challenge

Creaking

Creaking

I’m sitting, learning forward

On a Sunday afternoon

As if I were counting vertebrae

I can’t hear them, not yet

Maybe someday

Ageing with an e or without

Isn’t so bad

Especially when most of what’s wrong

Has been extant for years

I wonder if someone else could relate

With ailments long-standing

Conditions that haven’t healed right

Events from long ago

That still have their way

For good or ill

Ill when it’s nightmarish

In the waking now

Creaking like an old door

That still moves

Thank goodness

But like a challenge that

Deserves a well-oiled response

C L Couch

https://pxhere.com/id/photo/1201631

October 21, 2018 1

Red Sky at Morning

Red Sky at Morning

The Coast Guard claims

dangerous waters off the

coastlands of Northern

California

The Guard is right, of

course—and will that alter

our decisions for safety

sake

Well, I can hope so

But it seems to me that

warnings of danger mean

a challenge, a contest

to some,

even an extraordinary

holiday from which some

shall not return after

A last holiday—for some,

not me, too appealing

May 28, 2016 5

Reading the Sunday Paper

Reading the Sunday Paper

on my First Day (Back) Here

I am in the City

Of Bridges, the

Renaissance City,

The Steel city

And today I look

At a major

City’s newspaper

Horrors and other

Troubles in Brussels,

In Istanbul, and

Syria (reported

From Beirut)

Also talk of state

Candidates for the

Fall that in my

State part

I haven’t heard

A hopeful market,

This

It is a special day,

Which is covered

Through testimony

From leaders

Of movements

In communities

Contiguous,

Congealed

There is a story

Of architecture here,

Appropriately given

The age and grand

(Sky-scraping) efforts

Of artists and

Builders over

Time

The obituary

Section’s long with

Detailed histories told

Of those now

Taken

Editorials, reader

Opinions pretty

Well-reasoned

One take arguing

That civility

Itself must rule

Practices in public

Discourse

I skipped the ads

And comic stories

(So far) but pore

Through tailored

Regional parts (the

House I visit is in

The west)

There are big

Cities over many

Points in our

Compassed globe

While enormity

Conveys impersonal

Anxiety

There is an appreciable

Nexus of talent

Nature-distributed

Urban-planned

And neighborly

Diversity

Freedom in

That

Inexorable, the

City strives

With many things

Challenge

Then to celebrate

March 29, 2016 5

Jacki K Challenge, memoir with image(s) and metaphors

Jacki K Challenge, memoir with image(s) and metaphors

(www.whatwillmatter.com at Google Images)

The painting might be depicting the story of Narcissus and Echo, but I can think of no better way to think of the self as through reflecting into glassy water. And the art looks like the pre-Raphaelites again, a favorite school of mine.

The Song of Myself by Christopher Whitman (by me)

The title is an homage, of course, a
Metaphoric salutation to the great
Transcendentalist, who also was
A correspondent in the Civil War, up
Close to the blood-washed fighting

Do I see myself as a war? I do not
But rather see myself as a struggle in
Stillness, like the water in a pre-Raphaelite
Painting—reflections on reality were
Important in that school; they are
Important to me now

I reflect and, as best I can, marvel at the
Metaphor so wondrously used by Paul
In his assertion that we see through the
Glass darkly for now—and like a dim
And frosted mirror, I see myself as best
I may, while on this side

The song about myself, then, that I might
Sing, is one of dissonance—I don’t know
If Whitman heard any of his words set
To musical notes and then performed—my
Song would be entirely syncopated and
In minor keys, a monstrosity of jazz, a
Movement barely born when he wrote
About the war and then about you and
Me

(www.dreamstime.com at Google Images)

You know, it’s impressive what you can search for while at or with Google Images. First, I searched “the self.” Then I searched for “a small house” and then “a small brick house,” because that’s what I was really looking for. And, I’m sorry, I selected two images because self and small house were too compelling to enter into competition.

My Small House

I lived in a small house after
Being born in a hospital since renamed

The photo above is neither mine nor
Theirs (the other members of my
Family), although the resemblance to the
Actual look is surprisingly close, because

I view this house only in memory now
And for some many years: a red-brick house
With greenery in front, behind; a pointed
House too small for four brothers and Mom
And Dad , and then my sister arrived—so

We were not there so long—and yet this
House is my earliest memory box; take
Off the top by grasping at the point, and see
Inside images of my father reading, my
Mother cleaning, and the me I saw
Once within a mirror, after coming home

From the hospital again—four, now, and
Having fallen onto the hard floors
(Wall-to-wall carpeting would be next,
For sure) and splitting my four-year-old
Forehead open: in this image, I see me

Head bound up, wearing my favorite
Shirt (I don’t know how I know this), red with
A seal stitched on the front and balancing
A ball upon his circus nose

Wound and red and balancing—metaphors
Too soon worked out in the troubled new
House

November 7, 2015 0