Bringing a poor family turkey and fixings
an afternoon repairing the widow’s fence
making a shelf unit for Pam’s dining room
all these grand efforts
would feel good
and might get me noticed
but what about a smile to a stranger
a call to my cousin
putting away my old neighbor’s garbage can
smoothing my wife’s hair as I pass behind her easy chair
waving at the new guy on the block who doesn’t know me
bringing a cold drink to the yardman?

Going small
is better than nothing at all
when I’ve talked myself out of the big deed
due to time, tired, bruise or bleed.
Writing poetry is an exercise
in making myself rise
from ordinary preoccupation
to enter the realm of creation.

When I share it I am revealing
thoughts, doings, and feeling,
so I need not hesitate to share
or bore those who care.

A poem might not be art
but it is a letter from my heart
more than a quick posting
or social media boasting.

So if you do not receive a sealed letter
from me in the mail, a poem is better.
It is a moment of being bold
of sharing a small slice of my soul.

Getting a poem from a poet or friend
is an honor for me and I will attend
and count it a privilege worth prizing
a noble moment of the creator’s rising.
The small dinghy drifts
on the surface of the sea
its grayed gunnels, hull
and vacant crossbars
betray its age
but its persistent float
speaks its worth.

Without a bold goal
its life at the mercy of currents and winds
it drifts
but still it floats.

It would be easy to feel pity
for this tiny rudderless vessel
to condemn it to the depths
for its aimless oblivious

But this modest creation
a dinky dinghy
still floats
rises, falls, bobs,
and wobbles
a survivor of sojourns
she remains

a mocking
of hope.
Walking out to the mailbox
I breathe in the cool scent of fall
and from nowhere in particular
a memory of me running out for a pass
in the vacant lot - our neighborhood stadium -
where teenage boys
felt the thrill of freedom
in their lungs and limbs.

The cinnamon smoke
of a red candle
reminds me of my aunt Madeline
who prayed before the vigil light on her home altar,
and told me of her visions of the ******,
taught me the joy of faith and sacred music
and being a special nephew
destined for something higher.

Driving west on I-20 at 6:00pm
the layered gold and coral clouds on the horizon
bring back a trip to Colorado
pulling our little camper trailer
driving toward high altitude adventure.

I thank my muse
for drifting in a momentary breeze
through the ***** in the window
officiating at this marriage
of memory and writing.
The winds and bright dying
of the leaves of fall
have brushed away the turning season
into the callous cold of winter
leaving behind a brown texture
of oak and pecan
scattered on the still green lawn
where they rest humbly,
their identity as living species
shriveling into the fog of memory.

I wonder what I can learn
from those leaves and the trees
who gently let go of all the little lives
and lay them on the ground
first to decay and then transform
from drying aching olding  
into a mysterious unfolding.
Thanks to Brian Francis who publishes his work on and his poem, "Bluster" which inspired my poem.
Glenn Currier Nov 26
The last time I was sick
throwing up pints of ick
not once did I think of love
or anything above
that porcelain refuge
the object of my deluge.

Being sick focuses the brain
on the body’s strain
chains freedom to pity
makes one feel so bitty
all you can see is the floor to the ***
hoping you’ll be in time to squat.

Next morning when I hope it’s passed
questions arise in me to ask
what if this pause in my health
is no pause but a demise of the wealth
I’ve so long taken for granted
and I’ll be forever stuck and disenchanted.

Scarcity focuses the brain
like drought makes you ache for rain
or poverty narrows your sight
to the very next meal or bite
what you don’t have in hand
makes you do anything you can

makes you shout and sing
for that longed-for thing
you look hither and yon
for what seems so far gone.
Then you must work on relearning
to let go of sick yearning.
Written after a night and morning of the upchucks.  Writing this also brought reflections on some other things I've been thinking about lately.  Funny how poetry brings together seemingly disparate things.
Glenn Currier Nov 13
Can't remember last time
I knelt down to dig in the dirt
but I do recall all us boys who'd climb
the sandy loam pile in the yard

to make castles, caves and highways
and let our fantasies reign -
oh what glorious days
when fun was simple and plain.

We cared not about smudges
holey pants or muddy feet
had not learned about grudges
nor become expert in deceit

hadn’t yet been betrayed
enough to live in hurt
and conjure all the ways
we could spite and spread dirt.

Maybe every now and again
I'd benefit from kneeling down
and digging deeper grain by grain
in earthy dirt - to find my being’s ground.
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