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Signpost

(x = space)

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Signpost

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Let’s see

Let’s hear

Let’s smell

Let’s taste

Let’s touch

Let’s move in time

And between dimensions

Of the multiverse

How many senses do we know

How many are to come

Into our knowing

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The episodes are so ordinary

As to be in black and white

A visit

To a small town

An employee

Inside a bank

Peddlers

Sometimes alcoholics

Sometimes astronauts

Who are not ordinary

But take our attitudes

With them

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Something usual

Then everything must

Turn

Because under the sun

Or moon

Is not enough

Sometimes we must enter

The zone of twilight

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Mister Serling says so

And he writes so

He is right

To send us there

 Because what we know

Is not enough

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I just put down a piece of toast

And it stood on end

I might be going

Somewhere next

Be with you

There

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C L Couch

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The Twilight Zone, 1959 – 1964

156 episodes

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The Cocoon Nebula along with its trail of dark nebulosity. 11 hours of LRGB combined with 10 hours of hydrogen-alpha exposure.

Photo by Aldebaran S on Unsplash

Spain

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Killing a Bee

(x = space)

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Killing a Bee

(that’s all)

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Last night something happened

That hasn’t happened in a while

I was stung by a bee

It hurt

I blobbed on some ointment

On the spot,

Loosely wrapped it all,

Waited to find out what happened

Next

The last time I was stung didn’t go so well

The site swelled, and soon there was

A shot

(another

kind of sting)

I know, it is November

We weren’t outside

The finding of a bee (alive

the bee alive

I was alive)

Was a surprise

I discovered it while touching it

Picking it up, in fact,

Not knowing what it was

At first

(it was dark)

I doubt it was happy

And let me know

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This morning, I found the bee

Where I had dropped it

When I touched it, well, it moved

And I killed it

Was it dying, anyway?

Did it let out a bee kind of scream?

Have I angered all its cousins, now?

Will they find me?

It’s an old place

There could be a colony, somewhere

I’d rather not have killed the bee

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Now I think about

Going to church

Because it’s Sunday,

Church meeting day

As I type, the stinger still

Bites back,

A bit of pain from poison

And the barb

That I can’t see

Even though

It’s in my index finger

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C L Couch

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Was you ever bit by a dead bee?

I haven’t been

(all the bees so far

have been live)

I could be

Dead bees can hurt you

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To Have and Have Not

(and my response)

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Photo by Monica Valls on Unsplash

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Dust Bunnies at Play

(x = space)

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Dust Bunnies at Play

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When the winter sun is low

And everything on the floor

Is illuminated,

I spy

The dust bunnies come out to play

I say,

Hey, dust bunnies

Go back under things and behind things

Where I don’t know you’re there

They say,

No,

And don’t think to play with us

Your games are too tall and too hard

And I think they glare at me

And in their hearts

Have already gone back to play

Without me

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C L Couch

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(my, this could be done with children and with gestures—low, lit up, bunnies, under, behind, play, tall, hard, glare, hearts, play (again), without me)

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Story of little bunny Peter that came across whole Italy:)

I don’t know this story

Do you?

I don’t recommend having a bunny

On the dashboard

Unless you’re parked

Or it’s navigating

Photo by okeykat on Unsplash

Rome, Italy

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Anyone want to illustrate this story?

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two poems, again I’m not sure why

(x = space)

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Sci-Fi Goats

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Goats eat anything

I am reminded

As do pigs

I don’t think goats eat tin cans

As cartoons and other stories

Tell

But maybe

Maybe in the multiverse

Anything is possible

A metal-eating goat

On a world of lead

Might be

Just the thing

While justice of materials

Is worked out on other worlds

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Not that we’re excused here

We have what we have

To use

To keep

Or we lose ourselves

Without a possibility

Of portals—

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Maybe goats

They might be traversing

And we never know

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Poeming

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It’s not hard

But it should be honest

In challenging to write

About anything

(say, sci-fi goats, above)

What is the real story?

