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6d · 74
Fierce Knot
The fierce knot within
is a ball of black strands
with tentacles
reaching out in every direction
I know I need to face this cowardly menace
or it will keep growing
into a yawning void.
I hear Lucifer knocking at my door
his insistent thumping says he’s annoyed
because he knows
I am buoyed
I am ****** away from the black hole
into this bright river’s flow.
I am again facing anxiety. I know why this darkness threatens. My closest friend, only four or five months younger than I, again has cancer in another part of his body, one of his doctors mentioning hospice. It has thrown him and me for a loop. No, I don’t have cancer that I know of, but I am closer to death than I have ever been. I guess we can all say that. But here I am in the same river with him, sometimes buoyed but sometimes threatened to be taken down by the undertow. Writing is a facet of the diamond of my salvation. And this whole situation has brought home how we are all part of the same Reality in a Universe full of darkness and stars.
7d · 195
Middle See
In this space between Middle C
an octave above and below
I hear you climbing up into me
settling soft and slow
between the tense downer of last night
and my early morning need
for sleep and the wide feather of peace.
The piano plays on
into the awakening dawn
where stars are gone
and the summer sky is born.
I thought reading a couple of chapters of the novel would lull me back asleep and away from the troubles I heard last night, but no. So here I am writing my tension away trying to see where I need to be in the middle of it all.
Jun 23 · 38
Small Paradise
Glenn Currier Jun 23
Here in this room growing green
where life leans in every direction
in the morning
in this oxygen rich space
I chase my dreams into the day
without shame and with great affection
I convene with the universe
at my fingertips
and touch even the darkest real
my mind whirls my heart feels
on these lines where the soul
is made whole with the magic of words
in a vigil of grace
here in this small paradise.
Sometimes at dawn and first light, or later, I write in our garden room looking out on elm, sage, cardinals, dove, squirrels and other wildlife.
Jun 23 · 220
Nor Adore
Glenn Currier Jun 23
My love is a gale force wind
the earth swings and my heart sings
for you I will lean and bend
but I neither bow nor adore you in the end
that word only for the author of the wind.
Jun 21 · 96
Co incidence
Glenn Currier Jun 21
Like a film filling space one frame at a time
it falls together seemingly by accident
but before I know it there it is –
a story, a revelation
a dawning
an aha! moment.
And I don’t even think about
the minds that came upon the ideas
images, humor or drama

I should think about that the next time
a series of seemingly unconnected events
fall upon
or into me
with a surprise ending.
Jun 20 · 109
A Hand Up
Glenn Currier Jun 20
His hand twisted the two wires,
          and the engine wondrously fired.

I yelled and cried when I broke my arm
          he easily wrapped it without alarm.

Sorry son, I can’t come to your game,
          the overtime list had my name.

Boy, there’s gonna be a delay,
          my big project is due today.

Your dad went out of town to speak,
          can’t play pitch and catch this week.

He picked up the phone and he heard me say:
          “Daddy, the cops wanna take me away.”

Tonight your dad’ll deposit his check
          then we can fix the car you wrecked.
Thank you Daddy for all you’ve done
“Don’t thank me, your mama raised you, son.“

I regularly tear up with both sadness and joy
              seeing a daddy squatting, listening to his boy.

Father-son ties
mix long lows and splendid highs.
Yes, there are tears and yearning
for more than his earnings.
But now I see how my dad’s hand
protected and provided,
how he taught me to take a stand,
and showed me how to be a man.
Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there. This poem is dedicated to my dad, Cameron Currier, whom I now see as just a man like me with his limitations and his great gifts. I no longer resent all the days he was not available to me as I grew up. He worked hard for us in the petro-chemical industry in Louisiana and Texas. We always had a house and home with plenty to eat and he provided for my education in more ways than one. Later in life we talked and hugged and he would shed tears of joy when I came to visit. My love and appreciation for him endures.
Jun 18 · 101
Man on the Wagon
Glenn Currier Jun 18
Perched on the plank seat
of the old wagon
the dusty man gently jiggles the reins
of his reliable old steeds,
they as resolved as he
to reach Archer City
to get booked up.

Larry was there with his white hair
whittling his latest creation,
an overweight manuscript
sure to cause a sensation
no matter its heft.

They sat together talking
til the fireflies flew,
shared stories of books
loves, and good bass hooks,
reaching down to fetch a fresh brew
when they got parched
which was frequent
as they spoke at length
of men like Woodrow and Gus,
how they cussed,
poked, and stretched yarn after yarn.

