"couching" poems
**the banner photograph that the poem references is off now, but...
The poem is about a photo I took, outside looking in, where the window and an interior mirror, both reflected me, outside, outwards, but caught the interior of the house within, and the interior of our lives, which was my intent, but the poem came later....
a self portrait,
a reflection
in a window, in a mirror.
a man stick figure
within and without.
me hidden, armed,
iPad spyglass
one upon the other,
unaware of observation,
introspection / extrospection.
man, external,
grilling striped bass,
woman, internal,
kitchen caught slicing heirlooms,
a dressing awaits,
peach salsa,
the seagulls inform me.
Outdoors, indoors.
bay,
in the background.
living room, kitchen,
in the foreground
couching, crouching, cooking,
a closeup and landscape,
of two lives.
so the photo treatment,
introspection / extrospection,
upon reflection,
a poem ouside-insight.
a moment to reflect upon a reflection of a moment.
this how I see things,
and why not you too?
Double vision.
outside, looking in, inside, looking outward.
then,
at the point of intersection,
a memory recorded,
always recording,
paths, moments,
worthy of note.
such a note, here,
record of a photograph.
preserving my preservation.
tho photo blurry,
what you see,
is what I see.
lives of symmetry
summer symmetry is my life.
life is my summer symmetry.
exactly.
August 2012
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
New/Knew/Rebuilding
You
4:18AM
not sure where to start,
so I will begin at the end,
rinsing and repeating,
till it makes a dime's worth of sense,
even if helps for just one minute,
I'll take it happy for
giving you one minute of better,
rinse and repeat,
60times, an hour to which we can only but
try
to build a single day.
You are new to me.
But I knew you a long time.
Don't ask silly whys or how's.
This won't take long.
Less than a minute.
Saw a few Picasso's, Chagall yesterday.
Even a Basquiat.
Estimated to sell for
$15~18 million dollars.
You know he once said,
"I thought I was going to be a *** for the rest of my life."
So here is my art for you, girl,
Whom I will likely never meet,
But is deep inside of me,
Unmasking provoking, couching, courting,
Crouching, springing
me to care.
If one new/knew/rebuilder of you
Is writing words of caring, artful encouragement
At 4:18am,
What is that worth?
I'll tell you cause I won't let
bitter answer for you.
Everything.
So **** art.
But open heart to the art of
Accepting that I just wrote you a poem,
Message on point,
I care.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:40 AM UTC
All the night in woe,
Lyca’s parents go:
Over vallies deep.
While the desarts weep.
Tired and woe-begone.
Hoarse with making moan:
Arm in arm seven days.
They trac’d the desert ways.
Seven nights they sleep.
Among shadows deep:
And dream they see their child
Starvdd in desart wild.
Pale thro’ pathless ways
The fancied image strays.
Famish’d, weeping, weak
With hollow piteous shriek
Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman prest,
With feet of weary woe;
She could no further go.
In his arms he bore.
Her arm’d with sorrow sore:
Till before their way
A couching lion lay.
Turning back was vain,
Soon his heavy mane.
Bore them to the ground;
Then he stalk’d around.
Smelling to his prey,
But their fears allay,
When he licks their hands:
And silent by them stands.
They look upon his eyes
Fill’d with deep surprise:
And wondering behold.
A spirit arm’d in gold.
On his head a crown
On his shoulders down,
Flow’d his golden hair.
Gone was all their care.
Follow me he said,
Weep not for the maid;
In my palace deep.
Lyca lies asleep.
Then they followed,
Where the vision led;
And saw their sleeping child,
Among tygers wild.
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell
Nor fear the wolvish howl,
Nor the lion’s growl.
1.6k
Believe I am ruined
Habit of believing them
Always made me their followers
Even they proved thorn in rose many ways pricking other
Wanting or not wanting them
I sold my time further and further
Consequently, passing of era gave temple brown brother
Swallowing spit and even believing
Weightage of vote turned pale
Youths of both sexes decreased from my town brother
Couching in sofa their faces glow
As if almighty they are for all and for time
Consensus or process of opinion
Dying in my lap untimely brother
Believe I am ruined not having to drink pure water
Name of disease appears day by day
Killing numerous one after other
Town’s rumple in the evening and night
Tries to extract beautiful glamour
Poor they are even not know culture of death soaring hoard
Orphan children piles themselves
In my ruined town for sake of future
Certainly someday their turn of plight signals them come brother
Why a zero invention circles in me
Circumnavigating hopeless culture
When will those skyscrapers nod to salute my poor brother?
