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Armistice

Armistice

 

A hundred years ago

Europe was ablaze

An awful fire, open-pit

Like southern

Soldier picking

 

North Africa, western Asia

Cut into with blunt

European, Turkish knives

As if

The lands were

Burnt meat

 

Now the USA is adding

Fuel to the fire

My grandfather a soldier-stick

Serving with muscle and courage

And fear

(I’m guessing about the fear, for I never

Saw if in him)

 

Then all elevens,

And it’s over: fire tamped

Ashes rising, setting on new ground

Of anger and reparation

 

Peace rendered ironic

Buckets of grave dirt

Thrown against

Walls of retribution

 

Against which

New shadows will rise

 

C L Couch

 

(National Geographic Society)

 

1

Piece Meal

Piece Meal

 

What shall I

Write about this morning?

Isn’t there enough

Death through violence

That I don’t have to record, about which

Not to comment?

What good is there in

The world happening today?

I have little, maybe some, doubt it’s there:

Someone has given

Something and didn’t have to give it;

Somewhere a treaty’s

Being signed

That will mean an end to

Trouble in

The hope for something solider than war that

Feeds and builds.

Somewhere someone is kind

Enough to garden in

The mind,

Cultivate the spirit and the moment

When, created in the mood of God we

We were given parts;

 

Pangloss is wrong—we must

Guard each other’s.

 

C L Couch

 

0

Congress

Congress

(visiting a beach in NC)

 

Topsail

I’m pretending that the air is

Ionized

And that it’s good for me

 

Up-and-over steps, across the dune

Down to the sand

A public access, though

There are only a few people here today

Some dogs

But all the birds

 

Are meeting

Fish and trash on the agenda

I have nothing for them so

They fly from me

Disdain

 

I pick up shells and stones

Some with rough edges

Some worn smooth through the refinement

Of the sea

 

Together we show

Large and small

Nature’s power

 

C L Couch

 

 

Topsail

(photo credit, http://www.treasurerealty.com/uploads/TopsailBeach_OceanView.jpg)

 

1

canonized

canonized

(days for all saints)

 

a process for remembering

those who live the

faith

in a church that is

a canticle of memory

 

who slips out, unseen

after the formal part is

done

to work a holy thing that

none of us will

know

 

there is a record, maybe

doesn’t matter

we sense without consciousness

that something good

happened

 

and there will be re-collecting

of it in the sharing of

all our legacies

 

C L Couch

 

5

Cat People

Cat People

 

I don’t know why we like

To change or stay the same

Is it up to us

As a campaign?—when

Burdened, yes, when

Abused of

Our better parts and

Aspirations

 

(Or maybe because we bug the

Hell out

Of those around

Us, and they’re right)

 

Otherwise, doesn’t the universe

Offer instinct-movement in

Gravity

And the attraction or, admittedly,

Repulsion of

Black holes and

Neutron stars?

 

And all the turning elements

That ask of us to

Dance if possible with joy,

Day by day,

(And anyway)

With all the nuclei?

 

Like felines who jump across

The yard or run the

House

 

Because they can

Because the gods of catliness

Say cats must—

And don’t they want to!

 

C L Couch

 

0

The Girl Who Died

The Girl Who Died

 

It is a miracle we live

On an Earth that cares

When we only allow

Worst magics

Against the planet’s will

Her inclination toward

Sunlit food and love

 

We counter God

And all the better parts

Because we must have this or that

The blood on it

To ignore

Or kept there as an eldritch

Badge

An accomplishment that only demons

Cannot ignore

At judgment

 

C L Couch

 

THE HORRIFYING DEATH OF A SYRIAN INFANT UNDERSCORES THE BRUTALITY OF ASSAD’S SIEGE WARFARE “Sahar Dofdaa lived a tragically short and painful life. With sunken eyes and frail, protruding bones, the famished infant hardly stood a chance. Trapped in a Syrian conflict zone, her mother was too malnourished to breastfeed, and her father too impoverished to afford milk supplements.” [HuffPost]

 

3

Anna Mary Robertson

Anna Mary Robertson

 

I think of her often

 

She had cooked and cleaned

And run a farm and

Put up guests;

She sold the produce of her

Land and made

And sold potato chips

Of all things;

 

And in her seventies, she thought

She’d try to paint

Depicting life as it had come to

Her;

Someone who had a way

Espied her work in a place,

Thought it

Ready for

The nation—

It was:

 

To give it a name,

Call it simple, call it native, naïve,

Call it primitive.

She spoke through all the plains she painted,

And we listened.

 

Her last name was

And is

Moses,

And she had the better part

Of all of us;

Like her namesake, she

Led in prophecy

And simple, mere

World-changing delight,

A commemoration and a celebration

Of what is

Colorful and real and

Good.

 

C L Couch

 

photo found at WikiArt

 

0

Ordinary Rituals

Ordinary Rituals

 

How I brush my teeth

And break my fast

How I dress and drive the car

I have these

I think you do, too

 

C L Couch

1

Maybe I’m Not Human

Maybe I’m Not Human

 

Don’t listen to me

I am woman

What do I know

 

Please vote in place of me

Rule me in a democracy

Of one in which

I’m other

 

Am I human

Sometimes I must wonder

I should read up on this*

 

In the mean time,

I plot my course from

Ignominy

For, really,

How could I make my way without

You

 

Okay, now the nightmare’s over

I will make it so

Hear me howl across the ages into

Modern reckoning

I am here

I know

I love you

Now be with me

And let me be

 

*Dorothy Sayers was once asked in outrageous sincerity to pen an essay to the question “Are Women Human?”  She wrote, planting her tongue in her cheek and opening up her brilliant mind.  The title is eponymous of the question.  Please read the essay.  It’s good.

 

C L Couch

 

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/oct/07/womens-rights-are-on-the-retreat-yet-again-why?utm_source=esp&utm_medium=Email&utm_campaign=GU+Today+USA+-+Collections+2017&utm_term=247138&subid=16706344&CMP=GT_US_collection

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