

Until the glass

Is clear

x

The battle won

Life prefigures death,

Better shows the shape

Of life again

x

C L Couch

x

If God is for us, who can be against us?

Romans 8:31

x

x

Earth Is Ours

x

Do you hate the sides?

I often do

Jerusalem and Antioch

East and west

(Istanbul and Rome

as part of that)

China and Taiwan

Town and gown

City and countryside

North and south

And much, much worse

Cain and Abel

So that only Seth remains

For legacy

One without three

x

We need our groups

We don’t need the borders

In between

We should have the joy

To have our own

The strength in defending

Everyone

The Earth

Our own

Everyone’s Earth

To own

x

What does this mean?

It’s right to ask

Since we ask

And everything is lent

And legacy is life that

We cannot gift ourselves

But there’s a promise

Prophecy

Assurance in or as

What we believe

x

What we shall own

Though frankly we must share

The bigger parts

x

C L Couch

x

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

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0

Machine Libation

(x = space)

x

x

Machine Libation

x

All the things released

On the page,

Admittedly a page of electrons

And in this

There is a soupcon of fright

Over outages

And lack of a printer

And greater thankfulness

Over an awful

Writer’s cramp

That only bends (now)

The typing hand

Now and then

x

There are notebooks, too,

When away

Maybe simply outside

Sometimes they are remembered

With the pens

And releases in our minds

To work another way

While in the nothingness

Of expectation

x

Keep writing, children

(painting

or reworking

the clay of Earth

or off our feet

or work in something else),

We hear her say

And all the sibling muses

With the gods of creativity

From other places

Other realms

Inside the moving circles

When they meet

And maybe grind

Like rims of

Metal upon metal

x

These vie

For inspiration

When we are worth it

x

Thank goodness,

We are worth it

x

And for the media

The usefulness of anything

The service of technology

And pens and pencils

(paints, clay

things we find)

Crayons, when we have them,

With some paper

x

What we keep

What we discard

Ashes in safety

Or simply as a metaphor

For muses

Or spirits from

Other places

Or, say,

Only the mind

x

Thanks, any part

Or anyone

And everyone

Everything

Anything

That serves

x

C L Couch

x

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Photo by Jahz Gonzalez on Unsplash

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1

courage

(x = space)

x

x

courage

(compash)

x

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

x

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

x

like glory in the sky

parochial sky

parochial of one

should I hear myself

out there

constructively

x

c l couch

x

x

photo by jeremy bishop on unsplash

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0

The Conditions of the Prophet

(x = space)

x

x

The Conditions of the Prophet

x

What shall God say today?

Not to me

I am not a vessel

Until God doesn’t mind the cracks

And grime

Under the rim

And maybe not:

Maybe God calls on us

To call

Who are not unblemished alabaster

Uncracked

Ancient yet young

To appreciate

x

Well, there are no museums here

Not inside the person

If there is a purpose

And I’m told

Rather explicitly,

I’ll follow

Though there are conditions

x

I can’t be crazy

Or made crazy

There must be gentle tones allowed

Simplicity

Would be instructive

While dignity

Would be grand

x

If these can be traits

In a manifesto

Then I’ll call it

x

And if these traits

Cannot be followed, well,

I’ll follow

Share the word

With the same conviction

Sigh,

No conditions

And apologizing for

Conditions

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Bruno van der Kraan on Unsplash

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Any Day Now

(space = x)

x

x

Any Day Now

x

Sigh,

It’s Friday, Lord

I exhale into the day

Sunlit

Upon the floor

A cat might be happy

There

x

I can’t

Keep the news

In my head

I know it’s hard

Sometimes

There’s something good

To help the day

We’re breathing through

And gently taking from

x

Our cats and dogs

Upon our floors

And all the strays

We made

An age ago

And should take in

As well

x

All the causes

Everything that moves us

And should bind us,

The catastrophes

We should see each other

Through,

Which make us ready for

A triumph

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Matheus Queiroz on Unsplash

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haiku (3) after Hallowtide

(x = space)

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haiku (3) after Hallowtide

x

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seasons ending in

new seasons beginning to

take hold then let go

x

x

red leaves like children

bright and shiny always changing

into something else

x

x

evergreen until

needles wither due to lack

of water and air

x

x

C L Couch

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Red of Fall

Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash

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The Glass No Longer Darkly

(x = space)

x

x

The Glass No Longer Darkly

(for All Souls’ Day)

x

I’ve been too busy

With the living,

Not to praise that

Habit

x

The dead have frightened me

When they are active

With the living

Like the Twilight Zone episode

That used to scare me,

The one with the telephone line

Fallen against the grave

And the dead calling

A living relative

Or the one in the Old West

With the peddler selling

Magic to bring back

The family members

To the living

In a town

And then charged more

To keep the dead, dead

And they return,

Anyway

x

That sounds comic, I suppose

But the dead used to scare me

Not so much now

Experience, I guess

And a constructive belief

In afterlife

And the agenda of their own;

They will be busy,

After

x

The sacred and the secular

All Saints’ comes ‘round

It doesn’t have to be so somber

In fact, there will be picnics

By the graves

In Mexico

And elsewhere

Commemoration

Remembrance

By the families

Who know how to love

On either side

x

C L Couch

x

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Fotografía de una calavera de azúcar, típica en México.

By Pedro Moga – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22536159

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