Search

clcouch123

I talk you talk we'll talk

Month

May 2016

That ‘70s Show

That ‘70s Show

 

The seventies were strange

Times—we were trying to find

Ourselves, though had to be

Told first that we were lost

 

We were the TV generation;

We drank Coke, the real thing,

And sixties protest signs

Became seventies pop art

 

I tried TM, tried to find out if

I am okay, because you are; I

Was too young for this, but it

Was the world we had

 

The generation before had

Failed us not simply for not

Respecting or responding to

Our questions but also for

 

Confessing that the life it

Would leave for us might and

Likely not be better than

Before (what the earlier

 

Generations owned)—we

Could protest with polyester

And acrylic, leisure-suits and

Lounge-lizarding; we could

 

Disco until we were done,

Then pack away our hopes

In a Star Wars kit bag, because

Leaving our universe back

 

And far away gave better

Light than warring over oil,

Other energies at home and

Abroad in new draft lotteries

 

Our cordless phones were

Bricks or in our muscled cars—

And something called the

Personal computer horizoned

 

We left narrow lapels and

Ties behind, prepared for E.T.

Calling, then Buelller leaving

Off the decade’s happy days

For the Squeaking Door I Don’t Have

For the Squeaking Door I Don’t Have

 

I make noises like a squeaking door

When I get up from sitting cross-legged

On the bed, where I’ve been tapping

On the laptop surface that sits in front

Of me, there

 

I make the noises verbally, that is—for

Now, my joints are fine

 

I don’t know, it’s my way to speak into

The silence and the solitude: a way to

Say, I’m here

 

For all the world to respond to, which,

Of course, it doesn’t

Psalm 42, song about who judges

 

Psalm 42

song about who judges

 

Lord, I hope

My enemies never

Have another good

Day

 

Which is why

It’s good that I don’t

Judge with divine

Power but

Leave that up to

You

 

It’s your job

You do it perfectly

And Now One Is Found

And Now One Is Found

 

The Nigerian schoolgirls

(hashtag)BringBackOurGirls

Remember

 

How would we

Understand two hundred

Seventy

 

How would such a number

Be taken without our

Noticing

 

In what kind of truck

And to what place all

Hidden

 

In our neighborhood-filled

Planet-parts, this is

Hard

 

From our earthen places

We cannot count

How

 

But in part we can’t believe

Not because it didn’t

Happen

 

Tragically, criminally,

Numerically—what transpired

Transpired

 

And with our questions and

New trepidations here is her

Body

 

Now we have her with

Child and husband on the fringes

Found

 

We can understand, now

Perhaps, a new story of

One

MS804

MS804

 

While they were up there

God took them home

Not to be taken as a platitude

Anger remains below

 

Confusion, aching concern

Managing all that’s in

The brain and

The human heart

That breaks in the world

 

Around, while more loss

Is measured out

And poured over like

Ashes, reminders that peace

Is not on board

Above or on the ground

 

War of attack

War of flawed things

The first mark being profit

Safety will never work as second

Psalm 41, steward’s song

Psalm 41

steward’s song

 

You are God

Female and male

You are king

 

I am servant

And for work

I am steward

 

We are bound

Guardians and

Keepers

 

Whose lord

Returns one day

To take an

 

Accounting

What was made

And shared

 

For what we’ve

Possessed

Earth-infancy

Psalm 40, song about the mind of God

Psalm  40

song about the mind of God

 

Lord, we think we know

You—and we don’t

 

Otherwise, everything we

Do would be waged in

Love

Psalm 39, a psalm of lament

Psalm 39

a psalm of lament

 

Why must we kill each

Other, Lord?  Why is

Cain more of an

Example than a single

Lesson?

 

Your word tells us to

Love; yet you have

Commanded war, I

Know—does war work

When you are its

General?

 

We kill each other in

Small ways as well

 

In kindness withheld,

All respect scorned,

And in quotidian

Wounding that will not

Subside, such is our

Wayward will

 

And lack of empathy

 

Keep showing us the

Better way, O Lord

 

And when we must be

Brutal, let us yield

The field to your

Strategy and control

Psalm 38, a morning song

Psalm 38

a morning song

 

A normal day, at last

Blue sky and green leaves

The air is cool

 

Ablutions and then coffee

I sit here

Bird-song is low

 

Maybe birds are taking

Time to let this day

Herald itself

 

I sit here

With a cool current on

My back and liquid warmth

 

Close by: you give me

This peace, dear Lord

And my heart

 

Only begins, with what

Capacity it has,

To thank you

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