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Month

October 2016

Mid-Atlantic States’ Autumn Afternoon

Mid-Atlantic States’ Autumn Afternoon

 

Soon it’s three o’clock:

 

My favorite hour at this time

of year,

 

when daylight starts further

to fall, because it’s set to do so

 

When stark-yellow transports

will go by

 

smooth and grumbly under

 

billow-clouds with cotton faces

deepening

 

They say, laughing while we

run for porches that have

ceilings,

 

Enjoy this grey day

 

Its lack of definition presses

romance through everything

beneath

 

an amber sun

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Bread Alone

Bread Alone

 

A crumb set on a windowsill by a wayward mouse

Seen through the dust, returning to grab up

The part of grain

 

Clever mouse

Hungry mouse

Field mouse—headed back where it belongs

 

Leave it alone

It’s an old house

We might need an ally

You want to be in the right place, too

 

C L Couch

Next Thursday

Next Thursday

(for my friend)

 

How are you?  What’s

up?  I have an operation

to excise a tumor:

is that normal

talk in our coffee shop?

 

Do you mind?  I can’t

feel it, but it bothers me

a lot—I think I can

 

manage until then, though

it gets hard, you know?

You don’t?

 

You’ve never had this

in the flesh?  You’ve never

Felt the fear?  I could

Wish I were you!

 

Have to go?  I understand:

no, I’ll stay here for

a while, have

another cuppa.

 

I like today’s blend;

it smells, well, it smells

like oily health.

 

Yum.  See you.  See

You tonight?  Well,

if you can make

it.  If not, well, I guess

I’ll understand.

 

C L Couch

Today’s Pain

Today’s Pain

 

My eyes hurt.  Parts

are swimming.

Parts are dry.  Maybe

with more sleep.

Sigh.

 

C L Couch

Morning Dark

Morning Dark

 

morning dark

it’s longer now

and night arrives

earlier—the

longer time for

black sky to have

its way

 

and in equinox-

thinking, this is

just

 

for we should not

fear the dark,

since there is

dreaming there

 

C L Couch

Trees

Trees

(for an October prompt)

 

Tolkien liked trees

Robin Hood, too;

Tinkerbell and Tiger Lily,

I imagine,

Providing shelter

And playing fields

For lost boys

 

I like trees

 

Two of these peaked

High like towers from

The wide suburban plain

Of the backyard,

 

Splindly reaching toward

A clouded sky on

A Pittsburgh summer day

 

There was wind

At night, and upon the

Morning in the yard

One tree had fallen

 

Large across the lawn,

Tall on the ground

Sibling standing over

As if to demonstrate their

Name,

Weeping willow

 

For many days

I had climbed into the

Guard now dying,

Onto a lumbered platform

That my father built

 

That lay square among

Round branches

Inside uprooted, plodding

Blocks

Of grass

 

First time for me

With something monstrous

So close, so wrong

 

C L Couch

Psalm 51 (one more song)

Psalm 51

(one more song)

 

Create in me

A clean heart,

O God

 

And renew

A right spirit

Within me

 

Cast me not

Away from thy

Presence

 

And take not

Thy holy spirit

From me

 

Transliteration

And some remembrance

 

My favorite part

Of psalms

We number at

One hundred fifty,

Paradox in fame

And intimacy

 

This are teaching,

Which means

Learning

 

We need God

For new creation

To point to

Art

That in practice

Becomes science

 

 

I need God for more

And cannot

Question merit;

Good work matters

But grace invites

Salvation

 

The chamber

Of my soul

Has many parts

Open for

Parousia

 

I don’t know how

Spirit of God

Invests

And infiltrates

 

But my soul will take

Arriving,

When a spark of you

Is born in me

 

C L Couch

Spaceships

Spaceships

 

Shapes that never flew,

 

clean lines that don’t

exist;

 

eccentric shapes of fifty,

sixty years ago,

 

of older sci-fi movies,

too,

of Méliès and Lang;

 

I put my spirit-child trust in

these

far-off, far-out

conveyances

 

through times and places

that I ken

at night when

looking out to dream an

open sky;

 

Liftoff,

 

mind stowed above shined

shelves of

unknowing, rhythmic,

turned controls that

take me

 

nowhere, really;

 

back of the senses, though,

that day by day must

gauge

and engage—

there’s unerring flying

there,

as is said,

 

believe you me;

 

rocket to a set piece,

yes, I know; and

I’ll keep

watching,

dreaming of silver-streaming

things

 

that might bear

you and me

away into otherwise

impassable,

impossible flight-filled night

 

C L Couch

Homely Patterns

Homely Patterns

(touchstones)

 

The textures look good,

Fetching shadows made by

Leaves that brush

Morning panes;

 

Utensils drying in the

Countertop basket, like

Bright soldiers

At ease

Anticipating dress parade;

More

 

Things lined up above

The sink, ordinary

Items as

Remembrances:

 

Symbols mean the whole;

Here hopes rest

In half-light perceptions

And

First-morning moments

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