A class of enthusiasm and spirit glimpse
In the light of TV channel always
Programmer holding Mac to me and me like thousand brothers
Flown jets in the aerospace indicate
Dollars return bringing happiness for family
Suppressing heart by two hands see coffin’s of youth brother
Believe I am ruined in earth and space
Hesitantly seeing behave for soil, water and youths of village
Believe I am ruined seeing, leaving to respect youths’ spirit for.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
there's no couching this effort...
celluloid film jitteriness of memory...
akin to a centipede thrumming
about a dank cellar.
i can not vacuum this stead...
with mind over matter...you
are It...the holy of holies afforded me.
noteworthy, and uncelebrated...we are--
as far's love's itemized.
incommunicado, and legendary--
our poetic licenses bestowed upon
one another...years would go where they
go...and concerned parties would head-butt
the genesis/apocalypse of our Go...minus been.
my love's no recourse to lovelessness...
(for you...that is) for...i'm drawn to a
picture, picturing overexposure.
Hardening, hard, and harder times felled
atop us...now help me lift.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
So
Wilt thou
Let the cold storms
Maul me for our miff?
And
Wilt thou
Watch me drown
In thy angered roaring waves
Of love,for my frailty?
But
What wilt thou
Do,when thine anger
Is hence,and see my corpse
Couching in the cabins
Of these vitriolic waters
With my crust pare?
The
Pox I plagued
On thy heart,I plead
And for mine equally
I
Am a man
But a slave
In the grisps
Of the dim-light of jealousy
And I laboureth its whims absurdly
Day in,and day out
When my sight
Clutch them,hovering around thee
I
Love thee more than more
And it maketh me jealous
Am so, so jealous
I want thee for mine own
Just mine only
Yet
I know not
How to stack thee
Nor idolize thee wholly
This is my frailty,and I know
But I plead thee
leave me not
like a rose
rolling on the boulevards
Jealous
©Historian E.Lexano
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
it is always----------- sweetly done
the crime is always portrayed as "exciting"
(even----fit for t. v.)
****** is especially "fun"
when done at a distance
by politicians
couching their corporate contrivances
with words of the now defunct "democracy!"
and we??
we----total cowards!
we---total slaves!
sit by and then
go into the kitchen
and get some more to eat!
we
awaiting nothing
but
boring
death
spiritual death!
the death we call
american christianity!
Mar 11, 2011
Mar 11, 2011 at 11:51 AM UTC
I thought I saw a ghost,
Perhaps it was just
A worn memory of you,
Akin to your favoured pair
Of tattered blue jeans,
Likewise worn
That old, deep blue couch
We once broke in,
Now nowhere to be
Found, much like
Your heart,
Conceivably occupied
By a new individual,
Or possibly left
Alongside the road
Waiting for a new embrace,
Her smile likely dimmer
Than the girl who sat,
Once beside you on that couch
In a warm grasp that has died,
Along with the feelings
We once shared
Sat upon that couch.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
So
Wilt thou
Let the cold storms
Maul me for our miff?
And
Wilt thou
Watch me drown
In thy angered roaring waves
Of love,for my frailty?
But
What wilt thou
Do,when thine anger
Is hence,and see my corpse
Couching in the cabins
Of these vitriolic waters
With my crust pare?
