I talk you talk we'll talk


November 2019




And if there might be something brief

Through which some color, texture pique

Something that says, let’s hope awhile

Let’s take the light

Whate’er we can

Let fire our receptors to

Ignite incumbent senses and

Help those withal


We have our space and time

And time to find inside

And when we can no longer bear

The creature in the garden will return

To make it right

At last

With everything contracted in

First promises

First days


C L Couch



Photo by Katie Moum on Unsplash

Driving through the tunnel, the lights alongside, guiding our path beckoned me.


You and Me, Sister

You and Me, Sister


There are all around us

Words, voices, noises all

That tell us how to live

What to buy

How to vote

How to understand the righteous way

To have our way

And somehow please the gods, made

Masks of self-will

And agenda

The presupposed mighty

Who believe this


Heavy understanding

As in labored, rasping breathing

Weighted with the chains of Ebenezer

Leaden steps to its own ruin of

The truth, the peace, the joy

Held captive in

The castle of the rich

Where it gets out as planned,

God is chained or

Does not exist

Whichever muttering in shadows works

For the next parched day


But there are shadows within shadows

Truth in chains

There are prophecies about antitheses

There are always prophecies

The magi before Herod

Nathan before David

Elijah and the attitude of Jezebel

Defeat of those who take and hold

For now

The gold crust of Earth

Annihilation of the profits (this kind,

please note)

In a pit and everything

That has propelled the wrong kind of

Dragon, not the jeweled interest bred in stories

But the beast, the pet, the ruler of rust

And melted riches


There are always prophecies

We need them

They stock our campaign

Give us words for songs

And dimensional conversation

To march us on the plain

Toward pointed everything

The real change that prophecy intrigues

The reason why the thing slouching

Toward Megiddo

Can be mocked, if not ignored

The devil’s own soft points

Paranoia, riled into defeat


We win


C L Couch



Image by Manuela Milani from Pixabay


Feet, Do Your Thing

Feet, Do Your Thing


We have enough to do

It’s good—work a job, earn money

Make a home

Have a way to get around

Have life

I don’t mean to say that it’s enough

For now or for a few

Or for a multitude

There should be more

We know that

Take a breath

Inhale, then remember to exhale

Let something out that’s maybe been kept

Inside too long


Now, something more

Service is good

What we can do, we should

I’ll take an open door, a meal hosted

By a friend

Growth through a colleague

Or a stranger encountered

These are by someone else

By my own hand if not design,

I can listen

By hearing with all senses

I can send a message

To encourage

Like first valentines

For love of those held down

A martyr in a cell


I feel just a little rested

I’m still poor in most things

But I can do

When there’s gas in the car,

Give a ride

Level up the change at the store

As a donation to a cause

No one takes issue with

(or maybe takes, so what)

Take a walk and smile a little to the world

Is that hoke?

I should take my chances


C L Couch



Photo by Jake Hills on Unsplash



the title, I keep thinking–I know (now) there is a song with it in the title; but I think I heard it in a cartoon or an old movie


Mischief Intercession

Mischief Intercession

(not my place)


I hope she is okay

I pray she is okay

Like victims from a fire

That was our time together

I bear what I should bear

And should know more


I should not take the lead

Unless it’s time

That is the bearing of our time

Now fluid and porous

Like a dam built by fish

Whose instinct is to do another

I suppose out of desperate

Ignorance, they could simply

Swim into the opening

Thus making something,

Knowing from a spirit

(even zeitgeist)

That something has to change


I should have given more over to


We both could have followed service

Better than the pronouns

We kept separate

As in a box that will not open

Forget the need for opening to pleasure

And pleasure’s change,



Well, this was a prayer

Still is

I hope she’s okay

I pray she is


C L Couch



Photo by Bryan Garces on Unsplash


Don’t Mind Me

Don’t Mind Me


Oh, Christopher


So you’re nothing

Nothing’s good

The mystics would be envious

I don’t mean annihilation

That would be bad

But death to self is something else,

I think

Because you do not go away

As if there were nothing left of you

You are woke into a different place

With people you might know

Some kind of belonging

We might call it a heavenly host

But you are retained as you

You are even loved

Now and you know before

As it may have happened, then


The death to self is prayer

So cleansed and clean

As to have nothing left but righteous intercession

Something to be gained

Such a death to self so that

There is only prayer for others

Disinterest in agenda

But the willingness to bleed some more

If like a transfusion

It might bring some living to another

This is sacrifice

Not immolation but

A gift of love

From which nothing will be returned


A love I do not understand, for now

Or the peace that passes it


C L Couch



Photo by OC Gonzalez on Unsplash

Santa Barbara, United States

A shot I captured during dinner with my Grandpa and my niece.


a wintry morning (haiku)

a wintry morning

early in parts for winter

here and say morning



souls are trapped on Earth

not wanting release because

we like the cages



I’ll have Dylan rage

I will fight it ‘til I know

only relent’s left



C L Couch



Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

Half Moon Bay Golf Club, Yorkeys Knob, Australia

A Crimson Finch has found a nice perch and does not want to share it!





Well, I’m back

Samwise said something like that

To his family, after seeing Frodo

Off to the west, to a land

That would heal his wound from

Weathertop, at last

Sister’s house, trip to Hawaii

(for them), dog (for me), everyone

Comes back happy,

Motels, driving from coastlands

Into mountains, then the piedmont,

Then I’m home

Back again

To my hobbit-hole two floors above the street


C L Couch



Photo by Airam Dato-on on Unsplash

Blue Ridge Parkway


Eve of Destruction

Eve of Destruction



A little more, maybe we’ll be home

Maybe not a real place

But a place without sharp edges

A place with warmth inside

That will shut out the madness

Lurking, lurking, lurking

Always outside the door


To take hold of us, take us up into the air

Not to the romance of the moon

But where there’s no breathing without

An artificial apparatus


Stay down, stay low

Stay inside

Where everything is fragile

To our many-pounders

But heaven keeps it safe

Everything that matters


C L Couch


Photo by cristian castillo on Unsplash




(Hebrew: קומראן; Arabic: خربة قمران‎ Khirbet Qumran)


In a cave, the scrolls were found

Affirmation, challenges of faith

The treasure in the cave by Aladdin’s invocation

Open sesame

The finding of the way to the center of the

Earth, thanks to Saknussemm

Or the place where Merlin sleeps

I’m sure Nancy Drew must have taken George and Bess

Joe and Frank

Through one of these

Then there are the (real) caves in Kentucky

Still explored, miles uncovered

Many miles remain

While we can walk through what we know


Caves are perfect holds for treasure troves, it seems

For finding bats and other things

That waking life above does not espy so much

Maybe it’s the light inside a darkness

Maybe Qumran is living mystery

And that alone

Changes us


C L Couch



Dan Lundberg – 20110226_West Bank_0578 Qumran, CC BY-SA 2.0,


(name-language notes lifted from Wikipedia)


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