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Reading the Next Day

Reading the Next Day

 

Going back to reading what

Was written

Sometimes there’s little sense

Like looking back on doodles

Or freewriting

Looking back on other things

That’s harder

Talking with fewer people in old age

Means less chance for faux pas

Or maybe it’s reclusion

Only

I don’t need a bigger pile

Piling in the in-box

Who does?

 

I go back to what I read

Having picked it up in the middle of the night

Because I wasn’t sleeping yet

And a story called

(I’m not sure who was more at fault)

When I return

Will I be welcome?

Will I be welcomed again?

I mean, yes, I bought the thing

But there’s more

An invitation

Riding like the girl who

Delivered most of the news

From Paul Revere

The book is here:

Will I take the message?

Will I accept responsibility for

Interpretation, then dissemination

Throughout the land?

 

You see, clearly there are questions

And there’s pressure

A lady or a tiger

Re-reading yesterday’s

New pages

In new hours

And then there’s what I’ve written

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Prasanna Kumar on Unsplash

Besant nagar beach, Chennai, India

Books, most loyal friends.

 

If true, Ludington’s story puts Revere’s to shame, writes Valerie DeBenedette for Mental Floss. She “rode twice as far as Revere did, by herself, over bad roads and in an area roamed by outlaws, to raise Patriot troops to fight in the Battle of Danbury and the Battle of Ridgefield in Connecticut,” DeBenedette writes. “And did we mention it was raining?”

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonianmag/was-there-really-teenage-female-paul-revere-180962993/

 

3

Voices

Voices

 

When I say I

Do I mean you?

I think so

Better, I mean we,

Which is why to write this down

Oh, there’s an aiming for

Catharsis, I suppose

Even the wonderment in sharing

Engagement, interaction

Argument of the classical kind

We are dealing in close matters,

After all

 

But this can’t be exercise for me

No, not nearly enough

I’d keep it and never let it out

There is or should be a need to catch it

An interest in lifting the glove

I will do what I can

And hope you’ll join me in the yard

Where we can wad this up

Listen to it krinkle

Who knows, there might be have some weight

To throw it like a ball

Certainly,

It shouldn’t stove our fingers

Not for that reason

 

We can play catch until

It’s time to go inside

Where I’ll write something new

You can, too

I won’t persuade you

We’ll have more to talk about

And more with which to play

 

C L Couch

 

 

BTS Pop Store, Paris, France

Photo by Rots Marie-Hélène on Unsplash

 

3

Dear Santa Claus,

Dear Santa Claus,

(not a child’s letter)

 

I believe in you

All the yous

We’ve owned some magic

From the original story

Though I try to keep

The faith from that one,

Too

We wish, don’t we?

We wish like another saint

That all be well

She has more faith than I,

Claiming that

“All shall be well”

But I have hope

I don’t have much to ask

This year except for

Reading glasses, extra-large socks

(they feel better)

Maybe, maybe a new winter

Coat—in these parts, it does get cold

Wait, how boring is my list?

Each day bears its own need for wishes

I can take part in these

If my list should go beyond

Then

I can ask for love, romantic and

Erotic (yes, at my age)

Though really

The kind that keeps

Not only on a shelf (in case I should

apologize for all the elves)

But on both sides

Of the doors

Of the human hearts

Involved

So I’ll close, dear Santa Claus

Thanking you for Sandy Paws

And all the softer

And the harder things that

I must keep for Christmas

Trying for year-‘round

With love

And respect,

Robin

 

C L Couch

 

A Note on Names

 

Robin

Is a nickname

For Christopher,

Hood, or Goodfellow

I’d choose Topper second

But neither name of these names counts

The rules say nicknames

Can’t be self-selected

(though Lewis somehow decided on

“Jack” and got to keep it),

Rather gained, for better or worse,

At home or on the playground

By good fellows

(male and female)

 

Or maybe, maybe in a hundred-acre wood

When we were

Very young

 

teddy bear slippers

Image by TanteTati from Pixabay

 

(image above) Vincent Guth on Unsplash

Mývatn, Iceland

Iceland lake, Northern Lights

 

10

Christmas Ghosts

Christmas Ghosts

(for anyone when looking at the lights is sad)

 

Christmas ghosts

They come a-haunting

Like eldritch carolers

Singing of the past

Offering misery for the present

I don’t know how to get rid of them

 

Maybe we need to

Invite them in

Drink their eggnog for them

Actually, I don’t think anything spiked

Will do

Open a present from the future, maybe

Letting life go on

Remove a shackle of the holiday

Leave it nearby, if need be

Allow something to be new

The snow, if snow

A phone call with an acquaintance

Something that is mild

Like a babe when sleeping

And sleep, too, you should

Maybe leave a light on

Of an unusual color

For season when a miracle

Or matter of will,

A gentle exorcism

Might happen

 

