Spun Threads

Tenaz on the morrow

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Thu, 14 Jul 2022 22:03:00 +0000

I tried to love and I failed

On the morrow I rose to try again

I tried to conquer and I failed

So, on the morrow I rose to try again

I tried to succeed and I failed

Then, on the morrow I rose to try again

I tried to create, to be, to see,

I tried with every breath I breathed,

to simply be all I had been born to be.

I fell to the ground, bruised, broken and beat,

with heavy heart and eyes darked by grief,

I lay me down to troubled sleep.

For I knew then that though the price was steep

On the morrow I will try again.

written 07/14/22 by Jeff Couch

Petrachian Sonnet, sort of

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Wed, 29 Sep 2021 16:25:00 +0000

A Bit Rusty

For water to flow the pump must be primed,

in ages past this was well known.

Our modern pipes arrive full-grown,

the pipes may be new but the thoughts are ill-timed

With a bit of grace and a bit of luck,

we blow off the dust and we try,

to write without reason or why,

somehow asking the words to come unstuck.

As the river flows,

the dam breaks free,

quick gushing.

So the inked line grows,

from you to me,

now reading.

written 4/19/21 by Jeff Couch

Note: After writing this I realized I failed to follow the proper rhyme scheme. That is part of the reason it feels so disjointed. I decided to keep it this way anyway. I like the idea behind the poem, even if it is severely broken. I may try my hand at this style again at a later date.

Tanka 2018-06-15

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Fri, 15 Jun 2018 21:46:00 +0000

Stormy, swirling skies
Remind me of gentle eyes
Pools of love so deep.
Now belong to another,
Yet my heart still misses you.

written by Jeff Couch 5:46pm 06/15/2018

Haiku 2017-8-23

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Thu, 07 Sep 2017 01:57:00 +0000

Paper burns floating

A prayer lifts from my heart

Ashes drift away
written by Jeff Couch, August 23, 2017

Eulogy For A Man I Know

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Thu, 07 Sep 2017 01:52:00 +0000

He was a smart man but seldom wise
Often blinded by the light of his tries
Oft pondered truths sat stuck in his whys
A smart man but seldom wise

He was a deep man but seldom sane
A taste for flavors he could not tame
The quiet stillness was rustle-stained
A deep man but seldom sane

And when the winds blew fro and to
His grip was lost a time or two
Yet always he settled to start again
Despite fear or faint or heartcries of when

Honor him not, yet shame him less
Not good enough, rarely second best
He played for fun and laughed with zest
He was but a man, no more, no less.
written by Jeff Couch August 1, 2017

Simple

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 10:06:00 +0000

Simple
Sweet
Easy rhymes.

Ahh to be young again and writing poetry. Sometimes a poem like that is like a sip of a mountain spring. It is not complicated, but it is fun.

Royal Blue

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 09:58:00 +0000

Somedays,
the rain smells so sweet
Somedays,
the sun shines on golden wheat
Somedays,
the sky is royal blue
and,
Somedays,
I'm sure our love is true

Sometimes,
I fell like I'm runnin' free
Sometimes,
I laugh at destiny
Sometimes my mind is full of bliss
and,
Sometimes,
I get lost in your kiss

Now you might think
there's no such thing
as a love so wild and free
That true love
is just not that easy

Now you might say
that this love
just couldn't be true
But I say it happens
every now and then
to the lucky few

Someone,
is searching for my love
Someone,
needs my tender touch
Someone,
thinks this love is true
and,
Somehow,
I think that someone's you

Yes,

Somehow,

I pray you'll love me too

written by Jeff Couch, Early 1990's

Some Days.

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 09:54:00 +0000

Some days are just like this. They just are. I played with descriptive word pairs and second person. Seems like they had a sale on hyphens that day. If you are having one of these days it makes sense, otherwise it just seems overly dramatic.

Stepping Out The Front Door

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 09:33:00 +0000

The beetle-black train of coffee grounds leads to the empty graveyard of a soaked filter like some long procession of Cadillacs on their way to mourn the life of a friend.
The ash-sifted scent of morning-after cigarette smoke slips and shatters through teeth like snips of glass from the light bulb you ate.

It is another morning.

And though you don't drink coffee or smoke cigarettes,

It is that kind of morning.

The cicada-pitched hum of blood rushing through an alcohol-dessicated lump of gray tissue whines like a two year-old who forgot what he wanted.
The melted-gum drop cling of re-breathed air sloughs down your body like slug slime thicker where it was than where it is.

It is a morning when why has no answer.

When hope has dried up like a late-night blood sucker in the final-seconds sunrise.

It is that kind of morning.

