The Girl Who Died

The Girl Who Died

 

It is a miracle we live

On an Earth that cares

When we only allow

Worst magics

Against the planet’s will

Her inclination toward

Sunlit food and love

 

We counter God

And all the better parts

Because we must have this or that

The blood on it

To ignore

Or kept there as an eldritch

Badge

An accomplishment that only demons

Cannot ignore

At judgment

 

C L Couch

 

THE HORRIFYING DEATH OF A SYRIAN INFANT UNDERSCORES THE BRUTALITY OF ASSAD’S SIEGE WARFARE “Sahar Dofdaa lived a tragically short and painful life. With sunken eyes and frail, protruding bones, the famished infant hardly stood a chance. Trapped in a Syrian conflict zone, her mother was too malnourished to breastfeed, and her father too impoverished to afford milk supplements.” [HuffPost]

 

Anna Mary Robertson

Anna Mary Robertson

 

I think of her often

 

She had cooked and cleaned

And run a farm and

Put up guests;

She sold the produce of her

Land and made

And sold potato chips

Of all things;

 

And in her seventies, she thought

She’d try to paint

Depicting life as it had come to

Her;

Someone who had a way

Espied her work in a place,

Thought it

Ready for

The nation—

It was:

 

To give it a name,

Call it simple, call it native, naïve,

Call it primitive.

She spoke through all the plains she painted,

And we listened.

 

Her last name was

And is

Moses,

And she had the better part

Of all of us;

Like her namesake, she

Led in prophecy

And simple, mere

World-changing delight,

A commemoration and a celebration

Of what is

Colorful and real and

Good.

 

C L Couch

 

photo found at WikiArt

 

Ordinary Rituals

Ordinary Rituals

 

How I brush my teeth

And break my fast

How I dress and drive the car

I have these

I think you do, too

 

C L Couch

Leaves

Leaves

 

Pages

Trees

Fall

Binding

Miss

Keep

Share

All

Give

Bye

‘Til

Then

 

C L Couch

 

https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjFs5Sx7evWAhWKx4MKHRY2DioQjhwIBQ&url=http%3A%2F%2Fdigitalpaxton.org%2Fworks%2Fpics%2Fautumn-leaves&psig=AOvVaw1lVHtMkWC1knfl-CY8EASW&ust=1507924152717034

 

Maybe I’m Not Human

Maybe I’m Not Human

 

Don’t listen to me

I am woman

What do I know

 

Please vote in place of me

Rule me in a democracy

Of one in which

I’m other

 

Am I human

Sometimes I must wonder

I should read up on this*

 

In the mean time,

I plot my course from

Ignominy

For, really,

How could I make my way without

You

 

Okay, now the nightmare’s over

I will make it so

Hear me howl across the ages into

Modern reckoning

I am here

I know

I love you

Now be with me

And let me be

 

*Dorothy Sayers was once asked in outrageous sincerity to pen an essay to the question “Are Women Human?”  She wrote, planting her tongue in her cheek and opening up her brilliant mind.  The title is eponymous of the question.  Please read the essay.  It’s good.

 

C L Couch

 

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/oct/07/womens-rights-are-on-the-retreat-yet-again-why?utm_source=esp&utm_medium=Email&utm_campaign=GU+Today+USA+-+Collections+2017&utm_term=247138&subid=16706344&CMP=GT_US_collection

‘Scape

‘Scape

 

A knoll of pine trees

Tops too tall to see

A circle implied

Because there is a seat

At zero point

 

And snow falls:

Flakes congealed into comic blobs

That fall in quiet plops

On branches and,

When straighter, onto

The granite surface

 

The needly floor,

Covering a sleepy earthen

Solemn way to

Narnia or Middle Earth

 

No lamppost,

Elf, or orc, either, only a winter

Day on planetary sides

Where worlds meet

 

A place made up

And does exist

For I am here

 

C L Couch