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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.

Cat People

Cat People

 

I don’t know why we like

To change or stay the same

Is it up to us

As a campaign?—when

Burdened, yes, when

Abused of

Our better parts and

Aspirations

 

(Or maybe because we bug the

Hell out

Of those around

Us, and they’re right)

 

Otherwise, doesn’t the universe

Offer instinct-movement in

Gravity

And the attraction or, admittedly,

Repulsion of

Black holes and

Neutron stars?

 

And all the turning elements

That ask of us to

Dance if possible with joy,

Day by day,

(And anyway)

With all the nuclei?

 

Like felines who jump across

The yard or run the

House

 

Because they can

Because the gods of catliness

Say cats must—

And don’t they want to!

 

C L Couch

 

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The Girl Who Died

The Girl Who Died

 

It is a miracle we live

On an Earth that cares

When we only allow

Worst magics

Against the planet’s will

Her inclination toward

Sunlit food and love

 

We counter God

And all the better parts

Because we must have this or that

The blood on it

To ignore

Or kept there as an eldritch

Badge

An accomplishment that only demons

Cannot ignore

At judgment

 

C L Couch

 

THE HORRIFYING DEATH OF A SYRIAN INFANT UNDERSCORES THE BRUTALITY OF ASSAD’S SIEGE WARFARE “Sahar Dofdaa lived a tragically short and painful life. With sunken eyes and frail, protruding bones, the famished infant hardly stood a chance. Trapped in a Syrian conflict zone, her mother was too malnourished to breastfeed, and her father too impoverished to afford milk supplements.” [HuffPost]

 

3

Anna Mary Robertson

Anna Mary Robertson

 

I think of her often

 

She had cooked and cleaned

And run a farm and

Put up guests;

She sold the produce of her

Land and made

And sold potato chips

Of all things;

 

And in her seventies, she thought

She’d try to paint

Depicting life as it had come to

Her;

Someone who had a way

Espied her work in a place,

Thought it

Ready for

The nation—

It was:

 

To give it a name,

Call it simple, call it native, naïve,

Call it primitive.

She spoke through all the plains she painted,

And we listened.

 

Her last name was

And is

Moses,

And she had the better part

Of all of us;

Like her namesake, she

Led in prophecy

And simple, mere

World-changing delight,

A commemoration and a celebration

Of what is

Colorful and real and

Good.

 

C L Couch

 

photo found at WikiArt

 

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Ordinary Rituals

Ordinary Rituals

 

How I brush my teeth

And break my fast

How I dress and drive the car

I have these

I think you do, too

 

C L Couch

1

Leaves

Leaves

 

Pages

Trees

Fall

Binding

Miss

Keep

Share

All

Give

Bye

‘Til

Then

 

C L Couch

 

https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjFs5Sx7evWAhWKx4MKHRY2DioQjhwIBQ&url=http%3A%2F%2Fdigitalpaxton.org%2Fworks%2Fpics%2Fautumn-leaves&psig=AOvVaw1lVHtMkWC1knfl-CY8EASW&ust=1507924152717034

 

4

Maybe I’m Not Human

Maybe I’m Not Human

 

Don’t listen to me

I am woman

What do I know

 

Please vote in place of me

Rule me in a democracy

Of one in which

I’m other

 

Am I human

Sometimes I must wonder

I should read up on this*

 

In the mean time,

I plot my course from

Ignominy

For, really,

How could I make my way without

You

 

Okay, now the nightmare’s over

I will make it so

Hear me howl across the ages into

Modern reckoning

I am here

I know

I love you

Now be with me

And let me be

 

*Dorothy Sayers was once asked in outrageous sincerity to pen an essay to the question “Are Women Human?”  She wrote, planting her tongue in her cheek and opening up her brilliant mind.  The title is eponymous of the question.  Please read the essay.  It’s good.

 

C L Couch

 

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/oct/07/womens-rights-are-on-the-retreat-yet-again-why?utm_source=esp&utm_medium=Email&utm_campaign=GU+Today+USA+-+Collections+2017&utm_term=247138&subid=16706344&CMP=GT_US_collection

0

‘Scape

‘Scape

 

A knoll of pine trees

Tops too tall to see

A circle implied

Because there is a seat

At zero point

 

And snow falls:

Flakes congealed into comic blobs

That fall in quiet plops

On branches and,

When straighter, onto

The granite surface

 

The needly floor,

Covering a sleepy earthen

Solemn way to

Narnia or Middle Earth

 

No lamppost,

Elf, or orc, either, only a winter

Day on planetary sides

Where worlds meet

 

A place made up

And does exist

For I am here

 

C L Couch

 

2

Document1

Document1

[Compatibility Mode]

 

It beckons

To use a fashioned word;

 

I put all files to rest,

Because I was told that updates

Were required;

 

I let all sleep except the function, my

Initiative (the computer would

Not have started otherwise),

 

And then I went away to read a book (you

Know, pages to touch and stuff);

 

The machine is done with me for now—and,

Wouldn’t you know,

There is a blank page on the screen,

A first page,

 

As if the program were inviting me

To start again:

I didn’t mean anything by it;

It’s my protocol, you know.

 

Please start again.

I want you to, really.

I am bound by algorithms; you

Are bound

By turmoils I

Cannot compute.

 

C L Couch

 

2

Hopscotch

Hopscotch

 

I don’t know why that comes to mind except

That it is a game that can be won

And folk all around

Can take it fine

 

It’s

Satisfying quantities of asphalt, chalk, and

Small stones

Congenial lines and arches

A game for friends

A game in which core competition

Is with the self

To jump and stay on balance

 

Dusty chalk

I miss it, maybe you do too

And games whose consequences tend toward

Civility

The garrulous courtesy of children (worth

the risk)

Unlike the fractured day in

A quarreling, gimbaled world

To which I’ve awakened

 

C L Couch

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