on snowy evenings
an early evening when
sleet pings on the window pane
behind me
while I write
and try to write
to say something not likely
pithy
yet a touch
maybe to a point
and to
confess it
or to let
the setting like
the season stand alone
the dark and cold and icy rain I know
and thinking of a friend’s
father
who died last night
surrounded by faithfulness
it seems
and yet
I’m sad for her
and maybe I should let the night before
and the night behind me
do the talking
now
about
what feels separate and
in faith
might not be
a union shown by fact
someday
c l couch
photo by Anastasia Zolotukhina on Unsplash
while day might be over soon
the sun is setting
on the winter day
and I
have yet
anything to have said
to you
be well
I could say
(and hardly be original)
and is possible
insofar as you are able
be better
not
to win
or for a prize
excepts its own
ask for help
if you need it
and I daresay ask where and
when
you might get
it
negotiating perhaps
to give
as well to receive
(and
yes
I know the one
is better than the other
but they both exist and sometimes
should interplay
better
and keep better and maybe
for others you know
who
need the better
you
can provide
be well
then
be better
aim for good seasons
all around as
may
be done
night is arriving here
have a good night
day or night
where
you might be
friend
c l couch
photo by Aurélien Lemasson-Théobald on Unsplash
[actually, I’ve written you a lot; this is the last thing]
the question of this evening
(responding to “Now the Day Is Over”)
evening draws nigh
the old song
imposes
for the song becomes
well
rather maudlin
melancholy
minimally
there is a prayer
and that’s fine
for Jesus to keep us through
the night
but
some will ignore
all this prayer
to fire up
the evening hours
instead
so lie low tonight
or charge
the time there is
to pub
and such
though morning comes
and with it
some responsibility
unless
retirement
has taken over
as an age
or
attitude
and then
what then
a song of peace
results in consternation
for there is much to figure out
by night
by day
rebellion
indifference
extremes cut through
by rest
c l couch
(the song often sung in my college chapel Sunday night—here, sorry, the assurance questioned
Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh,
Shadows of the evening
Steal across the sky.
verse 1)
photo by Joshua Sortino on Unsplash
“Sometimes you just have to look up.”
(caption given)
(x = space)
x
x
Dona Nobis Please
x
God
I wish I knew a round
And had a choir
Volunteered
x
A canon in the better sense
For meaning without questioning
The bias
x
I guess
What I really mean
Is to write the round
For exigence
A canon for the evening
Fluidly
To welcome stars
And thoughts of rest
And afterward
Retire
With notes to welcome dreams
x
Amen
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by Adam Ulrich on Unsplash
x
(x = space)
x
x
After Evening Service
x
We could keep vigil
On toward midnight
When the new day is called
x
A horn might be too much
But inside the church
The organ might be released
To greet the day
Subdued for lateness of the hour
Wanting to be good neighbors
Give our hearts some quiet room
As well
x
I guess “midnight vigil” sounds
A quiet thing
To us
I’m sure in other lands
It does not go that way
There are noisy fanfares
Calls as announcement
Calls to prayer
Calls to say
(to play)
Even to shout
x
This is a new day
Of the Lord
And the Lord’s creations!
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by Adrian Dascal on Unsplash
Washed Away Night
Midnight in Saint George, Romania
x
(x = space)
x
x
Who Knows How to Live
(not a question)
x
It’s evening now,
An old movie is on TV
If there were a cat
As there has been,
She would be sleeping
Until she wakes, eats
Something, demands
Face-rubbing, then
Goes to sleep again
x
C L Couch
x
x
Los Gatos Theatre, Los Gatos, United States
x
(x = space)
x
x
Remembering a Song Often Sung on Sunday Night
x
O God, our help in ages past
Our hope for years to come
x
It’s Sunday night
And the chapel service is ending
We’ll all be leaving soon
To ponder Monday morning
Then what should be done tonight
That might be done
And what will be ignored because
The sabbath time
Is measured, still
x
Our shelter from the story blast
And our eternal home
x
Sometimes it’s too dark
And quiet
The winter will be worse
Not to be bored or frightened
We don’t fear wolves
Or wolverines so much, anymore
Except the allegories
We encounter Monday morning
x
Time like an ever-rolling stream
Bears all its sons away
x
Daughters are as sons
All are borne by mortal time
Away from what we know
Into a mystery
That we believe has
A final solution
x
They fly forgotten as a dream
Dies at the opening day
x
The scripted dream
Cannot be retained
Maybe it’s a contract
Between imagination
And the ages
Some keep a journal
About retaining something
The week begins,
Regardless
With the night, the dawn
And then the waking hours
Everything we know
Pushing away
What subconscious rules there are
When sleeping
Plus working out in
One brief act after another
Who the playwright is
Who will not let us
Keep our lines
x
Amen
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by Deleece Cook on Unsplash
x
Fall into Night
Having slept late,
Perforce,
To my condition
It’s too soon
Now, the three-o’clock
Time when
The day turns
As it must
Toward autumnal
Night
And we notice,
If subcutaneous,
The knowing
Sense of
This;
Inside autumn leaves
We face
Alternatives:
To go dry-wilting
Into brown days
Or to
Flame like novae
In glory of
Expiring red,
Yellow tears or
Tears,*
Last bright orange
Bleeding
Dwindling into
Joyful or stressed
Evenings
Of our
Distinctive seasons
*reader’s choice
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