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
2 poems about the day
Fish Fry
(check the shape of stanza'd, ichthus undulation)
Friday
Fry day
Fish fry day
At the Catholic church
For penance
I suppose
Though the is
So much
One can’t complain
Of abstemious devotion
And the money
Should go somewhere
Good
And we Protestants
Can enjoy that
Too
Should we think on it
While crunching into fish with
Whatever else
Is
Provided
Yay
Catholics
Thank you for
This weekend treat
You all
Have
A great weekend
Too
After all the cooking
(the worry over getting
burned
while frying)
And all the cleaning
That frankly
We did not
Have to do
Though when it’s our turn with
A rummage sale
We’ll clean up
Afterward
For you
Thirteen O’Phobia
Today is Friday
A thirteenth
Sorry to
Triskaidekaphobes
Watch out
Black cats
They’ll be avoiding you
Which now I think it
Might be the quite suitable
Arrangement
And ladders
Mirrors
Sidewalk
Cracks
Salt containers
All the things that make
This day less
Amenable
And it’s the number
Generally
As well
The lack of such in buildings
Even
Now
And what was it
Crucifixion on a Friday
Or the barbaric
Gory dissolution of the Templars
On a Friday
Thirteenth
Early in the fourteenth century
(1307
look
another thirteen)
And Judas killed himself
Maybe on that
Friday
Being the thirteenth disciple
(once removed)
In some lore
But for me
And maybe I should apologize
I often
Find
The day goes very well
Which might be
Determination
Or
Luck
Half-Irish luck
For my mother’s family
While on my father’s
Side
There are the English
Who most likely
Do not care
About the day and
Date
As long as the flag is flying
Somewhere in a
Time zone
Over Earth
C L Couch
(9/13/2024)
Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash
Matthias, Paul, Judas—who is the thirteenth disciple/Apostle? (Rhetorical question--depends on whose tradition's answering.)
in her father’s and her mother’s house
(for Saint Patrick’s Day)
Brigid
told her father
about faith
and made a cross of straw
to make her point
that Christ
and faith in Christ
is made of
ordinary things
even life in the spirit
even faith
because the spirit
has been with us
since creation
and was
the cause
of creation
and he believed
and made a kingdom
of it
which might
not seem fair
since
everyone should make up
their own minds
so as
to understand the stakes
and that
the stakes are high
in choosing
one way
or another
which is why
conversion by
a literal sword
let alone doctrinal
isn’t the
best strategy
and
in fact
far from it
believe or not
one by one
and two
and then whatever
however
a family is defined
as in
as for me
and my house
because the house
believes
and then
a group
a temple community
or in said houses
where the faithful
used to meet
at first
you know
where people lived
wherever
sometimes while
persecuted generally
and so to meet
in a hiding
of some sort
with symbols on the outside
exchanged
in a kind
of code
and so Brigid
took her chances
even
with her father
since rule was absolute
back then
and it all could have gone
another way
but she was
and is
connected to the ages
and the land
and maybe she knew
how everything should
fit
and how a cross
of straw
might seem
to teach it all
like bread
and wine
and other things
(straw
a shamrock)
might have an added
use
for spiritual matters
worship
or evangelism
so Christ be with you
in every way
the breastplate indicates
and the faith
as Brigid knew
the cause of Christ
but only
one by one
and then two
and then the group
of however many
is defined
first as family
then a wider
(not political)
community
c l couch
photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash
(x = space)
x
x
In My Father’s Now-and-Then Kitchen
(and backyard)
x
My father could cook many things
Well, six things
The rest were disasters
Like shipwrecks on rocks
On waiting shores
x
He could make—combine,
Stir, apply, bake—apple pie
He taught me how to have
Cheddar cheese with that
x
He could make blackberry cobbler
Blackberries, maybe, because of
Growing up
In Olympia
Where there were
Berry trees and bushes in abundance
Real crust (back to the cobbler)
Made from many ingredients
The right amount of sweet and salt
To savor
x
He could make bean soup
Ham and bone kept from another meal
Beans soaked for days
It seems
He might have made the cornbread
That came with it
Maybe my mom made that
x
Have I got to six?