In not in fact,

Than in judicious metaphor

And maybe both—yes,

Both would be better

So choose the topic

Or let the topic choose

Get to work with

Heart and head,

All the muscles,

All the organs,

All the aspects

(I mean senses),

All the parts

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Breathe through it all

Let the apparatus work

Once something is set down,

Go over it

And over it again

(not too many times)

Then release it like

Letting go of healed birds

Into the wild sky

Then let the work

Make sense of the world

For a while

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C L Couch

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Hello, Friends

Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel at Unsplash

https://unsplash.com/@rgaleria

Glattalpsee, Muotathal, Suiza

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two poems, I don’t know why

(x = space)

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Lost World

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Dumb means mute

Kids are small goats

Am I becoming

That old person?

A semicolon’s

Better than a comma splice

President of the United States

Is always capitalized

Unlike another mention

Of a president

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Defensive driving

Is a good thing

People should know

The lyrics of the first verse

Of the national anthem

And the lyrics to

One Christmas carol

(take your pick)

All is not lost in lost traditions,

I suppose;

I made that last one up

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No re-creating the world

In my image,

Thank the Lord

(thank you)

It took me a while

To learn “whom” from “who”

So I’m going to use it

But I don’t mind

If you don’t,

Which is mostly true

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The Lost World is a story first by Arthur Conan Doyle, then by Michael Crichton who used the title as a tribute and allusion, as I am using the title here.

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Supplicant

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Well, it’s early and I’m up

What shall you have for me,

Dear Lord?

What might I do for you?

Nothing, I think, that’s

Worthwhile

All right, that’s worthy

What do I have to contribute to a

God?

No gold, no blood-letting

(sorry)

Nothing awful

That might have been awesome

Only me and the wretched qualities

I have—

That grace has saved

For a wretch like me—

Can offer

Most of the time, I don’t know

What these are

Help me, Lord,

To understand

What I have that could ever

Please, if not

Satisfy

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“Amazing Grace,” a song by John Newton

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Photo by AJITH S on Unsplash

Rameswaram, Tamil Nadu, India

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C L Couch

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Futurism

(x = space)

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Futurism

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Men retreat

Women advance

Children waiting

They play

An idea forms

A dream invented

All go toward

An interpretive horizon

Until the line and

Agenda are released

And all go home

With marbles

So many

You would not believe

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C L Couch

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Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

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We’re Often Told

(x = space)

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We’re Often Told

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I have no idea why

A nice song comes to mind

And then another

It’s not for beatific sleep

Or a sweet disposition

Wakened first thing

By the telephone

It’s not because of bristly

Wind outside,

Blowing what fall colors

We have known

Off slender branches

That could have been clothed

A while longer, should

Nature have consulted me

Tired, cranky

Thinking so-and-so by so-and-so

And I mean me

It should be a gray and spiny

Day by all accounts

Gray and apathy

Yet pleasant lyrics

With their high notes come

My way, though I did not

Ask them to

Serenaded by the mariachis

I have made up in

A mind that will not quit

Drugged by caffeine,

Scarred over

Not so pretty if I ever was

An inside and an outside

Needing shelves

And somehow from the files

Arising from the folders

Made of neurons

There is

Something to listen to

The kind that has no hearing

Seeing a singer

Who’s not there

On stage in costume

For a minimal production

Of a bittersweet play,

Which is what I get

Shortly after waking

On a late-fall day

In Pennsylvania of the USA

Wherever you might be

Might be the same

Company across telepathy

Made by

The chief of surgery

Who’s had the job

Since there were eons

Needing mending

With a song

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C L Couch

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“Somebody to Watch Over Me” by Ira Gershwin, George Gershwin

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Photo by Dmitriy K. on Unsplash

Kyiv, Украина

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Slight Season

(x = space)

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Slight Season

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The sun is out

I should be going to it

There might be chill

It might be fall

At last

Not too soon to winter, please,

Which is the trouble

With the seasons in-between

Their timing seems so fragile

When

Arriving

Surprising, when it seems

They stay a good, long while

Leaving the severities

To themselves

And their own time

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C L Couch

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Photo by Jana Shnipelson on Unsplash

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Eras of Antiquity

(x = space)

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Eras of Antiquity

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I like to collect things

That are old

Someone else’s using it

The first time

Effort rubbed into

The corners

The physics of depression from

Simple movement

Over time

Any substance

Any shape

Is worth it

Only the criteria

Of use

And lack of destruction

Without the hope of

Being remade

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C L Couch

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Photo by Peter Pryharski on Unsplash

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