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Practical Lack of Magic

(x = space)

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Practical Lack of Magic

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I am tired

With a blanket ‘round me

Wishing for

Some writing

That would serve

The quiet, sobbing Earth

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The moon

And Mars

That shake for prospects,

Having heard

That we are coming

With agendas

And mechanical persistence

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The moon’s already scarred

Not that we

Shouldn’t go

But have a care

At least

For places that so far

Have gone untouched

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Mystery

Romance of the unknown

Once resolved,

What we will see

When look up

Is practical

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C L Couch

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Photo by Forest Katsch on Unsplash

South Padre Island, TX, USA

Starship SN8 lifts off from SpaceX’s South Texas facility in Cameron County.

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Gobbler’s

(x = space)

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Gobbler’s

(3 February 2021)

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It’s Wednesday

Phil is back inside the keep

All is well

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Yes, it was done

In a cyber way

Phil was social-distanced

Fans were turned away

Tourism dived

Beneath the radar

Of spending consideration

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Something again next year

Pity the small towns of

Western Pennsylvania

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C L Couch

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by Doug Kerr from Albany, NY, United States – Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, uploaded by GrapedApe, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25167720

Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania

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5

Our Northeastern Storm

(x = space)

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Our Northeastern Storm

(2 February 2021)

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Somewhere this might

Land

As a Sou’wester

Here, it’s been impressive

And in too many places

Dire

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The vaccine is frozen,

So to say

The chances to get shots

Into people  have been hindered,

Frankly stopped in the

Storm areas for now

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Maybe there can be

A harsh and honest breath

In our disbursement process

While Democrats

Republicans

Fight for our relief

In the nation

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The forecaster

Is citing “The Song that

Never Ends” by

Sherry Lewis that

The puppets sang

At the end of each show

Because this isn’t done

And will be

Renewed, it looks,

In two days or so

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This snow

Plus the chill in the Capitol

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The groundhog, by

The way, official Phil in

Punxsutawney,

Yanked out of his home

On Gobbler’s Knob,

Did not

See his shadow

Prognosticating six more

Weeks of this kind of

Winter without

An early spring

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But my friend Debbie,

Well, she’s happy:

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She’s been wanting

To drive around her Jeep

Through snow,

Sitting way above

The trouble down below

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Have a great time, Debbie

We mortals lift our

Shovel heads

In obeisance

As you carom by

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C L Couch

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Photo by Dylan LaPierre on Unsplash

New York, New York, United States

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3

Isn’t It Romantic

(x = space)

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Isn’t It Romantic

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Moving shadows write the oldest magic word.

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Isn’t it romantic

All the snow

Pristine on tops of cars

That shouldn’t have to

Move just yet

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Sidewalks

Half undone

While scraping shovels

Focused machines

Work on the rest

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And isn’t it delightful

A snow day

Begging us to stop

Like toys

Wind up to unwind

For an hour

Of contemplation

Reading something new

Or press

Against a favorite

Page or person

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There are those

Addressing danger

They are blessed

And we should help them

After

The stolen hour is done

When we return

To epiphany

Of ordinary time

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C L Couch

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“Isn’t It Romantic”

Richard Rogers, Lorenz Hart

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Photo by Maddy Baker on Unsplash

Northville, United States

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Further In

(x = space)

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Further In

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It’s a day that should own

A fireplace

The snow will be falling sometime

Outside is in the twenties

And the teens

Inside there could be fuel

A sofa or a chair

An ottoman

Coasters

Light snow first

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Something of a storm later on

The forecasters are not sure

How much

It will finally settle on the coast

And move up

New York, Boston,

Maine and then on out

To sea

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Maybe to an island,

Breathe on toward another shore

That I could name

An island of my mothers

I have not been blessed

To see

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C L Couch

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Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash

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8

People Need

(x = space)

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People Need

(we need)

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Work

And salvation

Food and drink

Both safe

And a revival now and then

Safety itself

And companionship

Light in darkness

Not blinding

Not enigma

Shows the way

Only some direction needed

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A place to go to sleep

Maybe with others close by

To wake up in a medium

Of security

Here, we call it democracy,

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Which begs the first

And final matter

That is freedom

That we paid a paradise

To own

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C L Couch

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Photo by Matthew T Rader on Unsplash

Plano, TX, USA

A water drinking fountain with water flowing from it | Check out my blog: matthewtrader.com/unsplash

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Sermons on Leaves

(x = space)

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Sermons on Leaves

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One bird makes a small song

Unless a condor

Or a million of its own,

Whatever kind

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I’m not thinking of Hitchcock

But of Francis

Who preached to birds

Because humans wouldn’t listen

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In response,

A little bit invested

From each one

Raises the songs of saints,

Reinvesting into land

Then

Traversing through the sky

And now orbiting

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A song to welcome

Visitors,

Aliens or angels,

To Earth

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A hybrid song

Is and shows

The way

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C L Couch

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Photo by Paul Teysen on Unsplash

Nachtegalenhof, Antwerpen, België

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The Winter’s Hermit

(x = space)

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The Winter’s Hermit

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Sigh,

In a hole I live

It’s not a riddle

Not a mortal mystery

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Around me

It is white and brown and gray,

Yellow where the animals

Show weakness

I am one of them

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There is no cheer in

What I do,

As I intend there

Shouldn’t be

I wake up in prayer

And close the day

With it

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And inside darkness

I might sleep

Or listen for the rustling

Of other animals

The Holy Spirit

Passing by

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Or an ancient demon

Haunting the loss of

Following and home

An age ago

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C L Couch

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Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash

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Zen

(x = space)

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Zen

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The lotus teaches

To be calm and whole

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Bright color in

An otherwise dark pond,

Soft pointing toward

Heaven in many ways

(there is the root below)

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Directions are not

Lost, even though

Not all become traditions

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One point for someone

Might lead to

Singular adventure

And faith from that

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C L Couch

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Photo by Umur Batur Kocak on Unsplash

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