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How They Carry the Good News

(x = space)



How They Carry the Good News


I’m not sure what I’ll

Write today,

But there will be something

Something about me

And you

God and the whole world,

Which we sing is in

God’s hands


I suppose an earthquake

Might mean

That something is slipping through

The fingers,

A flood might mean

Too many tears


The birds might carry news

Carried by the wind,

Another agency


They hear the talking

In the trees

And what stones say

Between buildings

Some shining,

Some in ruins


I guess there are words

From all over Earth

While the moon

Sings in response

And the stars

Oscillate their notes as well

For any

Who are listening


Let those who hear,


With ears

But with supernal apparatus

That repression

Or suppression might affect

But is with us, still

Too deep, perhaps

Though there is

A law of freedom


I’ve heard about


C L Couch



“How They Carried the Good News from Ghent to Aix” is a poem by Robert Browning.


Photo by Christine Benton on Unsplash

At a gymkhana show in Warner Springs. These two make a formidable duo, galloping across the arena and then coming to a sliding stop to make a sharp turn around a pole (out of range to the left). They take my breath away.


Imposition of Immortality

(x = space)



Imposition of Immortality


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.


C L Couch



Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

By William Wordsworth


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.





It’s a beautiful day

Sometimes, I guess, that’s it


Everything allies to make it


Bright blue sky, punctuated with

Big balls of cloud

Yellow light is playing on

Green branches

The brown trunks look gussied up

For square dancing

With their partners

Once the night has fallen

And there are no humans watching


James Weldon Johnson might approve

It’s a day for Aesop

Or for Tolkien

Mary Oliver

Or Gerald May

Or anyone who has a porch

With chairs and a pitcher

Of the family favorite

(we won’t judge)

At night in June

There should be fireflies


And we’re allowed to watch them dance

While other things are secret

(see above)


C L Couch



Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash

Adelhausen, Rheinfelden (Baden), Germany


Sarehole Mill

Sarehole Mill


The closest he would ever come

To loving a machine with anything

Near intimacy

He didn’t drive a car

He took the train (but did he

love the train, as many young

ones do?)

He was inclined to write by hand

Or so it seems

With all the inky manuscripting

And the drawing

I’m not sure he ever saw a movie

Courtesy of film-projector gears


But there was this mill

Still grinding corn

And did the Gaffer live there?

There were bricks and

Inside burnished metal

I wonder how it sounded

When coarse grain was pulled through

And did he ever try the product


There were trees close by,

There had to be

Or the feelings would have faltered,

I believe

How near to the heart of Hobbiton

It must have been moved, at last

Turned by water

Providing force enough

For humble profits,

All around


C L Couch



view of Sarehole Mill from the millpond, Birmingham, UK

Bs0u10e01 – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0,


The Cypress Trees out Back

The Cypress Trees out Back


They stand tall and spare

Branches at the top all by themselves

Like leafy crowns

Bearing the responsibility without

The retinue,

Royal reinforcements


The tree that was squat and enormous

Is gone

Blown apart by wind and rain

And all weather-fury


Tell me how the slender cypress

Still rise from the earth

When the broader, low-to-ground

Was taken

I don’t know, but I think

Maybe the taller trees were

Much, much better at bending

Without breaking


C L Couch



Kevmin – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0,

A branch of fossilized Glyptostrobus species needles. Eocene, 49.5 myo; Klondike Mountain Formation, Republic, Washington, USA. Stonerose Interpretive Center specimen # [sic]




(for an October prompt)


Tolkien liked trees

Robin Hood, too;

Tinkerbell and Tiger Lily,

I imagine,

Providing shelter

And playing fields

For lost boys


I like trees


Two of these peaked

High like towers from

The wide suburban plain

Of the backyard,


Splindly reaching toward

A clouded sky on

A Pittsburgh summer day


There was wind

At night, and upon the

Morning in the yard

One tree had fallen


Large across the lawn,

Tall on the ground

Sibling standing over

As if to demonstrate their


Weeping willow


For many days

I had climbed into the

Guard now dying,

Onto a lumbered platform

That my father built


That lay square among

Round branches

Inside uprooted, plodding


Of grass


First time for me

With something monstrous

So close, so wrong


C L Couch

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