I don’t know, a sentimental Friday? Cats and new seasons—well, please enjoy!
The Cats of Reykjavik
They wander
Like the wanderer
Singly
Sometimes together
They are sheltered
And presented at
The cat café
In town
There are thousands
They are welcome
All around
Like elves
And horses
And like these
Protected
Through acceptance
Also magic
And folklore
For there is a Christmas Cat
That urges you to
Shop for clothing in
The season
Otherwise be caught with old
And should the Christmas
Cat
Encounter you
Will eat you
(I’m thinking
worse than
Krampus)
(reacting to a souvenir and a little looking into it, into them, having Facebook and Instagram pages, by the way)
Come Fall Come Spring
As the new seasons
Approach
Fall in the north
Spring to the south
I hope you appreciate
The change
The opportunity
Encouraged
To think a little differently
Should it be time for
A different thought
A different way
Of thinking
Maybe
Allow yourself the chance
As might
Sweeten many things
Like autumn apples in the north
And full flowers to
The south
In the offing
Are new things
For new-ish people
Approach with care and yet
Approach
There are new colors
And new flowers
For you
C L Couch
Photo by Manny Moreno on Unsplash
(a cat of Reykjavik)
2 poems about the will of God
Last Will and Testament
My will
Then yours
I mess things up
Then turn to you
It’s a formula
I guess
Like knowing what I want Scripture to say
Then going to it
Shaking the Magic 8-Ball
Many times
Until it says
What I want it
To say
Doesn’t make much of a God of you
Which is a really stupid way
To think and act
Before a God
But you withhold
It seems
Act in return
With anger that is intimate
And telling
In that way
Though sometimes in the actual storm
That no one saw coming
As a penalty
And sign
Remembering at Last
I’m tired
I want
To write some
More
Without a thing to say
Meaning I want
To write
And have nothing
To say
That God is good
And loves you so much
That God is true
In being real
And being faithful
Perfectly
For you
Well
Out of nothing
That is a great deal
And the great deal about the Lord
Is simply to believe
And that is all
Something called grace
Free and easy
(always free
sometimes not easy)
Does the rest
And we shall meet
Where love has made a place for us
Just outside of Eden
With the angel
This time
Setting down the sword
Letting the fire go
To let us in
C L Couch
Photo by andrew solok 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.)
2 patriot verses
Patriot Dreams
I love my country
Though sometimes
It’s hard
To recognize
For violence
Yes
Also disorder
In the halls of politics
And justice
It seems that we all
Lean
Maybe time
To say so
And admit we can do better
Be larger
Than one interest
So to legislate
Even to judge
I am this
And I am that
My group is this
But I can care
Bigger than
That
And must
To make intact
And keep intact
The nation
From the privilege of chaos
And the run of evil
Ripping through
Any sense
Of unity
Faltered
Flawed
We can do better
Larger
Though the irony must be
That patriot feeling
And intent
Be shown in smaller
Ways
The things of families
And of neighborhoods
Leave me alone
Should not be our working words
Not since
We thought
To work out something
‘Gainst an empire
Knowing that
Solitary items matter
As matter
Individuals
Remember
Though
That birthing seems
Separate
But by necessities
Is actually conjoined
That dying
For some choices might be
Shared as well
That we are in our skins
And inside
Our interests
But we do better
Not for
Groupthink
But when we work it
Healthily
Together
By “patriot dream”
(ethereally good)
We may try
(waking
hale)
Vision
Turned like
Named and unnamed blocks
Into
Democratic strategy
And our
Republic’s practice
God save America
All Americas
And both hemispheres
A planet
Nation
For with reason
Any people
In
The world
May
Build this
Choices in smaller things
The easy things
Be easy
While we also have the larger
And complex
Thus
Vote for
Service
For security
Love of nation
Love of home
Families reconstructed
In any number
Blood
And also water
Both safely
Required
We share
The nation’s business
While invested
In
Our own
The larger one
Be ours
Indifferently approached
Perhaps
(check voting
statistics
far as well as near)
But we live on the promise that
We make this
(large
and small)
Our own
Sustaining it in
Quotidian
As well as come-November ways
C L Couch
Photo by Sardar Faizan on Unsplash
gospel according to excess
the White Queen
cried
what is this waste
that was
the Christmas
celebration
reminding me of
Fezziwig
and the few pounds it
took to make
a merry Christmas
for so many
people
and
Christmas is fine
and sad without it
but the point
is the excess
I guess
and all there it about it
what a waste
this Christmas is
and all
that is about it
and
do you keep the wrapping
paper pristine
or
relish
in the tearing of it
into useless parts
and then
with the trash bag
to go ‘round the tree
after
all the opening
is done