The tears have flowed backward, turned and run down the Death Valley of your throat
The cry has climbed craving to the back belfry of your mouth and chimes with a lunatic ache.

You are alive,

you don't know why,

or for how long,

but you are.

The bull-thickened skull dulls you thoughts as they plod through the monsoon-matted mucus of your will.
The serial-killer haze parts slowly, stalking the door, an assassin determined for another day to kill.

You look up

and

You smile

written by Jeff Couch October 6, 2000

Pompous Poets

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 06:21:00 +0000

I used to go to a weekly poetry meeting. I enjoyed going because I loved to read my poems and the feedback I would get. Sometimes listening to the other poets was a little tedious. All the arrogance and presumption that they knew what was right and we needed to hear what they said. There was also a certain sound that was easy to identify after being there a few times. The truth is, though, that I was just like them. We were all trying to talk about something indefinable, this truth, this brilliance that is impossible to describe. So we do our best and sound arrogant and air-headed. Cry with frustration and laugh hysterically. That is what it's all about. The poem is supposed to use all the bad qualities of amateur poets to explain a deeper truth. Let me know how successful I was.

P.S. There is a reference to drug use. I don't encourage or have any personal experience with drug use. I just felt it described that airy-headed feeling I was talking about.

I'm Tired

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 05:28:00 +0000

I'm tired of pompous poets who pontificate,
impalatable pap from palatial perches on high.
Who's rhythms roll with righteous regret,
and ramble reckless all featherlight
Their voices soft like marshmallow fields,
bouncing an airy blight
Acid cotton candy and reflex smoked joints sing,
"Duh-duh dee, duh-duh dee, duh-duh die"

I'm tired of courageous erudite,
who speak boldly of racial indigestion
Then turn to prescribe moral fiber
and a dose of gender laxation
Discordant dichotomies dictating differences,
distancing man and wife
Horrendous harmonies that bay and howl,
as a piano played childlike with fork and knife

I'm tired of muddled metaphors,
so mythic and magical mists
Understood by scrivening scholars,
who's screws slipped out a few twists
Tediously typing totemic tokens,
as talismans of titillating delight
Lip service letters levied for lauded lates,
with little depth or luscious insight

I'm tired of searching for beauty
and finding when I close my eyes
That the beauty that's right here before me,
is simply too hard to describe
For when I try to behold it,
with gentle touch or earnest replies
It simply melts into nothing,
but endless mem'ries and goodbyes.

So I put on my pastoral pretext,
and ring with a gingerbread beat
Take a big swig of politic correctol,
and graft simile wings to my feet
Then stand with flare-blinded companions,
staring into the darkness of night
Trying to describe what we have seen there,
without being immodest or trite

And when the last lyric has faded,
from the edge of our fever-cracked lips
I cry with rage at our failure
then laugh when the last circuit trips

by Jeff Couch 1995

Back in the saddle again

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 09:02:00 +0000

Ok, so I have been gone for about three months. Facebook is the culprit. It has brought my past, and people I thought long forgotten, slamming into my present. I have been so busy with that I have not taken the time to post. to make up for it I am posting three poems today. And bonus! they are linked thematically. These are all love poems, of one kind or another. I am not claiming they are great love poems, they just are. The oldest one was written in 1988 the most recent in 1998. I am sure I have more recent love poems, if not, I better get to work. Maybe I can steal something from a Valentine's Day card and pass it off as my own. Nahh, bad idea.
Enjoy.

Long Title, Short poem

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 08:58:00 +0000

This is something I don't do very often, but sometimes I just have a very long title. Who knows why, it is just there. I do find it kind of funny that the title has almost as many words as the actual poem. Ah well, it is fun.

To she from someplace, Too special for silence, I must say what you mean to me, I must say who we are, This is our love

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 08:43:00 +0000

Trysting

---Soft piano

------feathered kiss

---------sure embrace

Trusting

---Special privilege

------full access

---------secrets revealed

Testing

---Storms weathered

------failure faced

---------starting over

Toasting

---Striving together

------finishing together

---------succeeding together

All of the above----------------------

------Not necessarily in that order

written fall 1998 by Jeff Couch

High School

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 08:27:00 +0000

Ok, the things we write in high school don't count, right? This was a homework assignment and at one time not only did I have this memorized, but I could sing it to you. I could still sing it, believe it or not. I am not sure what I was trying to say, it seems like I was putting all my beliefs into one poem. It is still fun to look back and see what it was like, and remember that young boy. This was one of my first love poems and as awkward as it is, the emotion is true. All I know is it is a little embarrassing to put here, but I thought it was kind of neat for contrast's sake. And yes, they were selling commas (,) a dime a dozen at the discount store that year.