C L Couch

 

 

Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

Letchworth Garden City, United Kingdom

lights of Christmas

 

 

0

Something Sacred This Way Comes

Something Sacred This Way Comes

 

The tyranny of religion

Has called up wars, which we can do, anyway

On our own, thank you very much

 

Has forestalled advances in astronomy and

Hygiene (Christians took cold baths because

Muslim took hot ones)

Has decided what we read

And how to think,

Making translation and the Reformation

Dangerous

 

The problem is not Catholic

Any denomination

Or a group formed last night

Becomes an orthodoxy

And so finds a way to rust thought over

Given time, it always happens

 

The bigger problem should be keeping

God in a box

God might be in there

But I think we measure better when we witness

God everywhere

In the pit or in the sky

Or on our middle Earth between

 

God has created old

And re-creates in everything that’s new

We give God shelf life

We feared

The smells inside the tomb

From death and execution

So we, as they, thought

But God was fresh that day, because there’s

Nothing newer, once first made,

Than resurrection

 

This is for Christians, though the problem

Lay on each one’s lintel

God is ancient; God is new

We should know this when we breathe

To give ourselves green opportunities

Not to reinvent the world each day

Until the day it’s called for

But revel in the many cells that rise up in

Creation overnight

 

Morning has broken

Midnight, too

Ancient of days

Makes new,

Dropped on the horizon

Folded into hills

Pressed over the plains

And pushed into water

 

Orthodoxy isn’t bad

But don’t forget

That in a favorite story

The Tin Man needs anointing,

Which is ongoing

 

Join me for church today

(it’s happening somewhere)

Maybe we’ll remember that we’re old

And also facing something delightfully unknown

 

C L Couch

 

 

Rennett Stowe from USA – Saint Francis of Assisi, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=26302833

 

0

Life on the Stairs

Life on the Stairs

 

Lights, not so much action

I got dressed to go downstairs

There might be neighbors out

Not that there’s a code except

For fire extinguishers

But decorum here and there,

Only a little,

Is just fine

 

Could this be retirement

(if so, a rehearsal for)

A quieting of life in stages?

Contemplatives want this

Though I don’t have a card

Maybe I could take a class

In silence as a sacrament

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Boba Jovanovic on Unsplash

 

0

Conscious

Conscious

 

Breathing through the blanket

It’s still dark

And relatively quiet

 

I could be in church at dawn

In the first, silent moment

Before collective observance of

The first hour of the day

Earlier there might have been a vigil

 

I was sleeping then

Concomitant, mundane

Prone without taking vows

Simply waking up, as

Anyone could do

There is nothing sacred happening

 

Unless waking is miracle enough

A merest gift offered

Toward a maker’s satisfaction

 

C L Couch

 

 

José Luis Filpo Cabana – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44496498

Sepulcro de una princesa no identificada.

 

3

Slow Pitch

Slow Pitch

 

Today is a day for slow pitches

An easy game of baseball

In the backyard

I don’t know what Englanders

Play in the backyard

Catch, I suppose

Can one practice cricket?

 

We used to play croquet

My father had to win every game

We learned to play it hard

Hard croquet, now that’s a laugh

A tempest in a teapot

But it set a pattern

 

Slow pitches, please

It’s Monday, and I’m tired

I left my glove back in the ‘60s

I want to play, I really do

Don’t leave in the bunker

Don’t pick me last, which is

Not a pick at all

 

Maybe I’ll stay on the porch today

Let someone else have the backyard

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash
0

It’s Not a Race

It’s Not a Race

 

We take chances

Just to breathe

But breathing’s good

We should stay with that

 

We should keep going

We don’t need to manufacture

Inspiration or wait

For it to fall as

A perfect weight from heaven

 

There are things to believe in now

Silly things and absolutely vital

I’m thinking babies

To get to know and fight to keep

I’m thinking neighborhoods

To get to know and fight to keep

I’m thinking other people

And the babies, too

If not first of all

 

First of all,

There’s God

More than ninety percent of the world

Would agree

And all of nature, too

We can listen for God’s word

Spoken through wind

And words in good books

 

We can’t afford to be crazy now

The world is too close

Though there’s still room

The sense of it could be

That here’s a planet:

We are here

Others will follow

Someday we will leave

It would be good because we choose to

 

We are old

We are new

Please, let’s keep trying

The day might not be waning

It does not matter yet

There’s time

There’s play between the seconds

Elastic possibilities

Keep breathing

Keep moving

 

C L Couch

 

Photo by Ryoji Iwata on Unsplash

Shibuya, Japan

 

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