and it has been
a merry Christmas
so far
or a happy
birthday
or a Hanukkah
an Eid
or other celebration
of the wonder
in the living
and
if this is
waste
well
waste on
we need such
excesses
for tearing up the lines
the margins for our crayons
time to time
so
merry
anytime
and feel free to rip apart
(with some
small civility
perhaps)
bright paper
even the bag
it all
came in
c l couch
(English teacher notes)
The Chronicles of Narnia, "A Christmas Carol"
sweet-dreaming
why don’t we want
to sleep at
night
why do we ask instead
for one more story
one more sip of water
even a longer prayer
a bit of
conversation
with a grown-up
before
the lights are out
and we invest ourselves
inside
a blanket
and the sheet beneath
but here’s a wish
good night
good night
good night
clc
photo by Anton Darius on Unsplash
(like a metal lion on the door, freed of its metal ring)
a few poems for Sunday that for some—well, many—is a longer day not by the count of hours (minus seconds adding up toward Leap Year Day) but the clock that reckons with the strings of heart and mind and even metal, also pendula inside
A Monk Still in the Suburbs
Were there bells
I would not know when
They first struck
An hour
So ignorant am I of
The schedule of
A Book of Hours
Matins
Vespers
The in-betweens
And all-arounds
I have books
I can consult
But I don’t have the instinct
Bred by a lifetime
Even a part
Of a lifetime of devotion
I pray
But it’s my words
I read the Bible
When it suits
When I’m needing to find something
Or researching generally
Out of admittedly
A long life of following
And interest
But I can’t leave my cot
Lift up an over-
Robe (a cowl?) to don it
Over me
Place the hood on the right side
Of my head
So I may see
Then scoot myself in
Silence once again
Toward the chapel where we assemble
(peers and I) for
The first readings
The first rhythms of the day
Much worse
Were I a hermit
With accountability
Beyond a bedside clock
Perhaps
Next to which
A psalter gathers dust
But not the novels
Let’s face it
An anchorite I’m not
Nor a peer
For any monastery
I am brother me
At best
And sister me
As well
And if I have a robe
It’s for the shower
Or I might find for fun
Something Jedi=like
You know
For Hallowe’en
But I believe
And I reflect
I study and I read
(with eyes I have)
And pray nearly
All day long
In dialogue
Simply not according to
The holy schedule
Time Amok
And have we
(have I
yes
though sometimes
I tire of I
maybe you understand)
Thought so much
Of the world
Today
A water main has broken
In the town
And we (locally)
Must worry over
Boiling advisories as well as
Promises
Of timetables
And yet in Gaza
A place was hit
A school turned to a shelter
And some sixty people
Inside
Perished
And there’s a push at the border
Of Ukraine and Russia
With no doubt
A pushing back
While Iran wants to attack
Israel
Over the death of one
Of its own
While Israel
Closes in on itself
While keeping allies somewhere
Too
And in how many parts
Of the planet
‘Sides our own
Is there great flooding
With the consequences
And quake
And fire
Enough inside our cycles
Should we add them up
We could compose
New lists
Of plagues
For letting people go
Which is to say
It’s quite a world we live in
A planet we live on
And we have technology
To follow
More than ever
Better
(stronger
faster
Colonel Austin)
And
Hey
The Olympics close up soon
With all the claims for bragging rights
Displayed
And soon the second set
Will start
Impressive
Being second
(they try harder
as I think
Hertz or Avis
used to do)
Goodness
All the filaments
To make a globe into a lightbulb
Illuminating
All that may be seen
Unobfuscated
By agendas that go hiding
Certainly
I mean more than eyes
And also ears to hear
Or counting each one
All our limbs
For those for whom the count
Uniquely
Goes
(as these next Olympic exercises
show)
With what we have
And haven’t
Se may sense
And we may suss
Adding all we might receive
And so
Abstractly make
A world
To fill in with all the physical we know
And thus have
(from inside out)
What in school is called
A worldview
Our sense
(using sense)
Of how things are
And are perceived
And how we are
With these
Weather
Conflict permitting
Maybe we should each
Take a walk
A little ways
Today
To think
To feel
To probe on this
Like sonar
Radar
Laser
Microwaves
To find the Earth
That’s ours
Where we left it
Or where we pick it up
Anew
As if
Regardless of our age
But trying
Anyway
For the first
Time
Speaking for Joel Chandler Harris and Well Me
I don’t know how correct
Br’er Rabbit is
I mean
I read the Wren’s Nest
And I see the photographs
More so
I want to get
The colors right
That Uncle Remus lay
With Mister Harris
Behind
But it’s
You see
A memory
On records
(those flat black round things
we used to play
that have come back)
And we would hear for hours
About Br’er Bear
Br’er Fox
Br’er Rabbit
And also of the Tar Baby
Black
But what do you want for tar
Which is to say
I want someone more
Expedient and also longer than I am