Never Lost, Not Yet Found

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 08:14:00 +0000

Spin me a tale, and I'll sing you a song,
a song of a man and the sea.
Sit down awhile, and I'll kiss you and smile,
'cause with you I'm free to be me.
Your eyes how they glow, your love I know,
is a love that will never end
With you I'm secure, and with you I'm sure,
that in you I have found a true friend

And the world spins all around us,
The tragedy of life,
The peoples and the planets,
Are a portraiture of strife.

Men's thoughts are dulled, the young and the old,
the wise ones too scared to be bold.
The Consumer, he rules, and the old-fashioned duels,
are for the favor of money that's cold.
The armor that shone, is now all gone,
it's the threads that make the man.
The men they all fight, not for wisdom but might,
and to get all the power they can

When the world spins all around me,
It's to you that I retreat,
When inside your comfort,
I find strength to fight, complete.

So we'll reach for the sky, just you and I,
as a unity we will tempt fate.
We'll live forever, always together,
sharing we will be great.
You take the high road, I'll carry your load,
you're the best leader I know.
America's culture is, now an oversized poster,
it'll change back wherever we go.

And the world spins under us,
For we will conquer all,
In the arms of our love,
We can never fall.

So, spin me a tale, and I'll sing you a song,
a song of and old man and the sea.
The man he is lonely, his friends the sea only,
it's clear I speak of you and me.
In this whole verse, I've told of an old curse,
a tale the world always knew.
I long for the day, I'll look up and see,
standing beside me there you.

And the world spins over me,
Held in image tyranny,
When I find my true love,
We will be complete.

I know you are looking, it's true I am searching,
for the other half of our soul.
I'll try not to use you, I'll never abuse you,
for in each other we are made whole.
Now this is your tale, and this is my song,
a song of what someday will be.
You'll be my princess, and I'll be your prince,
may ever after we live happily.

written by Jeff Couch, fall of 1988

I Propose

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 08:07:00 +0000

This was written a very long time ago. It is interesting how a point of view can change over time. This was a very special poem with a very special purpose. And that is all I have to say about that.

Proponere

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 07:58:00 +0000

Will you walk with me 'neath the moonlit skies
Take time to ponder the wonder whys
Will you sit with me as the clouds rush by
And be happy

Will you watch as the rain pours down the windows
by my side
Will you listen as I softly whisper
I'll sweetly confide

Will you stand with me as the thunder roars
Abide with me in the hurricane night
Will you fearlessly face the rolling storm
Imovable

Will you speak, true and tender words I never heard before
comfort me
Will you brush away the tears of my heartcry
so very tenderly

Will you allow me to uphold you in my arms
To cherish and care and keep from all harm
Will you follow the path in me Spirit-born
And be loved

Will you quietly consider the vision in my eyes
and give in
Will you persistently bellow my faults in my ear
to keep us from sin

Will you consent, until that time,
of joyous leavetaking, either rapture or death
To be one with me in thought, action, and breath
To follow after the Scripture's guide
Will you be my bride
So that, what God has joined let no man sever
'Til eternity begins I'll love you forever

written by Jeff Couch, November 1992

New Features

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 10:29:00 +0000

If you notice over there on the right I have a couple of new features. If you have an RSS reader there is an RSS feed. If you would rather get updates via email, well, you can do that too. Also, drop off a comment and let me know what you think.

Having Fun

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 06:32:00 +0000

I am having fun posting these poems here. If my stats mean anything, not a whole lot of people are reading them, but that's ok. If you are reading them, please post a comment somewhere on here to let me know you have been here. Just to fulfill my curiosity.
This poem has one of those etymological titles I talked about a few months ago. It is a poem that I enjoy very much. I especially like the way it sounds and I really enjoy performing it. It starts out slow and quiet, speeds up and gets louder in the middle, then slows and quiets again. Maybe someday I will begin putting mp3 clips of me performing these poems on here. That would be fun.
I am enjoying posting so much, I might put another one on here this month. Lucky you. lol Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.

