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Join

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The way a building

Comes together

With everything that fastens

Nails

Glue

Screws and bolts

Certain guns and drills

That drive

The music

And a harmony

Until

Complete

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I don’t mean

Cathedrals built

To music

Who knows about that

x

I mean the real noises

We provide

The voices of machines

With our own

Collaborations

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Metaphor

Or three-

Dimensional

The houses goes up

The people

Or some others

If it’s a shelter for

Some animals

Live

Inside

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There is a game

With fingers playing nicely

That emblemize

A steeple

When inside the church

The people

x

Join

In building

All good ways

To shelter

All creation

Needing cover

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C L Couch

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Photo by John Salvino on Unsplash

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Toll

(x = space)

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Toll

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I started to write

Because it was twelve thousand

Now it’s more than twenty

There would be little left

Of my small town

Which is considering

The numbers only

Imagine people

I don’t want to

Imagine myself there

Would be easier

Because I would be doing something

And it would be awful

And my life would break

Like the earth

Beneath the nations

That might come back

Or we will fill it

Not with the dead

But with material

For building and for living

Apologies from government are fine

Maybe we could stop the war

Among the factions

And the other wars

In the region

To reassemble

Reknit the people

Not as Babel

Fallen

But as the New Jerusalem

A promise

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C L Couch

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Photo by Jazmin Quaynor on Unsplash

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It Might Be Magic

(x = space)

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It Might Be Magic

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Do you eschew

Institutions?

I do, anymore

The machines

Made out of people

Don’t blame the

Bureaucrats:

They operate

What others made

A breaking efficiency

In copper and in

Oil replaced by

Split atoms, unleaded

Gasoline and now

Other fuels

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The early price

Was trees

And iron from the earth

Water unafraid

Unplastic skies

That might storm

But otherwise

Were trusted

x

Press agents lie

Because they forward

An agenda

They were told

Beyond the news

To promulgate

Or else

Lose their jobs

The heroes and the villains

All are mixed

Or so it seems

Because they’re not

x

We are blended

Creatures now,

It’s true

Nothing of persisting,

Edenic status

Has existed for a while

And in our

Reconstituting state

Generations are confused

x

Hamas has launched

Three thousand rockets

Into Israel

That fights with

More sophistication

Missiles from planes

And from the ground

More of us

Are good at war, these days

x

I read the city paper

In the morning

To find out who has

Shot or otherwise killed

Whom

Or who preaches

On Hyde-Park boxes

That it should rain hate

Should we have our way

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There is an answer,

So many traditions

Espouse

It’s a good thing

And nothing new,

Ancient of ages

But statues will have to

Have their clay feet

Scraped out

Then with something better

Slid into place

And shaped

While the rest of us

The citizens, the voters

Hold the upper parts

The structures of society

In place

x

See,

Nihilism is not the answer

Nor to fire agencies

Especially with fire

We can keep

The inefficiencies

Of efficiency,

The inexactness

That comforts us

Knowing the machine

Is never all

But flesh and blood

And synapse

And our loves

Matter more

x

Next chapter,

All yours

It might be magic

But it’s not:

It’s mortal hands

Moved by mortal hearts

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C L Couch

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In the Line of Fire

Photo by Christopher Burns on Unsplash

Hay, Australia

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The Temple on Pot-Bellied Hill

The Temple on Pot-Bellied Hill

(built and carved before the wheel)

 

We would not go inside

 

We built and then retreated

Outside the presence of it

As God came in more and more

To dwell

We ate our meat close by

So that we could build again

These were our days

 

It’s what we did and what we knew

And there was little more

We built because

The God would have it so

We were commanded without words

Only with the knowing

That it must be so

And more and more

 

God came to dwell

We weakened, and we died

And still the temple rose

 

The last of us will finish it

God’s house

God’s cave above the ground

God’s palace in a desert place

To reign over scorpions

Rocks and sand

Snakes and

Predators who fly

Or those who seek the carrion

After another’s kill

 

This will be God’s place

We will move on

 

C L Couch

 

 

Cradle of the Gods, National Geographic Channel.  All about Göbekli Tepe.

(image at) http://www.milliyet.com.tr/amerikan-arkeoloji-enstitusu-gundem-2577893/

 

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Prismatic

Prismatic

 

It’s math, you know

Yellow on blue and green

Make joy

Black and white equals

Good

All the colors are from God,

And they are gifts

That harmonize

The promise of a rainbow

The sign of Noah

A pledge not to

Destroy but leave things

To build

 

C L Couch

 

 

tree rainbow Africa

https://goo.gl/images/WWkhqD

 

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