Larry’s gone to the barn
but the guy who pulled up
in that old wagon
still is reading
and yet yearns
to revisit Texas lakes
to fish bass,
visit the local café,
and eat a passel of pancakes
or a big, tasty chicken fried steak.
This is a light poem begun by letting my imagination roam until I got this image of the wagon pulled by two old horses. I started writing and it just became what it is. Dedicated to my best buddy, Joe, who loves books even more than fishing. He was my pahdnah on Texas lakes way back when. One of his favorite authors is legendary Texas novelist, Larry McMurtry who also owned a bookstore in his hometown of Archer City, Texas.
Jun 15 · 211
Floating Home
Glenn Currier Jun 15
There is an old hymn
this world is not my home
an old friend freely sings
its lyrics but she’s lonesome
never full of joy in her place
ready to depart
but a strong heart keeps her here
for us to talk
and laugh this year
not last or next but now
with both cheer and tears
in our eyes
and on our cheeks.
We’re not waiting.
In this long float
we can smell the fragrance of aster
not before or after
but blooming in our spring
upon this glorious encircling stream.
Jun 11 · 141
Rain d r o p s
Glenn Currier Jun 11
Gentle arrhythmic plinks
down from the plumbing vent
through the stove hood
then plink-a-plank-a-clank        clank    clank  
clank   clank  clank clankclankclank
the roof rumbling now
soft flashes beyond the blinds
the deep throated distant thunder
tumbling over clouds and air
into our living room
I am grateful
for a dry pad and pen.
Thanks to Shaun Yee for the inspiration for this poem -
Jun 4 · 287
Walking Wire
Yesterday I worked,
deliberately moved about
doing the chores of the house
how did I generate that joy inside?
It was as if I were a walking wire
charged with electricity
moved by my recall of her
washing clothes, cooking,
all the while her body in pain.
Her love inspired mine.
The surging power of Love.
Rejoice: to feel joy again.
What a delight!
Being retired, my work is more humble, less noticeable, but more joyful.
Jun 3 · 129
celebrity interview
celebrity TV interviews
preening for the screen
they leave me hollow
but what am I expecting?
ha! rare if not impossible
as the camera shouts at the soul.

audacious introspection
from one who thinks he is enlightened
in a special way
blissfully unaware of the grip
of ego.

i say this aware
and repentant
of my pride.
Jun 2 · 107
Blind Man
I still remember him
his skin a shade of black
eyes off kilter
his red and white stick
propped between his knees.
But here we were in the same group
so I had to look at him
listen to part of his life.
He had the beginnings of a smile
but an overall sense of sadness
as if part of him was in rebellion
against his blindness.
If I had passed him on a sidewalk
I would have wanted to look away
to avoid dealing with his reality
and my own.

Not wanting
or unable to notice
the hole in someone’s life or vision
seems so normal.
After all, we can only take in so much
from moment to moment.
But it’s so easy for me to escape
knowing the pervasiveness
of my own blindness.
Every time I walk on a sidewalk and notice the cast iron grating around trees designed to warn the blind of a hazard I think of this man who made me aware of the obstacles the visually impaired face in everyday life, obstacles the sighted never think of. Yet all of us have internal obstacles we can’t see because we don’t want to. Is ours perhaps a voluntary blindness or rebellion?
Jun 2 · 87
even a moment of it
fills the dry corners of the soul
with light, peace
and gentleness
May 31 · 193
Invisible Wife
Glenn Currier May 31
He was introduced to her
all the while looking through her
to see someone who mattered,
who was smart and degreed enough
for his time, after all, she was just the wife.

That gathering and others awakened her.
Now she insisted hubby’s clock hands
be wrapped around the kids’ small fingers.
He’d learn to tick with their hearts as he lingered.
The volume of her voice turned up a click or two
her own determination gently gliding through.
Not hawklike but now with a new edge
she, with fresh wings was no longer a fledge
as she declared she too would make the grade,
have her career, no longer invisible in the shade.

