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I stand before the narrow window
and see more clearly more deeply
in this smaller space
than my years with the picture window
and its crowd calling for attention.
I do not negate the immense value of a life filled with variety and richness, but lately with a smaller aperture, it seems I can see some things more clearly, more deeply.
I watch Paul putting his ladder in his truck
atop the plywood to begin his day
on the road to a job.

From my perch slightly uphill
seeing him and his wife,
partners in the seasons
walking in their yard barefoot
looking at plants, watering them,
speaking softly to one another
puts a kind of fragrance in the afternoon.

This tandem talking and walking
a sweet intimacy that assures me
in spite of turmoil and conflict on the planet
here in this small patch of earth
things are as they should be.
Silence silence nothing
at this moment of now
this nothing is not nothing,
but a delicate challenge
to a mind used to saturation in noise
goals busyness
purpose.

What do I fear here in this now
what phantom do I imagine
lurking in the darkness
basking in this brightness?
Before dawn the front thundered in
launching with its deluge
the first glimpse
of an approaching winter.
To how many more autumns
will I bid farewell
before my own returns me to heaven?
The builders let me visit here
free to roam the halls.
They’ve built some walls
and stairs
to upper floors with streaming light
and to a darkened basement.

I’m honored to be allowed here
to write words on the wood
to see pages posted that could
render me speechless if I let them.
But instead, these writings of pain
these revelations of shame
are like knives that pierce my heart
and I pour it out on the floor
and ceiling and dark corners
through the windows
into the night
into the light.

The builders nail their dreams
and desperation and beams
of hope, desire and grief
and lattice of love and belief
trying to do their part to complete
the work of this edifice rising
each day each hour
we builders immigrants
looking for home.
Dedicated to the poets here on this site, other fellow writers, and to my wonderful wife.
Glenn Currier Oct 18
Walking down a forest path
I encountered a puddle.
Upon stopping I could see
a thin coat of oil floating there
the sun caught it just right
to see a rainbow in the glare
and tiny luminous unfixed bubbles moved by air.
Confined in this small muddy world
the oil and each of its parts
glowed as if to assert its beauty and freedom.

My fascination
became a reflection
of my confined small worlds
but floating and free
as I try to be me
in this sea.
Glenn Currier Oct 17
“Don’t fall in love with lonely because you’ll end up that way.”  -  Bruce Springsteen

The day is cloudy
I’m overcast and lost
in my little world
trapped by shrinking horizons.
I hear a cardinal singing
look around for his red glory
wonder where he has flown
he in his freedom to roam.
I envy his winged flight
the whole land in his sight
his mate and sparrows and jays
up there with him beyond the haze
of these sad and lonely days.
This COVID thing seems to have shrunk my little world, now even littler than before. The other night I saw a beautiful movie about Springsteen and got the above quote. It occurs to me that his advice about lonely could be said about many other emotions or psychic states such as fear, lust, or depression (but not clinical depression).
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