Short Couched Poems

Let there be an understanding
that your way 
is probably not mine.

We can share a campfire,
an idea,
or the couched prayers
of our bodies

but let us agree
not to claim to know
where any of this
begins or ends....

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Gin wants Bin to play fun with Glen,
But Sen seeks a round bun to free the hen
Couched in the palms of Ren who blinks his brown eyes,
And all the men break the glass they have,
And walk away with a loose talk
That they never talk anything but loose talk....

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Summer; its refreshing voice of
Up-splashed gaiety.
Afar; yet in hearing, clearer
Finds one drawn nearer!

Suburban windows everywhere
Let all they can in
Of what afloat, with orange scent
Gives a boost to this;
That which , couched, lure for drowsy bliss
Heats; deeper within!...

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glad 
in crux 
near the gloom
that light nudge me
when it gets anxious 
concerns that might leak out 
my burrows are firmly couched 
not a fiend nor a darling star
they thrust as the night sky gained their sight. 
yet, both sorts score their way to my shoulder....

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Death assured, the shame of hanging
Teardrops, sighing as we say goodbye
Like departing lovers;
Murder is committed
Though couched in legality
”Though shall not kill”

For the freeman is not free
Whose life and in death
Is a TV soap opera


The people shall shout

Like the Jews during Christ’s trial
’Crucify him; crucify him.’...

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I am crying in a bettle nest
No were to take a rest
My hands are crunched
Legs are couched
Everything seems so drowzed
Looking here & there to find a way
But darkness signals the end of day..

My eyes are paining
Everything seems draining
Throat is chocked
Situation seems to get rugged
Praying for a saviour
But situation had its own selfish behaviour....

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Let there be an understanding
I am not your keeper

Whatever star you follow
that is your way
probably not mine

We can share a campfire
an idea
or the couched prayers
of our bodies

but let us agree
not to claim to know
if this untethered gathering 
of certain opinions
is not the end, nor the beginning
or the middle
of anything important
whatsoever....

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In public
I am the walking quiet
of transparent air.

I huddle
humid and torrid
behind pages of my past.

Night will speak
to me. I am couched
in her embrace.

But when I return
to people, I reek
of her dank air.

I avoid getting saved,
the safety of solutions.

My heart attack is
failure under scrutiny,
reaching the world like
an actor of lost languages....

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Couched in the season,
by a fireplace ablaze.
The winter with it's snowy soft edges,
tasted bittersweet
-since I reminisced once more
of just how pleasing it was
in the golden summer days,
when I felt a lovers heat
-her soft gentle fingers
upon the nape of my neck.
Hesitating, and lingering
-then she gave me a peck.
Yes upon my lips a kiss.
Oh yes, how I reminisce....

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there they sit
with their dreams
and fantasies
mouthing great
philosophies
narrating great tales
of imagined achievements,
revealing little nuggets
of despair couched
in a fatalism
of their own making.
Should I reveal myself
jolt them to the reality
of death
put an end to their charade

Or slither away 
in the susurration
of wind and grass
leaving them 
to their random ramblings
in their dotage?...

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Love, measured by decades,
casts its shadow
on the imposter,
couched in glamour,
sliding toward a precipice.

Love, matured by trials,
uses its strength
to stand above pretense,
wandering in the dark,
unnourished before its glorified mirror.

Love, marked by sensitivity,
hears what isn't said
during thunderstorms of stress,
listening for dripping of pain to mend,
while the mimic chatters about itself....

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They cry through open caves,
plunge behind last raised wing.
What crashes into them
is the oceans voice beheaded.
They rollick on the verge 
of a rise and fall.
Indoor cats stare out of windows
as heckling seabirds tumble and dive
for shadows of sleek iridescence.
Those hunched upon the land
hear a kraken call
made small,
a throaty ravening, 
couched within the seas rolling tongue,
where the free freely hunt
the already captive,
the almost caught....

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