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Greenwood

(x = space)

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Greenwood

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Pleasant name, pleasant place,

I’m sure

But a hundred years ago

The neighborhood was burning,

Smoldering, ruining

Owners gone or rounded up, arrested,

And confined

And it would take a hundred years

To talk about at all,

At all well

x

A campaign of hours,

One side had more guns

And a pretense of law enforcement

That on other days

Might have worked fine

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But now

So many deputized

Self-deputized

More simply self-righteous

Took aim, fired

Then burned buildings,

One of the first of them a church

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Were they prideful,

The Greenwood people?

Did they enjoy their luxury?

A colony of prosperity

In what turned out to be

Enemy-occupied land,

Though they had helped

To fight the war

Against the worst

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Say what you will,

There is relief in owning something

And despair when it is taken—maybe

You know the feeling

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So many who lost more

And life as more

x

And had evidence

Of their lives

Buried without markings,

Without marking the

Rage and guilt

That killed them

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But it’s in such a pleasant

Place

And the neighborhood so

Pleasantly named,

Imbued with rest

That someday will return

To those who know it best for

Want,

For dreaming

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C L Couch

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Photo by Hayden Scott on Unsplash

Tulsa, OK

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City Of Tulsa To Resume Search For Possible Mass Graves At Oaklawn Cemetery (news9.com)

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Victory at Sea

(x = space)

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Victory at Sea

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The sadness

That so much is done,

So much never started

But then I’d want

Eternity here and now

Everything

All possibilities

From which to choose

And choose again

To get it right

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Would that Earth

Could turn peacefully

So that choices might

Be made from

Wisdom and from joy

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But too many

Steal podiums to say

Beat the other side,

Don’t hesitate

To shoot

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The second problem is

That hate will shoot back,

And when our

Magazines are empty

There is only peace

In death, that is,

Lives taken

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Sibling murder

We pretend the other

Is not human

But a target for our rage,

For demon-stoked

Disapproval

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This is so the world is mine,

Rendered in my own image

With death the medium

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Would that

Famous people

Would shut up

And listen to the Earth

For a while

Then listen to us,

Which is nearly all of us

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Pain, thirst

All kinds of ideas

And agendas

Find them

Find the stories

Hear them

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Let change happen

Speak to it

Let peace prevail

And every other goodness

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Favorite recipes

Homemade holidays

Comfortable shoes

Barefoot where the Earth

Is welcoming

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We welcome each other

Sparing the lives that only

Insanity demands

And criminality

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There is little more to say

Stop destroying

Leave self-righteousness to God

From whom we can learn about

Justice

And safe water

And living as if everything

Is home

For everyone

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C L Couch

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The title is taken from a TV series about bravery in war.  Music by Richard Rodgers.

To be at sea also means to be adrift.  Wanting to head for home.

(Not that the ship in the image is adrift, as in having no control. I don’t know.  The ship looks lonely, though.)

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Photo by Javier Balseiro on Unsplash

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2

Catechesis, Parts 1 and 2

(x = space)

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Catechesis, Part 1

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questions

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I got up in time,

Sort of

How did you do?

Is it a good day?

Are things going well?

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I missed my turn at prayer

The group went on

And I hope the quiet praying

Counted

I don’t know the protocols

On Earth, in heaven

So well

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I fact,

When I feel my tether pulled,

So to speak,

On Earth or heaven,

I ask, existentially

What do you want of me?

And Who are you?

Asking anything of me

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Not that I take it amiss

I have time

Enough lack of direction

That I may respond happily,

Given

Something good to do

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Catechesis, Part 2

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answers

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You are God,

I think,

Maker of all things

That must mean good and bad

Downright evil

Or so frustrating that

Some of us

Might want

To scream and do

So you are the God

Of good things and bad things

And evil things

Supposing the delightful things as well

Spring and picnics in good weather,

Cool water, wine,

And sex

Beside still waters

(metaphorically at least)

You are with us

In all things,

Somehow excused of voyeurism,

Which might be why

The seraphim have so many eyes apiece

So that one eye or another

Might be closed

With no loss to function, overall

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Anyway,

You want of us to love

To love you

To accept love from you,

Which isn’t a done deal

You know, during

Those awful times

When so much has been lost

To the dark

Forever night

Without night’s comforts

‘Til a white sun rises over day,

All our empty landscapes

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You are there

Maybe we’ll excuse this

One way or the other

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C L Couch

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Photo by Avery D’Alessandro on Unsplash

Brugge, Belgium

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3 brief poems for the new year

3 brief poems for the new year

(x = space)

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May I Sell You a Machine?