To tell me
What’s all right
Down South
And in the Yankee land
To keep ol’ Remus in my head
Which by the way
He won’t be leaving
Anyway
Though I’ll hush up about it
If I should
C L Couch
Photo by Hans Eiskonen on Unsplash
Is There a Chapbook in the House
Brown Bread
(not the English expression, thank you)
The angel
And the angel
Sat
And talked
One angel older
So to say
(in heaven years are
reckoned
differently
I’m sure)
The other like an apprentice
Angel
Really
So may I say
Old and young
(portrayed by
Fred Gwynne
and Johnny Whittaker
respectively)
And the older angel spoke
Of brown bread
His mother
Had made
And served
When he was young
The brown bread
Was a totem
I suppose
Though it was firstly
Soft
Inviting
And maybe to the older angel
When a boy
His mother felt that way
As well
It’s not proper
Transmogrification
Since
Angels are
Or were not
People
But the story
With the brown bread has
Stayed with me
From when I was a child
To who I am
These days
(this was in a production of The Littlest Angel on TV from 1960-something)
Morning Becomes Electrons
(sorry for the pun and also all the parenthetically)
I woke up
Through a process
Of default
And rose
The creaks protesting
Or maybe the body’s fine
And it was
My spirit that protested
Either way was up
And made some coffee
Should have cleaned the cup
But counted on hot water
Doing that
Some sort of
Hygienic transmutation
As a spell
Provided by the fine
Black machine
I should have pulled
Some yogurt from
The fridge
But I couldn’t bear the prospect
Though I like
The yogurt
But eating something
Did not appeal
Maybe due to meatloaf
I had feasted
On the night
Before
And so with the cup
I sauntered over here
Re-worked
The pillows and
Got down
Physically
And also in my attitude
Half-closed
Half-opened set
To work
For this is my work
To write
Most days
First thing
It is
Like waking
A default of discipline
Something I mean to do
And has vitality
In action
And in purpose
(if closed in
and also nothing like
laps around a track
around
a field
and has no trophy at the end
but some words
that for now become
a long aside)
And I shall what I say not
Like Pharaoh in the
Movie who
Scripted
Commanded
Something
(like the thwarting of the stepson
Charlton Heston)
To be written
To be done
But some words
Set down
Without the noise
Of touch-typing
In fact
With hardly any noise
At all
And were an office filled with these
Machines
And everyone at work
Would make a symphony
Of padded sounds
But I write
(my padding)
And hope to write some
More
With your permission
Your allowance
Of machine time
Electricity
That doesn’t hum
But somehow in the background
Sings
Sense and Sensation
Sometimes
The caffeine
I believe
Contributes to a sense
A moment of
Satisfaction
With the world
And for the moment what
I’m doing for it
Not egoistically but
As a contribution
Nonetheless
As if I have a part
To play
And I am parting it and
Playing it
And satisfaction
Yes
Shall be mine
For a little while
Maybe a second cup
As well
Or simply rest here
And tap idly
For a while
Being pleased with myself
Will not last
And I might wonder
Later
How I got so far
Like a journey’s end
Barely having started
Supplies
And first steps
Unapproved
Last Words
And shall I take
To something short
For the satisfaction of
The two of us
And more upon the page
For something else
If after
I should leave it blank
And you might say something
Without the need
For margin-cramming but
Have half the page
Or so
To say something that you mean to
And in a crawl
Be so much bigger than
My fonting
Ever meant
To make it
Words
And messaging
You win
Thank goodness
Say the Word
There is great worth
In only
A single word
Such value in the unit
Of such measuring
You set down
You look
You hear
You might revise
Like taking out the “the”
And adding “a”
As if in a contest
Erstwhile
Though there will be a word
To keep
And then another
Maybe by accident
The cat’s
Secret name
(Monty Python, T. S. Eliot)
Is There a Chapbook in the House of Atreus
(or Atreides)
I write some
Things
They form a string
Maybe sensations in
The sounds
Made up inside my head
Or you
You might even read
Out loud
Once you have
It all
There is meaning in the
Units
Some morphology
At work
To be identifiable
By an -ologist
Symbol
Totem
Anything to indicate
The meaning might be shared
Arrangements
Appreciated
Unique expressions
With allusions
Something sort of recognizable
But all mine
Now all yours
From the banks of what’s been ours
To keep
And withdraw
From all the ages’
Rendering
And keeping
For application
Even in the crazy moments
Such as now
When you receive
All this
With you
And me
The ages’ recollection
Of it all
What’s been
Become
After us
Or at least later on
New
Artifacts
New patterns
Providing for the exigent
Nonce
New choices that
Can be
Newly expressed
Serving
Newly meant
30
C L Couch
Photo by Daniel Olah on Unsplash
Orbs of the Multiverse, my new Soap & Oil Planet series.
