at four
I moved a bunch of things around
at four
a.m.
and
do you ever feel that way that makes
you move
by impulse
maybe a sign of depression
of
at least preoccupation
then
to hope by the day inhabited
more sensibly
changes all
look or serve in another way all right
about the depression I have pills
and counseling
and
then the need to be up at four moving things
around
in what I think is
my home
life
though I’m not sure I was thinking anything so grand then
in
the dark hour rather unsaintly
of unknowing
and now
I think on it
I knew
a chaplain who when he had to told me
that he cleaned his place at
two
antemeridian
that is
c l couch
photo by Luke Collinson on Unsplash
(x = space)
x
x
After Something
x
Catharsis is so healthy,
Isn’t it?
I mean leaning back
Something to sip at hand
Maybe a book one has meant
To return to
x
It must follow crisis
That’s too bad
Maybe in between
There was a celebration,
Maybe not
x
The thing about it all
Means that change is coming
In fact, it’s here
But before
We get directions,
Have the first planning meeting
x
There is this drink
And a few pages
From a book
One meant
To return to
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by Arseny Togulev on Unsplash
x
The Formal Feeling
(title from Emily Dickinson)
Catharsis after tragedy
The sad rush we feel, knowing
The experience is over, that we got it
Vicariously,
That it will not happen to us
And by the way
The community depicted now is stronger
It’s after the terrible and blessed
Have both transpired
And watchers leave the scene
(we leave the theatre)
To go home, chastened and relieved
It wasn’t us
They got their due
Their nation will be better
Let’s go home
It’s not closure
(what is)
For a future ticket will bring it all to
Action, opportunity, and desire
For mortal flaws to seed
And then to flourish
And are these analogues for
Life outside
Well, for those who must
Who will not learn
By mastery of organs or
Of language
Who will not hear
And will not heed delaying paradise
So not to have it at all
C L Couch
image from a production of Hamlet, 1899
Bread and Circuses
(after a debate in 2016)
I know I’m not the only one
He yells into the microphone
Dismissing anyone he’s talking to
Sometimes with a literal wave
He wears too-long neon ties
And cannot carry a moment of
Dignity, let alone civility
Has he ever been polite a
Day in his life?
Yet he’s our front-runner
Why? Because he’s got us
Paying for it, and we’re buying
Him, his shtick, his cant
He reaches the mad part of us
(“Mad” in both ways)
He’s catharsis when he’s gone
But we’re acting as if
We want to elect him to stay
while wrestling with recall, it turns out what should have been the worst day turned out not so bad–a terrible time, a moment of grace
Cathartic Thanksgiving Day
My worst Thanksgiving ever. Hmm, I can’t recall. Not that Thanksgivings were always grand. But they tended to be good. The years my mom was dying from cancer. I can’t imagine those Thanksgivings were good. I was trying to visit her in the hospital each day or taking care of her when home, trying to take care of the house, trying to work a job across the city.
But I think for the holidays my siblings came to town, and I had a holiday of sorts unto myself. I didn’t cook or do much of anything except sit still. And Thanksgiving Day was peaceful. Same thing at Christmas.
I probably felt tired and numb at heart. The constant pace of covering everything increasingly took its toll by coring out my spirit of enthusiasm, which I then learned to manufacture. I felt bound to provide for my mother and others, though more and more I felt little else. But it seems that in my memory of mind (though I wouldn’t trust myself to be my own life’s reliable narrator), I can recall the long table in the dining room space, all around the table the folk that I’m related to. Lots of containers filled with many things, turkey in the center, carved. Glasses we could make sing by rubbing fingers around the rim, which always bothered someone (I can’t recall whom). A hum of conversation with a layer of laughter on the top, like whipped topping on the pie. (Always more than one actual pie.)
A good day in a miasma of sad and difficult time. An anodyne. Better yet, a day of grace.
There would have been two such Thanksgiving days while my mom was sick. The third year I think maybe there was little celebrate or nothing at all. And within a year or so, I moved out, as everyone had gone before over several years’ time. Leaving my dad who later left on his own, too.
C L Couch
image from http://www.kutkupret.com and Google Images
not dissimilar from our actual table; even the chandelier looks right, though our walls were white
now off to make a turkey sandwich
clcouch123 
Recent Comments