(end of December)

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According to commercials

At this time of year,

We should be losing weight

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Grinding on exercise machines,

Finding our food in a box,

Engaging meditation maybe

Thirty seconds, maybe

Less

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I suppose the box companies

Are doing well

And companies that make

Machines—I wonder

That machines are always doing well

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We lose weight,

They weigh us down

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Contemporarities

(2021)

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God, help us in new years

Whenever they begin

In calendars,

In life

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When someone dies,

When someone comes to life

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Because she or he is born,

Because there is a return

To life

After pain, as she says

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When the formal feeling comes

And something after

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Our Sci-Fi Lives

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Now is the science-fiction time,

Far enough into

The twenty-first century

That we may have some expectations

For reverse magnetism

And anti-gravity

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For cities in the air and mining solely

By machines, enough that humans

Have jobs again

In new alliances

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But we know how to fix it, at least

I hope we do,

The Earth that we have harmed;

And when we go, the missions we take

With us will not harm

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C L Couch

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I was a suburban kid but grew up in or near mining and steel-making country.  And our city fell apart when the industries fell apart.  If they could come back in local and safe ways, I should be relieved and very glad.

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After great pain, a formal feeling comes –

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –

The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’

And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

. . .

Emily Dickinson

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Photo by Fabrício Severo on Unsplash

Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral, Bishop Street, The Lough, Cork, Irlanda

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2 poems about the snow

2 poems about the snow that’s on its way

(and now is falling)

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Happy Weather People

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The sky is full

Nothing surprising there

It should be snowing soon

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I don’t like where

The car is parked,

Though I suppose anywhere

Along the street

It’s going to be plowed against

When the trucks with the

Big blades go by

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Records will be broken,

So they say;

The forecasters actually are

Excited on the TV screen

With big maps projected behind

Them—well, sure things

Probably don’t

Come their way so often,

Lucky them

For now

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New Testament

(December, MidAtlantic USA)

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Yes, it’s cold

For now, I’m not worried

Should I lose the electricity,

I might die

But I’m inside

Not everyone gets to be

And some are inside hospitals

Too many, in fact

Because the disease

Is moving toward a spike, again

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There is a better message

Still to be sworn in

And better methods in the offing

We’ll all get our shots,

Eventually

And deal with side effects

The chart will have point

And then slide down

The other side

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At least, that’s the plan

Many people

Even when silenced

Or at least shouted down

Have worked on this

And we need

To trust their skill,

Attested by the numbers

Going down

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And we can say

This was

Our generation’s 1918 influenza

To count

To bury

And to weep

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C L Couch

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Photo by Andrew Ridley on Unsplash

Cairngorms National Park, Ballater, United Kingdom

National Park, Ballater, United Kingdom

Pile of Leaves

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2 poems about parochial gods

(x = space)

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2 poems about parochial gods

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Anvil-Thinking

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Sheesh, I wake up with more

Headaches

Under the metal

Of the skin

Someone has been hitting with

A hammer while I slept

Or gave a go

x

To anyone who suffers

With these things,

I’m sorry;

For those of you around them,

Take a moment to consider

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I don’t know if it’s pollution

Of some kind

Or the tyranny of thought

That keeps us from free thinking

x

Well, more power

To you from the utility

Of time and grace

And maybe a surprise, that if

We try everything we know

(keep it safe, please—no

candles in the ear)

Then both of us will have

A better morning,

Thanks to

Maybe all our household gods

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Leave an offering

Of grain upon the hearth

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Photo by Bruce Kee on Unsplash

Patrica, Italy

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No Contest

(1 Kings 18:20-40)*

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Are there false gods

Or gods who are false?

Are there true gods

Who like to lie

And treat penitents with

Indiscretion?

Does Ba’al not exist

Or did it not give its profits

What they wanted?

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Maybe it cows before

The God of Israel

Who holds the truth

That displays

Are for the chumps

While true belief

Has no need

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And so Elijah won

The contest because to him

It was no deal:

Light a fire on wet wood?

Not only is it nothing

It proves nothing

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Belief is a fire

Somewhere else,

And faith lives out a lifestyle of

Easy miracles

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https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20Kings%2018:20-40&version=ESV

*verse 40 is especially brutal

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Photo by sarina gr on Unsplash

Forest

Campfire at night!

