The Boy Who Knew Something

(x = space)

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The Boy Who Knew Something

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A spark of something

Blown on through the breeze

Of time

What did he know?

Something about dreams, perhaps

That dreams try

To work out something

And something about wandering

That loneliness

Is good

That reactive loneliness is hard

But being on one’s own

As a decision for oneself

Is not so bad

Bicycle

Riding across an empty schoolyard

Creeking

Climbing rocks

Falling

There’s a bruise

One survives

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The working out of dreams

When dreams are ridiculed

That’s when it gets hard

Harder than the stones

One fell upon

Growing up will help

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If only there could be an arc

So many things

Could be worked out

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Call it memory

Call it inspiration

Allowed to last

Let it last

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C L Couch

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Photo by Hugo L. Casanova on Unsplash

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haiku (night-driving home)

Moonrise tonight close

Above the line, tangerine

Half arc Earth-angled

(going west, going east)

(driving out)

 

Misty Mountains, Pennsylvania

 

I travel west on I-76, and it is there:

The Lonely Mountain

 

Higher and set apart from the ridge

That falls away, behind

 

A dragon set atop, searching for

Prey gone to ground

 

Orcs lurk below, ready to battle

Dwarves who stand ready ‘round

The deep tomb of their king at rest,

Diamond earthstar guard upon

His chest

 

I see these shadowed and

Foreshadowed parts of epic

Because

 

Tolkien, the literary mentor, first

Saw his

 

 

(driving back)

 

Rainbow World

 

I drive east on a four-lane reach

Of road, not an interstate so I

Have concerns to watch out

For local traffic

 

It has been raining, now mostly

Stopped with dark clouds in

The distance

 

Yet there must be a band of

Spectrum light somewhere

Because before me is a rainbow

 

That, against grey background,

Shines with every ordered

Color distinct and bleeding

Into from each other

 

Purple into blue into green

Into yellow in orange into red

From blended shades

Between

 

It arches, and I see both ends

Where it leaves the hillside,

Arcs before my car, lands on

More dimly-toned earth in

My direction

 

Of course, I think of Irish

And of argent pots inside with

Their own hills, sun-colored

Coin

 

And the folk who keep it,

Minding with angry magic any

Interloping