troubadour
the scribe would write
holy
the troubadour
should
sing
everything
and should they be the same
they never were
so who wrote the epics
in between
that sometimes sound like holy wit
for
wisdom
and for warning
and come across for pleasure
in
the meeting place
long house
or
fires outside
in each season
when
and where
words shall save
for
entertainment
frankly
plus in telling
or implying
our own gospel
and will you come again
tomorrow
I must be on the way
to the next
place
where is the next place
stay for one more night so
we may sadly
tell you
the next morning
you are kind
for an audience
I shall stay
and gladly so
and so
the word got out through these
the news
rumors of news
what
to be ready for
at home
because of what’s developing
out there
and then
a song with verse
that has no meaning
and then
a song with verse
that has
a good night
for all our sakes
into
our heaven
hope for heaven
wills
tomorrow
by your leave
and mine
and God’s own
c l couch
photo by zibik on Unsplash
(x = space)
x
x
A Jazz Singer
(for Paul)
x
The jazz singer
Being Jewish in a
Family
x
Wanting to be famous
Have a talent
To be
Tested
And a wish to be excused
From doctrinaire
Behaviors
While accepted
For the seder
Or when showing up
As the schedule
In being famous
Might allow
x
A public
Served
Entertained
Inspired
Is that enough
Is that acceptable
Against
Acceptable
Through generations
x
And the ones
Unprodigal
Who keep it all
And might remember
Those
Who do return
x
Remember whom
The empty chair
Is for
And would
In turn
Be welcoming
From the prophet
Of the one
Who reconfigures things
To save
With pleasure
Inside notes and rhythms
For a larger
Needful
World
x
So keep the second chair
Upon
Returning
Leant against the wall
And ready
x
C L Couch
x
x
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash
x
Rainy Days and Mondays
(tribute, as it is)
She used the glissando too much
But was a fantastic singer
Then she got sick
I don’t know how it happens
Something in the head
The heart
The soul
We forget the present, cannot
See the future
Past is disconnected
Everything is disparate
Everything’s in pieces
Not that I knew her
I had an album, was all
And liked every selection
In the world, no big deal
But has only happened one other time
For me
The Eagles Greatest Hits
I even liked the baroquish piece
Fitting on the end of the first side
Telling us the singers had to leave
For now
To go to the bathroom
I don’t know how he handled it,
Her brother
Sad to say, I don’t know where he is
Or if he is
I can look it up
The death of the singer was a blip
In entertainment
Decades later, I am sad
Maybe more so
Untimely feels more untimely
Things that shouldn’t happen and that happen
Karen Carpenter is gone
We can say the music lives,
It does
When I have a stereo again
Because there’s been a dry spell
And a quiet one,
I’ll drop the record, as is said,
But, oh, so carefully
C L Couch
(drafted on a Monday)
Photo by Todd Quackenbush on Unsplash
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