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C L Couch

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3

Reading Romance, Gothica (two poems)

(x = space)

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Reading Romance, Gothica (two poems)

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Reading Romance

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Standing there,

Waiting for approval,

The ingenue wonders

If she should

Enter the room

x

Strangers, unaware,

Are dancing to a

Waltz she’s known

Since childhood

Always listening

From the stairs,

A risky place for

Children, though with

Darkness behind

And light pouring from

The party floor,

Sneaking a look at

Parties was

Irresistible

x

I’m sure you understand

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Now she’s here,

Inside the first

Arc, grown up

Into her story:

Does someone wait

Inside?  Should

She remain inside

The question mark

Or take another step

Step toward

Confirmation,

The start of

Act 5, then

Resolution?

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Questions demand

Answers; they

Crawl along the

Bannister; she’ll

Take the step

So we might breathe

Into the

Final chapters

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Gothica

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Tarn,

A Gothic word

For swamp

(try moor

in the British Isles)

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I look up through

The window

At black branches

Fronting a sky of unformed

Cloud, tunneling

Everything to gray

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November’s tilting;

We head

Toward winter’s reign,

Cold and gloomy

All our storytelling

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There might be a

Ghost—there certainly

Will be ghosts

Inhabiting one place,

One will or another

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The house that

Has a crack in it,

Ready to descend

With all the

Failing generations

(I think you know

the one I mean)

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But there’s

A house of every heart,

A sprit calling

At the door or, when

Unattended,

Wailing like a banshee

Uncommissioned

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Everything will

Open and then close up

At the last

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A deserted house—the

Tarn shall have it

(the swamp, the moor)

From which may

Emerge new

Heroes to try

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C L Couch

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Photo by Tim Rebkavets on Unsplash

Eltz Castle, Wierschem, Germany

We woke up at 3am so we could drive to Germany. We arrived just in time for sunrise and that’s how this shot came to live. The reflection was made with the reflection of the screen of my phone.

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Missing at Home

(x = space)

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Missing at Home

(Veterans Day, Remembrance Day 2020)

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“A Soldier of the

Great War”

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Let’s not miss the irony

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While (more so)

Missing the life

All the lives

That used to be young

People (other ages,

too)

Of both genders

Who served each other

And the national

Cause

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So many who can’t,

Naturally (or unnaturally)

Enough, remember

Anything

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We must remember them

And for them

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C L Couch

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Photo by Cross-Keys Media on Unsplash

Thiepval, France

The grave of an unknown soldier at the World War One British memorial to the missing of the Somme.

Over here, we called it “the war to end all wars.”

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Asking Questions, Desert Mother

(x = space,

because I can’t cut and paste

using the new WordPress editor—

grrr)

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Asking Questions, Desert Mother

(two poems)

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Asking Questions

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After the years,

Asking questions that

Could be left to children:

What do I want to

Be when

I grow up?

What do you want

Of me, dear Lord,

Or anyone (else)

Who cares?

How do I give without

Being taken in?

(okay, this question

more for the grown-up, maybe

embittered)

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And do we

Always ask these questions,

Or is it more rarefied

To do so?

Or simply strange

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There is a wider

World of happenings,

Some brutal and, well,

Simply bad

Though much of it

Is beautiful,

Inside and outside human

Flesh and in

The natures we’ve been given,

The nature of ourselves and

The nature of the planet

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These days, especially, it’s

Not hard to find out

What’s going on,

Though much remains

Hidden by

The agenda-hiders, which

Is regrettable

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All shall be known,

Eventually

And it might go hard

But, you know, for now

Let’s keep asking questions

Of ourselves,

Our world,

And of God

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Let’s take lifetimes, then,

To learn to ask

And then be satisfied with

What we learn

When asking,

Because we’re still outside the gate

Often forgetting there’s

Paradise nearby

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Desert Mother

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I have a sharp pain

In my foot

To distract me

From the headache

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I guess this is

Negotiation with the

Lord

Who made me

And tasks me

In such ways

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I am old

And beyond children

Except the ones

I talk to

In this way

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Whether or not I’m heard

I shall not know

Because I’m here

And they

And you

Are there

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When I am

In heaven, I still

Might not know how

The children of

Earth have done

Until you are old,

Then sleep

As I have done

And wake to me

And all the rest

Who have been waiting

For you

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And, yes,

We have other things

To do here

So will you

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C L Couch

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Photo by Michael Milverton on Unsplash

Wylie Bay Rd, Bandy Creek WA 6450, Australia, Bandy Creek

Sand Sand Everywhere

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