Ototeman

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 06:06:00 +0000

Cold, wet, greasy ashes
Lifeless they lie
Like a dark winter's sky
Death without hope or desire
Dank betrayal of the promise of fire
And the wind scattering, it blows

Brief glimmer in orange

And the wind chittering, it blows

Flakes of gray peel away

And the wind patiently, it blows

Sparks twinkle in defiance

And the wind challenging, it blows

Fire wings, cupping, flexing with life
Grasping the air, shaking off dust
Shimmering, crashing, blazing
A burning beak arises
Cries with the knowledge of Eternity
Leaps, exploding, soaring, alive
And the wind encouraging, it blows

Celebration illuminates the ebony night

And the wind excitingly, it blows

Flying, inspiring, searing hearts and minds

And the wind joyously it blows

Rocketing, plummeting with creative delight

And the wind ecstatically, it blows

Salamanders dart through the flickerings
Dashing, scurrying with purpose and care
Storing the treasure away from the air
The flames begin to sputter at the crash site
The pyre logs piled altar height
Whoosh of explosive kindling
Piercing, blinding, brilliance, bright
Dark afterimages play across the soul
And the wind quietly, it blows

Individual flarings sputter in dismay

And the wind coldly, it blows

Fluttering bravely, futilely

And the wind solemnly, it blows

Absolute darkness, not a hint of illumination

And the wind inexorably. it blows

Cold, wet, greasy ashes

And the wind knowingly, it blows

written by Jeff Couch 1995

Widownet

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 06:30:00 +0000

I wanted to say a couple of words about Widownet. I found this place in 1997 after the passing of my wife. I posted most of my poems from that period of time to the Widownet. It is only through the strength of the people I met there that helped me through that most difficult time, that I made it. If you have lost a spouse or fiancee, please go there. They can help. I also met Lisa, my wife, on Widownet. There is always a silver lining.

Widownet.org

June 15th, Father's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 05:59:00 +0000

Well, I have been leading up to it for several months now, and it's time to face the facts. There was a period in my life when I was fairly prolific and it centered around Father's Day, 1997. On that day my wife, Sandy, died from a heart problem that a month before we didn't even know she had. Needless to say that made a serious impression on me, that still shows up in my writing to this day (see last month's poem). The truth is, I am happily married to my second wife, Lisa, and have two wonderful children. But if I am going to cover the breadth of my poetry, some of the work from this period must come out. There is some really good stuff here or, at least some truly raw emotion.
I have decided to post two poems this month, and then move on to other things next month. The first is untitled and was written over a month after she passed away. The second one was the first poem I wrote after she died, and is one of my favorites from that time period. I have a couple of other favorites that will show up eventually. The poem-eulogy is something I have become adept at. Please enjoy, if that isn't too morbid a thing to say.

08/20/97

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 05:49:00 +0000

Never understood why you never got better
Never could see why it had to be you
I remember the way you used to suffer
The fire that burned struggled to glow through

I remember the end how it just got darker
How slowly you faded away from me
How I would've given anything
To have you the way you used to be

I talked to you and you said, "I'm scared"
You said, "I really don't want to be here,
I'm miserable and all the nurses are mean,
I just want to go home."

Are you happy now?
I hope so.
Does the light shine brightly in your soul?
As you stare in the face of heaven
Do you finally know what it is to be whole?

Are you crying now,
The way you used to,
When you were so happy you simply beamed?
When joy was a radiant sunset
that glowed round your slate blue seas.

I miss those eyes and cheeks and tears.
Those stormy nights and joyous dawns.
I need a glimpse and breath of you
To travel this ocean I'm on

Are you happy now?
I hope so
I hope you are aching with smiles
I hope your laughter deafens the angels
And sweetens the ears of a child

Are you missing me?
I hope not
I hope you're too happy to see
The hurt that wells up inside me
Let nothing keep you from being finally free

If all I ever wanted was for you to be happy, than my wish at last came true.
I guess all I really wanted was, to be there when you were happy too.

Memories will allow
For healing to flow
As long as I know
Are you happy now?

written by Jeff Couch 08/20/97

Commencement

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 05:34:00 +0000

It started with goldfish, the cheese flavored kind
I threw them and she laughed at that strange mixed-up guy
She gave me a nick-name and we grew to be friends
We pondered the mysteries of the world without end

Until one day it dawned on me
Was she the subject of my poetry
Those flowery verse written to true love not yet met
The anguished choruses of where my desires were set

And so...
We began

It started under an oak tree, with snow falling lightly
I proposed with a poem and she started crying
I said, "Well what's your answer?" and she said, "It's yes silly"
We embraced as the breeze blew brisk and chilly

Until one day standing before God
I promised forever and He made us one
Something not just a pageant but a melding true
Where two equals one and one are still two

And so...
We began

It started with a peace, the God-given kind
As our naive, trembling hearts weathered storming times
She never stopped giving, or loving or blessing
We took every day and reveled in being married

Until one day she had to leave
She laid there quiet, I watched for her to breathe
The time was perfect, the hand steady and sure
As the glory of all eternity opened up and welcomed her

And so...
She began

written by Jeff Couch 07/25/97