The
Pox I plagued
On thy heart,I plead
And for mine equally
I
Am a man
But a slave
In the grisps
Of the dim-light of jealousy
And I laboureth its whims absurdly
Day in,and day out
When my sight
Clutch them,hovering around thee
I
Love thee more than more
And it maketh me jealous
Am jealous,am so so jealous
I want thee for mine own
Just mine only
Yet
I know not
How to stack thee
Nor idolize thee wholly
This is my frailty,and I know
But
I plead thee
Leave not me alone
Like a falling rose
Rolling on the boulevards
Jealous
©Historian E.Lexano
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
The cliff’s monumental resolve
Plucks the sustained note of its rise
over the wayward valley,
Sound thick and heavy enough to chew,
A nameless taste of memory
calls to mind
Seven years ago
When a woman who shared my name
Threw herself from the cliff,
Into the snapped arms of trees below,
The act of falling, monumental resolve
The upward sweep of dark hair
Against the grey hand of the rock.
After,
my mother’s phone rang
with urgent voices
repeating my name as they’d heard it
On the evening news
Asking if it was me who had climbed
the bones of the mountain,
I who had stared down into the doldrum of trees,
watched them float in the captive air,
I who had murmured into the reticent sky
And still found no answer
That whispered “stay.”
I, who had scraped the soft skin of my foot across sandstone
With the last grounding pull
And still stepped into nothing.
And when she said I had not
That the name, though mine, was not mine,
I heard the relief in the notes of their voices
Collapsing into soft reprieve.
But I knew what it was
To wonder if the plummet was
like the upward flutter of coat in a draft or
The cold sweep of wind across a wet finger or
the warm, couching blast of a passing subway car.
And they don’t report on suicides for this reason
But everyone hoped it was an accident
Because accidents can be explained away
As the things that pluck us up and drop us into death,
But walking into death
With open eyes always led to too many questions.
Someday, she and I--
our name will be said for the last time
Edging on the ledge of wrinkled lips
Staring into the ground below—
And the syllables will hold themselves over the edge of the world
And jump.
Jul 15, 2022
Jul 15, 2022 at 9:43 AM UTC
Oh, happiness, your love is pure!
Thou makest the weary joyful again,
Your beauty is truth and truth is life
A sweet symphony of life's fair bliss,
Couching upon our numbered struggles,
Emitting hope of triumph in battles;
Where canst thou bridge and not be felt?
Of men and babies, who can resist you?
Desolation quivers, and swiftly fades,
As doth a man who runs from fire.
A priceless gift yet hard to come by,
Such as who find you, find relieve:
Of feeble men you restore their strength,
Of laden women you lighten their burden,
For a better morn, why not for good?
Thy song is sung in honour of life
A beautiful rhythm to suit all seasons,
For ever winning, for ever leading,
Like legends of old in unique array
Where with we're clothed in flawless beauty.
What a rare treasure, What a divine package?
We've heard melodies but yours is sweeter:
Sweeter than candies, sweeter than honey,
And all that you are, a fair virtue!
A standing citadel in our sorrowful land,
Where we bury our grief, and fetch joy
As a weapon of war against our troubles,
Singing along in a merrier tone
And finding meaning, in brewed passion;
The meaning you add to our brief lives.
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 5:06 PM UTC
an inner conflict dust brew
within this scribe, who offers ye to chew
(like sweet treats metaphorically) thee do
tee incumbent, when Doomsday clock
counts down minutes few
according Al Gore rhythm
unstoppably ticking,
when life gets turned to global goo
tenderized viz Doctor Zeus
if not Horton Hears Hoo
then most definitely The Lorax
(couching urgent morals underscored
by satellite photographs
showing melting icecaps or igloos,
which planetary sos, sans in extremis
requires joint effort of Gentile and Jew,
plus every other sectarian credo,
dogma, ethos...knew
clear family, and whatnot
to become linkedin with Linda Loo
yes, we moost not forget
Old McDonald with his moo
moo there bovine creatures
agedly hobbling along, or new
lee born, cuz juiced one day
per three hundred and sixty five
(six with leap year -
imagine dragons festooned leotard
with brand name Oroblu)
or poor ole Whinny The Pooh
eternally stuck in Rabbit's
hole sum Hutch as a queue
doth loosely form dreaming up and rue
mien hating solution
(burning the midnight oil) true
lee trying to remedy plight
of said bear character,
perhaps unstated message being woo
king in tandem solutions to resolve
wretched condition of world wide web
possible by bridging differences
between me and you, and you, and you...
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC