Search

clcouch123

I talk you talk we'll talk

Tag

memory

What Sigmund Freud, Erma Bombeck, and Jean Shepherd Knew

(x = space)

x

x

What Sigmund Freud, Erma Bombeck, and Jean Shepherd Knew

x

Some memories

Are childish

Because they come

From children

We might cringe

From the foolishness

More so from

Childish behavior

From adults

From the adult

Inside

x

Well, I’m not sure

If memory can cleanse

Embarrassment

Though it could teach

Humility

Or another understanding

So that’s why

I said or did

The thing

x

Otherwise, we cringe

Again

When something no one else

Can see

Because it’s in

The mind,

A symbol of regret

Passing by

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Jisun Han on Unsplash

x

In My Father’s Now-and-Then Kitchen

(x = space)

x

x

In My Father’s Now-and-Then Kitchen

(and backyard)

x

My father could cook many things

Well, six things

The rest were disasters

Like shipwrecks on rocks

On waiting shores

x

He could make—combine,

Stir, apply, bake—apple pie

He taught me how to have

Cheddar cheese with that

x

He could make blackberry cobbler

Blackberries, maybe, because of

Growing up

In Olympia

Where there were

Berry trees and bushes in abundance

Real crust (back to the cobbler)

Made from many ingredients

The right amount of sweet and salt

To savor

x

He could make bean soup

Ham and bone kept from another meal

Beans soaked for days

It seems

He might have made the cornbread

That came with it

Maybe my mom made that

x

Have I got to six?

Well, he could grill adept

If maybe nothing challenging

The usual suburban fare

Meat and vegetables

I’m a plebe

I like hamburgers

I was satisfied

x

My mother cooked everything else

Too bad you can’t taste

Her corned beef with cabbage

Carrots and potatoes

With the cornbread

(Southern)

That she made

x

I can’t taste it anymore

For many years

Except to remember

I’ve found nothing close to hers

In waking time,

Since

Sigh

x

What else my father cooked

Was awful

(shapeless shapes

on plates)

He was the only one

To eat those things

He made

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Daniel Gamez on Unsplash

x

poems about early life

(x = space)

x

x

poems about early life

x

x

around the green S chair

(Rick and me)

x

there was an S chair

green, upholstered

with that kind of hard,

bumpy brocade that was

uncomfortable

kept in the basement

and there were other things

as basements tend to have

and around the chair

and through the other things

there was an oval

made that we would run,

my older brother and I,

while the Three Stooges

ran on television

and we ran in opposite directions

to each other, and when

we passed each other

we would whoop in high-pitched

voices like the

Stooges whom we thought

must be having fun

in black and white

as we were

around the green S chair

and everything else

pushed to one or the other

in the basement

x

x

a child’s Sunday night

x

everything was difficult

except sometimes on Sunday night

when we were downstairs

after baths or showers

pajamaed, robed

slippers over wrinkly toes

the TV set warmed up

Disney about to start

x

x

the younger ones on Friday night

x

on Friday nights

we often would

gather ‘round the kitchen table

with popcorn

and malted, chocolate candy

playing The Game of Life

sometimes Careers

we were taught Rook

the Southern person’s bridge

x

we played many games

and were okay

as long as my dad was winning

x

x

I never sang for my father

x

my dad took it on himself

to ridicule me

so that he might look bigger

somehow

whatever is in the mind

of the bully

I don’t know if that worked

inside

for him

while inside of me

as you might expect

there was resentment

and it grew

I had to win

and when I did,

I no longer cared

there was next to nothing there

and in the nothing

no relationships

x

x

C L Couch

x

x

I Never Sang for My Father is the name of a play and a film.