Well, he could grill adept
If maybe nothing challenging
The usual suburban fare
Meat and vegetables
I’m a plebe
I like hamburgers
I was satisfied
x
My mother cooked everything else
Too bad you can’t taste
Her corned beef with cabbage
Carrots and potatoes
With the cornbread
(Southern)
That she made
x
I can’t taste it anymore
For many years
Except to remember
I’ve found nothing close to hers
In waking time,
Since
Sigh
x
What else my father cooked
Was awful
(shapeless shapes
on plates)
He was the only one
To eat those things
He made
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by Daniel Gamez on Unsplash
x
(x = space)
x
x
poems about early life
x
x
around the green S chair
(Rick and me)
x
there was an S chair
green, upholstered
with that kind of hard,
bumpy brocade that was
uncomfortable
kept in the basement
and there were other things
as basements tend to have
and around the chair
and through the other things
there was an oval
made that we would run,
my older brother and I,
while the Three Stooges
ran on television
and we ran in opposite directions
to each other, and when
we passed each other
we would whoop in high-pitched
voices like the
Stooges whom we thought
must be having fun
in black and white
as we were
around the green S chair
and everything else
pushed to one or the other
in the basement
x
x
a child’s Sunday night
x
everything was difficult
except sometimes on Sunday night
when we were downstairs
after baths or showers
pajamaed, robed
slippers over wrinkly toes
the TV set warmed up
Disney about to start
x
x
the younger ones on Friday night
x
on Friday nights
we often would
gather ‘round the kitchen table
with popcorn
and malted, chocolate candy
playing The Game of Life
sometimes Careers
we were taught Rook
the Southern person’s bridge
x
we played many games
and were okay
as long as my dad was winning
x
x
I never sang for my father
x
my dad took it on himself
to ridicule me
so that he might look bigger
somehow
whatever is in the mind
of the bully
I don’t know if that worked
inside
for him
while inside of me
as you might expect
there was resentment
and it grew
I had to win
and when I did,
I no longer cared
there was next to nothing there
and in the nothing
no relationships
x
x
C L Couch
x
x
I Never Sang for My Father is the name of a play and a film.
x
Photo by Amanda Jones on Unsplash
x
(x = space)
x
x
Father
x
As in the fathers who are there
Who show up
Who have been there from the beginning
And those who are not there
Who left
Who might return
Might be changed
Might stay
And that be good
x
God is father
God is mother
Jesus is the child
Fully grown and forever
The Spirit is inside
As well as moving
Through the world
Through the cosmos
A crazy family
Three in one
And one
But in each
And altogether
We have our learning
Our understanding
And our living
x
Reasons and purposes
Wills and resolves
Choices
Actions
Parents are good at actions
Fathers are adept
At doing something
When they would do something
And they do something
Often
x
They act
They build
They love
The best ones listen
The best ones speak
Knowing with whom they speak
Skills vary
Loving intent doesn’t have to
x
A father is remarkable
A mother is remarkable
A family
Is remarkable
Even though
There are so many
Constructed, reconstructed
Precious not for diamond absence
But for the abundance of love
We reach in
We reach out
We share
x
Fathers do this
In the USA, this is their day
God bless fathers
Fathers turn to God
They may turn to each other
Turn more so to their partners
To their charges
And their charge
x
Amen
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by Federico Di Dio photography on Unsplash
x
(x = space)
x
x
And All Forgotten Wars
x
I hold my head
Look at the mottled
Skin on my legs
And wonder
In addition to
Genetics,
How my father did it
How did he live?
What was happening
On the inside?
He was alone
For so long,
One way or the other
I think he wanted
Peace
From the war
But wouldn’t say so
And eventually
The lack of peace
Took him
Pushed him
Where he did not want
To go
Inside a dark place
That would accept
No light
x
C L Couch
x
x
The U.S. Navy destroyer USS Walke (DD-723) underway at sea in Far Eastern waters, 23 November 1953.
by W.L. Fowler, U.S. Navy, from USS Yorktown (CVA-10) – U.S. Navy photo NH 99810, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1622057
x
(x = space)
x
x
Doctrine for Three
x
In dim light,
Something was handed me
A gift
In the dark outside,
We talked about
His father
Who had died recently
Whom I liked
(whom he liked)
And of family, generally
x
His father’s legacy
Was to share outside
The family
I being one
I could argue worthiness
But then I’d miss the point:
Grace is free
It really is
Without conditions
And has to be
x
C L Couch
x
x
Anatomy of a dying stormcell. A stormcell dissolves over the San Francisco Peaks.
x
(x = space)
x
x
Memory of Father
x
I have a memory
Not so long ago
So it might be true
Of visiting my father
They had let his hair grow
He looked like Gandalf
Or Saruman
Or Merlin
x
The silver hair was beautiful
We talked
I left
Next time I saw him
His short hair was back
He looked like Hemingway
A compliment of sorts
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by Joshua Brown on Unsplash
x
clcouch123 
Recent Comments