And… now she’s in demand as a speaker of note
with expertise surpassed only by her heart
she leans and listens with wisdom to impart,
life’s struggles and southern roots lend a common touch -
soaked in family love - no need for titles like doctor and such.
Dedicated to Dr. Melanie Durand Grossman, gerontologist, author, and speaker. This poem is based on her memoire: Crossing Bayou Teche. I would imagine many women can relate to her story. She is still happily married to renowned cardiologist William Grossman, with three grown children as well as grandchildren. Her story will inspire many wives who are still invisible.
May 30 · 93
The Climb
Glenn Currier May 30
I am above ground
looking down
I behold
a canyon or sink hole
where people are gathered around
a shiny Rolls Royce deposited on the ground
by some unknown force.
Somehow I make it to the floor of the hollow
but soon I fear being caught there doomed
and look for a way out of the gloom.
I see a pathlike outcropping on the southern wall
a few others follow as I walk to it to make the crawl.
One old foot at a time
I carefully climb
but eventually I must stop
the outcropping severely narrows near the top,
grass and dirt within sight,
but too far for a safe berth
I cannot pull myself up to flat earth.
I look down the steep side
the fall would be two hundred feet if I slide
I feel dizzy and scared, a void in my groin.
So close to success, near safety and normality
yet now discouraged
wrapped in doubt and fear
where to go from here?
It seems nowhere but in the abyss
all my difficult progress amiss.
This is from a dream, the meaning of which I soon figured out. I’ve been working on a personal project making some progress, but afraid I will far too prematurely declare success. I must remember: “Progress, never perfection.”
May 26 · 78
Thick Strings
Glenn Currier May 26
The music of the day
plays silently in my psyche
and without realizing it -
on my better days I bring it alive -
a bright piccolo of a smile or kindness.
On my shadow days
it is the bass fiddle in a minor key
begun from depths of pride
played in the lower register,
the bow slowly sliding hubris
across the thick strings.
May 24 · 558
garbage can
Glenn Currier May 24
the garbage can is out back
top tight to contain the stench
clean on the outside
a model can among cans
but inside drips my hidden waste
next garbage day I’ll have more for it
May 23 · 357
Wading the Sun
Glenn Currier May 23
The sun is wondering
if it should dive into the sea
while two wanderers still play
on the edges of the dark
beckoning it to stay
just a little longer.

For just a short distance away
the bright gold lingers
in the shallows
where they could tiptoe
into the iridescent rippling.

The shimmering surges
on the margins
where the waves have lost their energy
and the tide is a glassy placid.

I am wondering
like the sun
if it is time to set
or if I should wade into the rippling light.
Inspired by a photo on commons:
May 18 · 129
The Wake
Glenn Currier May 18
I like wakes.
Seeing her body
revealed her latter-day unsettled life
and her female beauty.
It was a final goodbye to this woman
whom we had not seen in decades.

But the wonder of that gathering
was the friends of a previous season,
the smiles, hugs, and  laughter,
together recalling memories seared -
some by pain and others by joy.
Meeting husbands, wives, and children
of people we had last seen in their youth
in just a moment told the sum
of their maturing.

Praying together,
hearing the minister lead the rituals
with humility and gentleness,
reminding us of her life and love,
brought healing
of hurts long heaped up with the church.

This gathering of souls
mystically bound -
in an instant -
pierced layers of scars
wiped away
with the balm of forgiveness,
waking our spirits.

Maybe that is why it is called
a wake.
Last night we were gifted with the wake of Linda Gail Fehmel, the daughter of an old and dear friend, who died at age 40 from a tragic inherited illness as well as other factors. I’ve had the good fortune of participating in numerous wakes, but this one was special and soul-lifting for me.
May 14 · 438
Glenn Currier May 14
One moment I am high
with the light of soulfulness within.
The next I am down
in the clutch of desire
and enticements.
May 12 · 329
The Birdfeeder
Glenn Currier May 12
There’s a concert in my back yard
solos and duets all day
a circus with acrobatics
clowns painted with reds, blues and browns
just feet from my perch
here as I peck on the  keys
the stars fly in
then flit away with ease
as if to tell me:
you can’t hold me long
with your seeds and your eyes
we are free to dive the skies.
With gratitude to John Wiley and his poem, “Kookaburra” -  - the inspiration for this poem.
May 10 · 786
On the Road
Glenn Currier May 10
So many “road stories”
from the Odyssey, and Kerouac, to Augustine.
Each rich in emotion and spirit
most of the stories
have the hero hitched to a fellow traveler
to bathe the soul in word and mood
to throb with the music.

I have recurring dreams.
I’m in a hotel looking for an elevator
can’t find my floor or room
or can’t find my car downtown.
I wander streets, and lots.
Are there road stories hidden in these dreams?

Why do I trip, fall
stay misplaced and lost
find only
Apr 26 · 556
The Pear Tree
Glenn Currier Apr 26
It’s late April
spring is in full swing
bursting with life
the tree lifts its arms,
waves across the field,
its leaves full of light
flutter in perfect rhythm
with the wind.

The train is leaving the station
the years gathering toward my finish line.
Each season a child frantically
waving at his grandpa
as if to whimper
this might be the last time.
Apr 14 · 118
Glenn Currier Apr 14
I looked up the origin of the word:
from Greek “possessed by God,” it said
although enthusiasm is small in me these days –
a tiny flickering flame in a glass of red –  
still it burns hope
to be wholly possessed
beyond the earthy bed.
Apr 12 · 301
Words, Angels or Devils?
Glenn Currier Apr 12
Words are both angels and devils
they set my mind on the divine
capture the beauty of Earth
from the budding pear tree across the way
then back here to this room where
words become my servants and masters.