(I thought it looked like Dune.)
Out of Cosmogony
(that is, 2 poems from out of the arrangement of things, however fancifully)
The Place of Drones
Should someone set me
Atop
One tower or the other
Of the gate
On the bridge
That is not golden
Save in metaphor
Well
I better be an angel
Delighting in
The lack of restraint
Being so high
And so perilous
A perch
That I could slide
Down the cable
Or merely leap
Into the Lord’s
Good atmosphere
Between the particles
The humans
Tragically
Provide
And is this how
The angels
Who aren’t demons
Do it
Which is
To set themselves high
Or low
To have the better vantages
Scouting for assignments
Maybe the demons
Lie this way as well
With
Or without wings
Sacrificed
Mything Pages
And
Do I have
Anything for you
Today
How about
A word of God
That was a word
In the beginning
To make
Everything
Thus
Setting precedent
For spells
Inside fantastic
Stories
About making smaller
Things
Admittedly
Though wondrous
In eldritch hue
And timing
All the same
That
Someone said
Is the meaning behind miracles
The usual thing
And yet
The timing
Is extraordinary
Is saving
In fact
Of dwarves in trees
Or the royal child
Trapped in
The tower
Before
An evil pretender
With forces
Breaks into
The easily
Barricaded chamber
While such
Are stories
And creation
Is a story
Too
Recalling
That the myth
Is grounded
In the real
And our fantastic tellings
Overdone
Or undertoned
Are actual
When happening
Before becoming
Passages
And chapters
(John 1:1)
C L Couch
Photo by Syd Wachs on Unsplash
3 poems and each might stand (I hope) though together indicate a consequential process
What It Takes
The clock
Caught my attention
Because the hour
Had just turned
I prayed
Some praise
Some gratitude
Confession
Both for what I did
And what I should have done
An asking
Words about love
More thanks
A kind of pledge
About doing better
Then
Amen
I prayed what I meant
To pray
And looked up
Caught by the clock again
Four minutes
Four minutes
Maybe a hundred words
Out of this hour
And this day
Of such greater length
God willing
Imbalanced
I know
Terrible things have happened
In the past
And in the present
And we could guess into the future
But we’re taken up with
Wounds
And hunger
Inside ruins
Newly made
And if we could only keen
For natural disasters
Eruptions
Other explosions
Fires we say that rage
Winter storms
With hail
Sudden deprivations
From what developed
Unexpectedly
Then fell
Or rose upon us
Destroyed some of part of us
And will try for more next
Time
And time again
We could devote our science
And our military
Toward prevention
Preparation
Rescue
Restoration
And it would be hard
And often would be sad
And worse in tragedy that
Tears at us
As wars compounded
And the crimes we make
Tear at us
Even deeply
More bloodied
Threatening to take out
All the vital things
That make us
Us
The awfulness of now
And how we do things
Though not everything
Revealing
Promise
In an hour of today
When we let the fields and towns
By plan or by surprise
Be silent
And then we let in
Aid
Or help each other
Anyway
There’s hope in us
You see
Some want annihilation
Crazily
Some go for anarchy
Alike
And some are merely profiteering
On which side
Every side
That buys
But there’s that part
That quiet part
That then protests
That stands in front of weapons
Without weapons
Teaching us
Reminding us
Of how to stand
And how to act
To give ourselves a chance
All of us
The human race
To be
Simply to be
And then do better
With better
Vital
Parts of us
Don’t Forget the Two Parts Out of Three
Then
Or in the midst of it
There’s time
And willingness
To play
Even on a square we find
And sticks
And fashioning round things
For our
Projectiles
Or with time
We go to our closets
Root around
And
(funny)
Root for roots
The ancient games
With gloves and such
We used to play
And might not fit
But we’ll use
Something
And we’ll recreate
Which also might recall
How we had been made
To work
To play
To rest
The first
Time with
Our families
Or friends we met as children
On the street
(urban
suburban
sural)
And then picked up
The games
And rested after
In the shade
And then
Took jobs
And thought the rest
Unnecessary
Even rest
(in the shade)
Though we can have that
Now again
And should
C L Couch
Photo by Callum Hill on Unsplash
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