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two poems about associating

two poems about associating

 

 

(drafted today)

Loony Like a Tune

 

I don’t know much

But I know this

Carson City is the capital of Nevada

Bugs Bunny told me so

I think he was being pressed

By Yosemite Sam

 

I don’t mean to push a copyright

This was the stuff of childhood

I remember things

Associations

My older brother and I once

Ran around the basement,

Making woop-woop sounds because the

Three Stooges were on TV

 

And because I read about the Hardy boys

I found something good in reading

Read other things

And became the English teacher

 

Who owns these associations?

I have to wonder

We own our minds

In spite of agendas toward dystopia

And sometimes cultic ravings

 

I think I still need my

Cartoons and my easygoing stories

Found in books with little weight

We never know when a bad,

Mechanistic idea might

Come along

One response

To act like a fourth

Stooge rather than a minion

 

That last stanza looks like Minnesota

I wonder what cartoons

They need up there

 

 

(drafted yesterday, I realize)

Allusion

(an argument I’m never going to have)

 

You think I do this because

I don’t know enough words

Please

It has meaning

You know this when you use it

Home of the brave

The seventh-inning stretch

Lady Macbeth

She doth protest too much

(who is not that lady)

The referencing ties us all

In ties that bind

Silken cords, I imagine

(and I borrow)

And we refer to Genesis or anything

To say like Whos to Horton,

We are here

 

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Mark Olsen on Unsplash

Panther Pond, ME

Mother Loon Shakes Off

 

 

Attending Nuclei

Attending Nuclei

 

The spirit of God

Moves across the water

In the bathtub, not because

It’s trivial but because

It’s everywhere

Breathing, laughing, cajoling

Cleaning

As a spirit of God should

 

Present at creation, making

Things happen, here

And there

Inside the tree but not the tree

 

Taking part in everything

That’s made

And with us when

We’re washing dishes

More water

 

Water and air, we need them

Nothing lives without them

Except maybe anerobic cells

That might still cry out

From time to time

For a sip

Adding a speaker to

The microscope to hear

For all the cells

 

For all the grocery lists

For prayer at breakfast

For flat tires and new children

New cells on everyone

Everything that every second frames

 

Here endeth not so much

A lesson;

Here starteth—starts–a

Day of days worth knowing

Because when we want,

We find

The day and knowing it

Astounding

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Camilo Fierro on Unsplash

 

Bible Angels

Bible Angels

 

If I were in a market place

Four thousand years ago

And an angel came to me,

Would I laugh as Sarah laughed?

It would be understandable

 

We try it now

In comedies

Sometimes in melodrama

But it’s a tragedy of belief to have

The recognition come too late,

And so it never does

Tell Sodom and Gomorrah

And days before the rain

That meant the ark

Must be sealed

I’m sorry, but sometimes

There’s providence in this

 

But after rain

I have an angel on my shoulder

A miracle in my pocket

And King Jesus is my all

So that when I sing it

Sing it, too

There’s a

Choral host somewhere

Joining in

 

It was an angel, ordered

Painting red the lintels

Who lived inside the clouds

And pillars of fire by night

 

They bear news

It isn’t always good

Fear not

Have faith

We are nothing but the thing with feathers

Inside there is nothing but

The will of God

 

We warred in heaven

Tempered is the remnant

Choice assignments

Sometimes we act with tears

We all know why

There are lamentations

 

We will cry the end

We’ve been there

And cry once more for joy

In what is found afterward

For our keeping

 

C L Couch

 

 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul . . .

Emily Dickinson

 

 

Photo by Allan Rolim on Unsplash

Paraná, Londrina, Brasil

 

Reading the Next Day

Reading the Next Day

 

Going back to reading what

Was written

Sometimes there’s little sense

Like looking back on doodles

Or freewriting

Looking back on other things

That’s harder

Talking with fewer people in old age

Means less chance for faux pas

Or maybe it’s reclusion

Only

I don’t need a bigger pile

Piling in the in-box

Who does?

 

I go back to what I read

Having picked it up in the middle of the night

Because I wasn’t sleeping yet

And a story called

(I’m not sure who was more at fault)

When I return

Will I be welcome?

Will I be welcomed again?

I mean, yes, I bought the thing

But there’s more

An invitation

Riding like the girl who

Delivered most of the news

From Paul Revere

The book is here:

Will I take the message?

Will I accept responsibility for

Interpretation, then dissemination

Throughout the land?

 

You see, clearly there are questions

And there’s pressure

A lady or a tiger

Re-reading yesterday’s

New pages

In new hours

And then there’s what I’ve written

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Prasanna Kumar on Unsplash

Besant nagar beach, Chennai, India

Books, most loyal friends.

 

If true, Ludington’s story puts Revere’s to shame, writes Valerie DeBenedette for Mental Floss. She “rode twice as far as Revere did, by herself, over bad roads and in an area roamed by outlaws, to raise Patriot troops to fight in the Battle of Danbury and the Battle of Ridgefield in Connecticut,” DeBenedette writes. “And did we mention it was raining?”

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonianmag/was-there-really-teenage-female-paul-revere-180962993/

 

Voices

Voices

 

When I say I

Do I mean you?

