Search

clcouch123

I talk you talk we'll talk

Author

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.

Deadline-ism

(x = space between lines or parts–really feeling annoyed with the new editor)

x

x

Deadline-ism

x

I am behind

Not in traffic

But with you

I’m sorry

I’m trying to catch up

So easily tiring, these days

Even though mostly

I’m inside

As you might be

Or otherwise, somehow

Safe

Be that way, please

I’m getting there

I’d like to see you

When this is finished

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Made with Canon 5d Mark III and loved analog lens, Leica Summilux-R 1.4 50mm (Year: 1983)

I’m not sure if the figure is asking for help or offering it

x

Abbreviated Towers

(x = space between lines or parts;

am considering the emotional investment in hating the new WP editor)

x

x

Abbreviated Towers

x

Things are not working

I do not care

I will do just fine

With paper and a pen

(and another pen for when

the first one broke)

But then I couldn’t

Electron reach out

x

And publishing is out there, too

While I’m writing in a program

That so far is holding out

We needed something faster

Electron reaching out

And now we need

More time

x

You know how the pyramids went up?

Cathedrals, too

There was time

Slave or near-slave labor, too

But there were generations

To get them done

Such as we don’t conceive

We knock against limitations

Try to wreck them

Then say, next, please

x

We will have no more cathedrals

In part because the Protestants

Are poor

The Catholics are holding back

And independents build cathedrals

Only in their minds

But we do not have the time

A day to move a stone

A year to carve an arch

(Who knows how long for

a gargoyle?)

Thirty years for thirty arches

And then the rest

We could not stand it

x

x

How to Raise a Cathedral

(if fancily, a coda)

x

Some Victorians think

The cathedrals were built to music

(literally)

The entire community involved

Over generations

Maybe the way Tennyson

Had it, Merlin raising Camelot

To music

Or Aslan who sung

The world of Narnia into being

With all the other worlds

Close by

Or the way we do it now

The National was finished over years

Then damaged by an earthquake

The Sacred Family

Might be finished one day

(the architect’s outlived)

There is no music

But there is prosaic construction

Grand steps forward, frustrated steps

Taken back

One day to be finished

Then there should be music

(so he hears)

For at least a generation

Simply, impossibly

To have it done

x

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by João Marcelo Martins on Unsplash

Barcelona, Spain

x

Out Goes the Bad Air

(x = break for stanzas or sections–my dislike of the new WP editor is worsening; I can’t cut-and-paste with spaces between parts, sorry)

x

Out Goes the Bad Air

(pandemic time)

x

I hope you have

A really good day

Sometimes

That’s all I got

A wish

Though it’s in earnest

x

You’re dealing with disease

So am I

You wish for easy company

If only for a while

For now, you find some time

Something to drink,

A chair that faces outside

Where nothing but

Normal motion

Might be happening

x

There might be other

Problems, too

Of course, there are

They’re not even on hold

But lurking

Or complaining rather loudly

To the soul

x

Sip the coffee

Taste the wine

It’s not a sacrament

Though nature has

Its ways

To get inside

Like faith

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash

x

The Contract

The Contract

x ( = space between sections and indications; so far, I dislike the WP editor)

1

x

Sabbath starts,

Tomorrow another,

And a vigil for Sunday observances

This time must be important

And there are traditions that,

Sabbath-like,

Will pray throughout the hours every day

x

When it passed the first time,

Creation had begun

Everything in orbit,

Even what looks happenstance

Like comets or

A train of meteors

They circle everything

Everything is circling

x

Sabbath-time

In certain lore

Is that it’s our time

A gift of rest whose precedent

Is God

The word that spoke into ex nihilo

Created everything

Then called the host to take

Some easy breathing

x

2

x

We worship God but

Once a week

And there are those who

Go for more

Somehow, God is prodding

And is waiting

Inside the box

And pushing from outside

x

Remembering it is God

Who is the source of everything

In motion

God can take rejection

Bear denial

Will not disappear

For our repudiation

Will wait inside the box

But has other places

x

For us,

What shall we say?

An issue is control

A tissue-thin issue

God has rendered thin within

The covenant

We think it means so much

And it does

Sometimes salvation turns upon it,

Though here it is:

A planet is presented to us

And by contract with each other

The terms are simple

x

Care for this

There are avatars

He knows his place

Risking it each time

She comes to us

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Adolfo Félix on Unsplash

Saltillo, México

Clean Night

x

The Rabbi Walked Out

The Rabbi Walked Out

 

I want to call it Thursday

Penultimate weekday

Some extra breathing

Room for action

‘Til the weekend mind take over

 

Issues realized

The work week

The weekend

Take the children from the factory

It’s taken ages,

And we still have a ways to go

For these

With older evils—slavery,

Sex work

The companies that say

You do not matter

We will use you ‘til you’re done

And then some more

Then forget you were ever here

 

We’re civilized, we say

But it’s a rounded apex

On a shifting base

Where evils

Slide like scorpions

Ancient riddles

We have left unanswered

While those of us who could

Have climbed

Set flags

And hope that they will stand

Until we’re gone

 

For the rest who stay

One generation to the other

Today should be the day

We stay for freedom

Fight

Start a resistance

Ask for help

Steal the technology for reaching

Count the cost

Each one has value

Lose until we’ve won

 

C L Couch

 

 

(the Rabbi mystery series by Harry Kemelman)

 

Photo by Marie Bellando-Mitjans on Unsplash

Jewish Museum, Berlin, Germany

 

https://www.jmberlin.de/en/shalekhet-fallen-leaves

 

Riddle Me

Riddle Me

 

I look (don’t stare)

At the empty page

I don’t have to worry

If it’s crap, I’ll throw it out

Well, the electronic version

I suppose once something’s

Done in here

It’s never gone for good

Should that be daunting?

