Tennessee’s Bell Buckle and a child on Christmas day
an
orange
some
walnuts
could be
pecans
and I imagine looking toward a barn
and once the chores
to look in peace
special
that day
scrubby fields
maybe
snow-covered
house the way houses are in that
part of the region
and
the nation
in the standings
in the time
is there room
in the house
in the barn
over
the fields
for hope
for moving away should there be the slightest more
one year
and
having grown
to do so
c l couch
briefly about my mother who grew up as a child not of but in the Depression
photo by Markus Petritz on Unsplash
a few things I’d rather have written about today (and then heard further about the shooting)
Tributaries
Today is
Mom’s birthday
She’s been gone
Since ‘83
Gee
Now fifty years ago
Come 13 June
There is gravestone
With a flower
Though we had planned
A rabbit
And they go it
Wrong
So many things went wrong
Back then
And not to say
Things are so smooth now
There’s legacy
Though certainly
We’re on our own
And up to us
And on us
All our choices
By life
She lived too brief a life
I had wishes
For gifts and such
Hopes for relating
Never realized
Dreams
Dissolved
Everything went numb
And dark
For a while
And some of that remains
Even fifty years
Later
When it’s late
In the time
Of all of us
The children
While it’s also blessed early
For the new ones
To carry on
Inside generations
One by one
And all together
One, two, three, four
Black, white, green, red
One by one
And all together
Now
The Today Show
Today
Is a better day
Because I washed something
You don’t know what it means
If you’re depressed
And then
Improve one thing
One small thing
Unless
You are depressed
And maybe this works for you
As well
I hope so
Not to scrub
Obsessively
Toward bleeding in
(bleeding out
or in)
Somewhere
I mean washing
Almost without thought
Cleaning it
For safer
More hygienic use
Again
So ordinary
Now so extraordinary
Realized
And realized
There’s
Some sort of spiritual
Match in this
The extraordinary
In the ordinary
I can’t remember
Is it us
Made by God
This way
To live that way
Is it our purpose
Or the purpose of the universe
Made of small things
That become huge
In planet-making
In eruptions
Upon every rounded surface
At some time
I don’t know
Somehow the small is large
While remaining small
And I cleaned
Something small
And it has largened
My awareness
Just enough
To let in something better
And I could give it
A name
But for now
Will simply live with it
Let it live with me
(please let it live with me
a plea)
Nameless
And wondrous
For a while
lento
the ashes are gone
most likely
(we’re supposed
to let them fall off
naturally)
sometimes the skin
is broken
where they were
upon our foreheads
anyway
we’re in Lent now
the long season
named for the lengthening
of days
it is the Italian word
that also comes to mind
lento
meaning slow
play the music here
with ease
taking your time
while attending to
the baton
ahead of everything
the instruments
and guiding
interpretation
the Buddhists say
go slowly
they’re on to something
especially
for these days
in which the days grow
gradually longer
in assurance of spring
the green season
on its way
and we hope it will arrive
with nutrients enough
in soil
and rain enough
from above
and our good choices what
to plant
so that at long last
there might be abundance
though we’ll need the right amounts
of rain and sun
from above
a spiritual collaboration
we might believe
and hope for
even plan for
in these lengthening
of days
we make time now
to file away
what we know
and don’t know yet
eat less now
think more
lay a new foundation
for prayer
more solid convictions
and intentions
on which the frenzy
soon enough
will build
time now
maybe for dreams as well
to have them
talk about them
with the Lord
and with each other
on the plane of Earth
C L Couch
Photo by Praveen kumar Mathivanan on Unsplash
(x = space)
x
x
15 February
(1925 to 1983)
x
Today is Mom’s birthday
Happy Birthday, Mom
x
I trust
The birthdays have been
The happiest
Of days
Since you arrived
And for the forever
That you’ve been there
x
Do you have a place?
Is it your own
With neighbors
And community close by?
I imagine walls
Made of bright wood
And a few
Favorite things
And a door that opens
Into spring
x
It is a dream
It is a hope
It is a formless prayer
Against the real joy
Better than my guesses
Of eternity
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by daniela de gol on Unsplash
x
(x = space)
x
x
Rhapsody on Umber
x
Orange
Nothing rhymes with it
(I’ll try syringe
sometime,
hydrangea-a?)
Who cares
In the better way
It’s wonderful
And add a little brown and yellow
Is that burnt umber
The lost crayon?
x
But it’s just
Right for fall
Add red on its own
For leaves
And all the shades
For possibilities
Cast them under clouds
On a cool day
When walking
In the countryside
Is right
A quiet celebration
A season in the season
If you live around
Here
If not,
In the mind then
Or online
x
It’s fall
The very best Pooh weather
There should be
Tea and honey
For Christopher and friends
The roly bear
The donkey with the usually tail
Mama kangaroo and child
Tiger with springs
An owl of storied wisdom
As far as a child’s genius go
Long-suffering rabbit
And the pig
Small
Always counted on
Like needful stories
To be there
x
thanks for A. A. Milne and to my mom who really liked the stories
x
C(hristopher Robin) L Couch
x
x
Photo by Valentina Ivanova on Unsplash
Ukrainian Village, Чикаго, Иллинойс, США
Published on October 19, 2021
x
(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
The House Not at Pooh Corner
x
Your story
(see above)
Puts to mind
The mother of
Christopher Robin who
(I may have said
something of this before
don’t stop me
if you’ve heard this)
Took a walk around
The hundred-acre wood
From time to time
And when asked
By her son
Should he join her
She said, no,
But when I return
Greet me as if I had been gone
For a long time
And am returning now
From being away
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by Grayson Smith on Unsplash
x
Short Story Unit
I read a story once
One of many stories
Short stories, in fact
A unit we went through
I think it was in seventh grade
In this narrative,
Told from a boy’s perspective,
There was a stepmother
He didn’t like so much
No, she wasn’t classic fairytale mean
She was pleasant, but she wasn’t
His first mom
The real one
His mom was prettier
And better in all ways
But she had died
Then dad had remarried
The boy was sad, crestfallen
All the time
I don’t recall the lashing out
Because there wasn’t any
But at a dinner out, the boy
Noticed a moment when
His father tucked a loose
Curl up inside her hat,
And then the boy knew that his
Father really loved her
And for his sake
And for his sake,
He should try to love her, too
C L Couch
Image by Jenna Nguyen from Pixabay
clcouch123 
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