little remains
of my grandfather's house:
raw rafters, warped planks with hints
my uncle invested in paint

the windows all gone, time
and twisters took them, and much
of the roof--what is left of that sags,
a silent submission to gravity

a woodstove survives, cold
to the touch, with no memory
of the fire it once birthed, the precious
prairie timber which fed it

now it knows only mourning
doves' song; winged squatters
unperturbed by my presence, as if
they know I lay no claim to now

the old boards have stories
I will never hear: the birth of babes,
reading the Word by kerosene lamps,
the last breaths of men

the songbirds may know,
but they woo the living in flight--a
future of nesting and fertile eggs; they
owe no belated dirge to long lost kin

My Grandson is now ten and
growing like the proverbial ****,
but still young and sweet enough
to yet sit upon my knee,
to share moments of joy
and reflection, or for me
to tell him a story.

He still giggles when I tickle him,
and thankfully he's not too old to
give and receive hugs and kisses.
Best of all he never fails to tell me he
loves me whenever he arrives or leaves.

Thirty-two cents is all you need
just concentrate
put everything you have into it
and you’ll get there.

     Yes, but what do you miss
     from the whole cloth
     from which those few cents
     are cut?

I see the cloth
I’m poking through it
cutting from it
holding it in my hands.

     Did you feel and see the fabric’s weave
     the imperfections and texture
     making it unique, interesting
     and beautiful in its landscape?

I got what I needed
from that poor piece of cloth
to put in the bank
to buy the factory.

     The future stretches before you
     in your race to the finish line
     don’t let that ever-changing line
     shrink the wealth of the present.

“The Sense of Fabric,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

[Ambiance: the atmosphere of an environment; a surrounding influence]

The smoke drifts over the audience,
the piano, the throaty singer and the sax
permeate the room with a jazzy ambiance.
My nerves vanish in the vibe, and I relax.

I enter the parlor to a flower-scent rush
there’s solemn gloom in the room for the viewing
I hear sniffles and mourners speak in a hush,
the ambiance here shaded with blueing.

The senses soak up the atmosphere.
Smells, sounds, touches, and sights
on the outside penetrate like a spear
take us down or ****** us to the heights.

Every day every inch of the way
is a new journey.  I can choose my stance,
embrace the unexpected and pray
for openness and grace in my internal ambiance.

“Internal Ambiance,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

We are just what we want
I am a winter coat and you are a vintage car
Together we are a winter coat and a vintage car
And together we can go anywhere
We are torn and we are rusty
But together we can go anywhere

My soul feels colicky,
wants to cry,
wants to fall in sheets like rain,
and patter against you.

Yearns to drape itself,
across your alter,
like sacrifice.

It's name on my tongue is thunder.
Wet and booming.
Counting the seconds,
between rumble and strike.

Precipitation,
and the breadth of night,
seem as chronic as thought.
Restless.
Driven by some chemical altercation.

Molecules shifting,
spinning weather vanes,
in the drowning current,
of silence.

It is deafening,
The progress of discontent,
That resounds within these walls.
Painting instant pictures,
like slideshow noir.

Gaudy and random,
divining art,
from discord.

The rhythm is slate gray,
cast against the depths of night.
The clouds loom,
in time lapse procession.

They speak of ***** films,
of the serial killer,
inside my head.

That sick,
ranting ****,
That drones on in tongues,
at 4 am!
That throws books at the wall!

But it's only the rain,
gleeful-mad on the tin roof.
Spouting hostile jargon,
intermittent,
with the sad soliloquy of flush.

Steady,
The somber hymn of my sacrament.
This offering,
layed before you like ***.

Profound,
clinging,
desperate.

In dark hours I writhe,
distended,
by the invasive girth,
of this storm inside my head.

It's a long,
            slow,
                languid sky.

Clouds incinerating,
in a smouldering heat,
on the horizon,

The last traces,
of afternoon light,
beseiged by sunset.

Your memory,
is a wild specter,
casting firefly trickery,
into the settling twilight.

And the city rolls,
past itself,
projected on the mirrored face,
of a glass building.

I am a lonely Alice.
Somewhere on a checkered green,
in that looking glass world,
you are having tea parties,
without me.

Coaxing dream,
with your Red Queen,
and Cheshire grin.

Sending it flailing,
weightless,
through smoke rings,
like dogs through hoops -
rabbit holes.

It's a long,
           slow,
               languid sky.

Darkness falls,
like the weight of years,
that pass as quickly,
as the peak,
of a dreaming red sunset.

Their memory,
is a great humid ghost,
condensing itself,
the way dampness and heat,
press the air.

Tomorrow promises rain.
I will ****** my face,
to the mirage sky,
and its clouds,
will weep.

Salty,
watercolor tears,
blurring the reflection,
of my absence,
in your looking glass world.

Please play that song
once again
on the old jukebox
from your mum's attic.
We'll just sit around,
a cigarette for two
as we pretend to live
in those golden days of youth.
When nothing really mattered
but The Beatles and new dance moves,
hand written letters
with no shades of blues,
and sweet old songs
that i sure wouldn't mind
writing for you.