I don’t know

Mostly, I don’t care

Let the devil have electrons

God is with me here

And there

 

Words on the page now

Black tracks of gospel birds

The solution to

A medieval riddle

And a gospel message

The bird (the quill)

That walks across the page

Bringing new life to vellum

That was dead, the skin of animals

Stretched out

What passed for stationery

Then

 

A monk moving the quill

One of a literate minority

Leaving  a message first to dry

Then to be read

Wondrously illustrated

Presented at midday

The sun to bless

The effort of the monastery

 

And then, for effect,

A library

Maybe thirty books

For rank to show what

Can be bought, in fact, for show

And with tutors’ help

To read

And then, perhaps,

To change the world

 

C L Couch

 

 

a thousand years ago, riddles were fun

 

Photo by Tim Bish on Unsplash

Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, New Haven, United States

This is a 9 RAW photo composite. This library is lit through 1 1/2 inch marble walls by natural sunlight.

 

Unchained

Unchained

 

I should say something spiritual

Because I always should

You should, too

Not because we’re prophets

Or Plato’s philosopher-monarchs

But because the world of “ness”

Ideals

(chairness, truthness)

Is far beyond us

While we’re looking in the cave

And through dark glass

 

So anyone might speak

And everyone should have a turn

Not for the ego, no

Not for hidden revelation

Revealed for a profit (that’s the

money and the ego-kind)

But because everyone gets a turn

And another

In each round

That’s how we talk

And carry on with each other

And with God

 

Each one matters

In spite of what we do

Angels as the agents

Will keep tabs

Keep count

Make sure we get it right

Or pay for it later

No, it’s not a matter of punishment

It’s an issue of being fair

Though for each one lost

There will be a reckoning

(sorry)

So give each one a chance

Or maybe lose it later

 

And this is spiritual?

Well, not everything is gospel

As in good news

Sometimes the news is hard

Maybe the bookkeeper takes a lead

From our own media,

Which certainly must tell us

What we value

No?

Then change it

Change everything, if need be

If you can follow the rule of love

To do it

 

Bring your new army to the door

And don’t release a rock

From a sling

Or fire a shot

But win the day because

The gates of hell will not prevail

Against us

 

C L Couch

 

 

photo by Jason Blackeye on Unsplash

Greece

padlocked fence

 

Unkept Doctrine

Unkept Doctrine

(and unkempt)

 

I’ve been meaning to

Write about grace

The kind that is

Free

That no one can hold onto

That has no rules except

To help ‘til heroes return

 

Like crumpling a butterfly

In a human hand,

It doesn’t

Mean so much if you try

To clutch it

Or claim at all it’s yours

It isn’t yours

And can’t be claimed by anyone

Don’t try

 

Enjoy the benefit

In a sunshine of surprise

Don’t polish it

Or ever, every try

To keep it on a shelf

It has no rules that we’re aware of

Someone, yes,

Not us

To those who want to market it,

You’ll learn, if you have to

Then be forgotten

It’s as if grace has a contract

Somewhere,

Chaotically enforced

When someone tries

To own it

 

The rest of us

Will bask, when we never thought

We’d have the chance

To breathe at all

Again

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash

New York, United States

Steam venting in Manhattan.

 

Releasing Hope

Releasing Hope

 

There should be hope

The only thing left in the box,

Which means it lay with

All the evils for who knows

How long

I guess Pandora knows

And what were the evils?

Envy, sloth, gluttony?

Yet there’s nothing wrong in

Wanting, in ease, in eating

Maybe those evils were

Culture-specific

Mesopotamian, Egyptian

Greek

Maybe a foe

Such as Carthage

Or allies, such as

One city-state to another

Maybe it was treason

The treachery at Thermopylae

False promises that might

Surprise for being small

And murder

These are harder to analogize

Disloyalty, betraying one’s own

Taking lives

 

Unless hope might be

Dispensed without

Letting it go,

Then she should open the box

Once again

Let the creature rise

And take the Earth

Then the mission might be

Re-collecting evils, placing them

Back in the box

Maybe with an intern

From Olympus

(an intern team)

Who could

For and with them

Re-think the evils

Remember goodness before

The ruin

But then the gods

Would need to learn about

What is good against the pettiness that

Snapping or a wave

Can wreck for mortals

Mortals, too, once freed up some

Might receive reminders, too

Goodness and balance

Golden means on a silver path

The final thing

For the Athens school

For the Lyceum,

Let everyone in

To give the good a chance

Democratized

As was their theory, after all

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by David Becker on Unsplash

 

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