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This Autumn Morning

(x = space)

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This Autumn Morning

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Gray with

A patch

Of red

Inside black

Branches

Red leaves

Attached

Maybe until

A winter wind

Comes to

Take them

Through the

Air until the

Breath’s expired

Then gravity

Must have

Its way and

Like the roots

We can see

And-or touch

Must lie upon the

Earth

And inside

For a while

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C L Couch

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Joshua Tree National Park

Photo by Matt Artz on Unsplash

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Waves

(x = space)

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Waves

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What do I want

To say to you

That it’s a lovely day

In an eccentric way

Everything is played down

The takeover of fall

Changing tones on trees

And on the ground

Everything played down

Under a graying sky

With brighter sunlight

Coming through

From time to time

As if the wind

(I see it on the leaves)

Were pushing the clouds out

Or the sunlight in

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C L Couch

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Photo by Fineas Anton on Unsplash

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Slow Glass

Slow Glass

 

The birds are quiet today

The sky is still

Precursors to rain, perhaps

 

Earlier, I saw a squirrel outside the window

On a lower branch

The animal stopped, gray arches for

Its back and a brushy tail

Turned one way and then another

 

We, smaller beast and I, looked at each other

For a while

Already out of reach

We could afford to stare

 

Now we might serve as memories

To each other, through the glass

 

C L Couch

 

“Light of Other Days” is a science fiction short story by Irish writer Bob Shaw. It was originally published in August 1966 in Analog Science Fiction and Fact. The story uses the idea of “slow glass”: glass through which light takes years to pass. Bob Shaw used this idea again in later stories.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Light_of_Other_Days

 

 

Photo by Daniel McCullough on Unsplash

 

Old Times There

Old Times There

 

It’s an unordained day

Unornamented, too

Too soon for everything like that

Late November, cold and chilly

Sky flat with pale gray,

Everything else dark against it

A perfect day for candlelight, I think

Maybe pretend it is an older time

When caves were justified

Along with houses

And people might keep moving for

A life

A livelihood as tinkers, fighting

For hire, or maybe storytelling

In a common room

Manor or pub

(I don’t think churches or temples

were lent out)

Small town, desert place,

Or greater city

 

Told, though I think sung

Maybe couplets, maybe rhymes

A language we will never speak again

Food and drink for fees,

Maybe coins

A night to sleep inside

Up and out next day

To travel to whatever

In an older age provides

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Moodywalk on Unsplash

New Delhi, India

Some magic is happening in every moment, have a close look.

 

On the Agenda

On the Agenda

 

When all is gray

Not boring but not

Inspiring

Where do we go

A psalmist looks to the hills

The hills are not the source of strength

Though they look strong

 

Gratitude has no tone and is

Every shade

The day could be on fire, after all

 

The psalmist knows

But relief might come

Over the horizon

Or through cables, now

And satellites bouncing rays

Invisibly

To send the word, machine commands

Binary data for agenda-forming

Open or in hiding makes the difference

 

That’s a problem with gray

It’s hard to see,

Texture’s a challenge

Direction is unclear

But it could be a vacuum

Not only vacant but absconding

With material and hope

 

Help out with everything that’s left

Someone else’s day

Might be on fire

 

C L Couch

 

 

Photo by Greg Shield on Unsplash

 

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