I think so

Better, I mean we,

Which is why to write this down

Oh, there’s an aiming for

Catharsis, I suppose

Even the wonderment in sharing

Engagement, interaction

Argument of the classical kind

We are dealing in close matters,

After all

 

But this can’t be exercise for me

No, not nearly enough

I’d keep it and never let it out

There is or should be a need to catch it

An interest in lifting the glove

I will do what I can

And hope you’ll join me in the yard

Where we can wad this up

Listen to it krinkle

Who knows, there might be have some weight

To throw it like a ball

Certainly,

It shouldn’t stove our fingers

Not for that reason

 

We can play catch until

It’s time to go inside

Where I’ll write something new

You can, too

I won’t persuade you

We’ll have more to talk about

And more with which to play

 

C L Couch

 

 

BTS Pop Store, Paris, France

Photo by Rots Marie-Hélène on Unsplash

 

Dear Santa Claus,

Dear Santa Claus,

(not a child’s letter)

 

I believe in you

All the yous

We’ve owned some magic

From the original story

Though I try to keep

The faith from that one,

Too

We wish, don’t we?

We wish like another saint

That all be well

She has more faith than I,

Claiming that

“All shall be well”

But I have hope

I don’t have much to ask

This year except for

Reading glasses, extra-large socks

(they feel better)

Maybe, maybe a new winter

Coat—in these parts, it does get cold

Wait, how boring is my list?

Each day bears its own need for wishes

I can take part in these

If my list should go beyond

Then

I can ask for love, romantic and

Erotic (yes, at my age)

Though really

The kind that keeps

Not only on a shelf (in case I should

apologize for all the elves)

But on both sides

Of the doors

Of the human hearts

Involved

So I’ll close, dear Santa Claus

Thanking you for Sandy Paws

And all the softer

And the harder things that

I must keep for Christmas

Trying for year-‘round

With love

And respect,

Robin

 

C L Couch

 

A Note on Names

 

Robin

Is a nickname

For Christopher,

Hood, or Goodfellow

I’d choose Topper second

But neither name of these names counts

The rules say nicknames

Can’t be self-selected

(though Lewis somehow decided on

“Jack” and got to keep it),

Rather gained, for better or worse,

At home or on the playground

By good fellows

(male and female)

 

Or maybe, maybe in a hundred-acre wood

When we were

Very young

 

teddy bear slippers

Image by TanteTati from Pixabay

 

(image above) Vincent Guth on Unsplash

Mývatn, Iceland

Iceland lake, Northern Lights

 

Christmas Ghosts

Christmas Ghosts

(for anyone when looking at the lights is sad)

 

Christmas ghosts

They come a-haunting

Like eldritch carolers

Singing of the past

Offering misery for the present

I don’t know how to get rid of them

 

Maybe we need to

Invite them in

Drink their eggnog for them

Actually, I don’t think anything spiked

Will do

Open a present from the future, maybe

Letting life go on

Remove a shackle of the holiday

Leave it nearby, if need be

Allow something to be new

The snow, if snow

A phone call with an acquaintance

Something that is mild

Like a babe when sleeping

And sleep, too, you should

Maybe leave a light on

Of an unusual color

For season when a miracle

Or matter of will,

A gentle exorcism

Might happen

 

C L Couch

 

 

Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

Letchworth Garden City, United Kingdom

lights of Christmas

 

 

Something Sacred This Way Comes

Something Sacred This Way Comes

 

The tyranny of religion

Has called up wars, which we can do, anyway

On our own, thank you very much

 

Has forestalled advances in astronomy and

Hygiene (Christians took cold baths because

Muslim took hot ones)

Has decided what we read

And how to think,

Making translation and the Reformation

Dangerous

 

The problem is not Catholic

Any denomination

Or a group formed last night

Becomes an orthodoxy

And so finds a way to rust thought over

Given time, it always happens

 

The bigger problem should be keeping

God in a box

God might be in there

But I think we measure better when we witness

God everywhere

In the pit or in the sky

Or on our middle Earth between

 

God has created old

And re-creates in everything that’s new

We give God shelf life

We feared

The smells inside the tomb

From death and execution

So we, as they, thought

But God was fresh that day, because there’s

Nothing newer, once first made,

Than resurrection

 

This is for Christians, though the problem

Lay on each one’s lintel

God is ancient; God is new

We should know this when we breathe

To give ourselves green opportunities

Not to reinvent the world each day

Until the day it’s called for

But revel in the many cells that rise up in

Creation overnight

 

Morning has broken

Midnight, too

Ancient of days

Makes new,

Dropped on the horizon

Folded into hills

Pressed over the plains

And pushed into water

 

Orthodoxy isn’t bad

But don’t forget

That in a favorite story

The Tin Man needs anointing,

Which is ongoing

 

Join me for church today

(it’s happening somewhere)

Maybe we’ll remember that we’re old

And also facing something delightfully unknown

 

C L Couch

 

 

Rennett Stowe from USA – Saint Francis of Assisi, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=26302833

 

Life on the Stairs

Life on the Stairs

 

Lights, not so much action

I got dressed to go downstairs

There might be neighbors out

Not that there’s a code except

For fire extinguishers

But decorum here and there,

Only a little,

Is just fine

 

Could this be retirement

(if so, a rehearsal for)

A quieting of life in stages?

Contemplatives want this

Though I don’t have a card

Maybe I could take a class

In silence as a sacrament

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Boba Jovanovic on Unsplash

 

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