x

Photo by Amanda Jones on Unsplash

x

The Wonder Dog

(x = space)

x

x

The Wonder Dog

x

I used to let

The dog go

In the creek

Taking off the leash

Once we were behind

The houses

What a happy dog

Upstream was all right

There was freedom in that,

Too

x

Muscles got used

That needed using

The shaking of the chain

Hanging in the closet meant

That

All this could happen

x

Once released

x

C L Couch

x

x

Water Flowing over Rocks

Photo by Robert Zunikoff on Unsplash

x

Gift Exchange

(x = space)

x

x

Gift Exchange

x

A moment for a moment

An exchange for something better

If it had to be a memory

A moment when things seemed right

In the world,

Then I’d have to ask for something better

Something beyond me

Something good for you as well,

And the circle

That we are

And live upon

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Kelli McClintock on Unsplash

x

The Boy Who Knew Something

(x = space)

x

x

The Boy Who Knew Something

x

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

x

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

x

If only there could be an arc

So many things

Could be worked out

x

Call it memory

Call it inspiration

Allowed to last

Let it last

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Hugo L. Casanova on Unsplash

x

Nos Temps Perdu

(x = space)

x

x

Nos Temps Perdu

x

Bad memories

Shameful

We wince

But it’s okay

Freudianism aside

(which I guess

we cannot do,

not entirely)

They are over now

We don’t have to

Live them

There should be

Some knee-jerk

Relief in this

We don’t have to live them

More than once,

The once that lived them

x

There’s much to do,

Of course

Therapy and such

And telling those

Who must be told

While learning

Not to tell it again and again

To ourselves

Or live them

Many times more

x

Enough ownership

To say

That happened

It’s made a difference

Here it is

A thing that

Doesn’t have to rule

My nerves

x

Then there are

The good parts:

Learning

Or sometimes simply pleasure

Recalled from

Good things that have happened

If we’re going to live in memory

From time to time,

There are

The good parts, too

And, oh yeah, there is today

Where we are now

x

Hello

Doctor

Name

Continue

Yesterday

Tomorrow

x

Machine memory

Human memory

Both have glitches

Both can be recollected

Let go or kept in health

With clarity

x

C L Couch

x

x

National Parc of Tassili n’Ajjer, Algerian Sahara, near Djanet, rock engravings (7000 years old)

Photo by Azzedine Rouichi on Unsplash

x

Ghosts

(x = space)

x

x

Ghosts

x

I don’t mean

The kind that haunt

In stories

You know what I mean

That haunt for different

Reasons, sometimes

Only memory

Without any fright

A different kind of pain

In remembering

x

Have I lived too long?

I can’t count

The number who have died

I used to know them well

And they are,

You know,

Gone

Holes in my life remain

Small ones that expand

On certain days

x

I think the question might

Have to do with

How to keep them all

How to bear mortality

As well

So much by default

Makes it happen

All mortality,

And I won’t say I’m ungrateful

I am satisfied to be here

And for you

x

Some things will come in memory

And when everything wakes up

Greeting begins again

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Nolan Issac on Unsplash

Upstate New York Chapter, Rochester, United States

My best friend and I got some great shots in this abandoned place….I miss her.

x

Imposition of Immortality

(x = space)

x

x

Imposition of Immortality

x

The tree outside looked as if it were leaning toward the window.  I mean big parts, think branches and the bow.  Black against a gray sky, it all looked dramatic.  Worse, a little scary.  Trees have fallen down before.  In the back, a large one, bringing many wires with it.  In the backyard of the house I grew up in in Pittsburgh, a tall and wide willow.  Fell in the night, covering the backyard to be seen in the daylight.  The first big thing to fall in my nascent awareness.  Will the new tree fall?  I don’t know.  Who does?  The squirrels and dogs walked by?  Qué será, será, the Spanish say (and Doris Day).  It is what it is, we say these days.  All we are is dust in the wind.  I guess that goes for imposing trees as well.

x

C L Couch

x

x

Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

By William Wordsworth

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45536/ode-intimations-of-immortality-from-recollections-of-early-childhood

x

Photo by Diane Helentjaris on Unsplash

Purcellville, Virginia

Old carved tombstone of a weeping willow tree in a cemetery in the countryside near Purcellville, Virginia in Loudoun County. The cemetery was integrated with the graves of African American and white Americans as was the nearby church.

x

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