Spring teems green.
Bluebonnets blanket Texas hills
yet I cannot find words for
their delicacy and glory,
nor how these tiny miracles make me feel.
How do I capture the incredible life
coursing through stems, leaves and blooms?

Yet without words no sacred volumes
to guide us
no Rumi, Dickens and Austen on shelves
no Dylan, Jay-Z, Lennon, or Parton in our ears
no Case, Willow, Khoi, Pradip sparkling in our eyes.

Yes demons fly in them
but words capsulize the depth, breadth, and passion
of the human soul
I bow to these small human creations
and how they speak the universe.
Mar 30 · 219
Dawn at a Late Hour
Glenn Currier Mar 30
I came here at a late hour
sure that I left my spirit in the dust of the day
but here after dusk absconded with the light
my muse flutters in
joins the candle flame and the piano fugue
lifts me like a dragon fly
doing acrobats on a summer day.
I write to capture
the small miracle of this moment.
This poem along with the one that follows (First Light) were inspired by Elizabeth Squires lovely haiku:
Mar 30 · 100
First Light
Glenn Currier Mar 30
I am present when the field beyond the windows
is still shrouded in darkness
my dream awakened me early in fear and panic
but here with candle flickering in the red glass
this tranquil space breathes into me
unties the tension.

A soft reverie has me back at the lake
casting my line out just as the sky whispers
hello to the guy full of hope for that first tug.
That rocky peninsula becomes a sacred space
as first light awakens the birds
and the air is full of mystery.
Thanks to Elizabeth Squires and her lovely haiku for the inspiration for this poem -  
There is something heavenly in the experience of seeing the first light of day. Inevitably there is a dawning within me as I write in my journal and the lines twist around into a poem. As I was writing this piece I remembered my many camping trips in the spring of the year to Lake Whitney State Park south of Dallas and my home. I would rise at 4:30 or 5:00 and stumble around dressing and gathering my fishing equipment for the short drive to the peninsula where I fished for sand bass and the treasured striped bass. When the lake was calm it was so peaceful. I am filled with gratitude for those moments, now only memories, but sweet ones.
Glenn Currier Mar 22
It is a lie.
I can’t get into your skin
nor see the blight on your soul
nor know the wealth of your life
in the darkness and the light.

It seems to me – and I could be wrong –
these four words
discount the other’s experience
dismiss the depth of a friend’s feeling.

Can’t I come up with something more creative?
Ask a question to find out more?

Have NOT been there
like you have.
I thank Maddy for her poem -  that caused me to think about the impact of those four words and thus became the inspiration for this poem.
Mar 16 · 492
Dancing in the Rain
Glenn Currier Mar 16
I imagine the man across the alley judges me
but I don’t know
I think she likes me
but I don’t know.

I feel sad about the thoughts of him and her
that I don’t even know
my imagination captures me in an I-loop.

Then I read Edmund’s poem
                      he takes me on a spiritual adventure
                                    into peace, love, life, nowhere, somewhere,
                                              dancing in the rain

I think about dancing in the pain
               and here I am still waltzing
                            dripping and glistening.

Poetry invites imagination.
This poem originated in my mind after reading Edmund black’s wonderful poem, “When Words don’t Reach,”  I had been caught in a depressing loop of pain and mind focus on my back pain. Not much imagination there. Until I read Edmund’s poem. And he made me ask myself if I could dance in the pain. Thank you Edmund.
Mar 15 · 218
Glenn Currier Mar 15
Being wrapped in your love
feels so good on a wintry day
makes me grateful even for the gray,
for this life I get to live with you
and the spring that soon will break through
the browns and the downs.
Mar 9 · 505
Have you ever been the less favorite?
It doesn’t feel good.
It can urge you to jealousy and anger
which can lead you to hurt the favorite
or at least to want to.

But then consider why the other is favored:
more loving and caring
more attentive
less self-centered?

Or is it the favored one just better-looking
or genetically given?

Whatever the case,
jealousy and hurt
can send me down a crooked path
and make me miserable.

Better to just live in love.
Mar 3 · 726
Was Jesus horny?
Even the most devout Christians
accept that Jesus was a guy
guys get ***** as do gals.

Yes, all of us have a creator in us
life-creating energy
and prose.

Maybe Jesus didn’t have the kind of darkness in him
that we have
the kind of drag
of pride and self-centeredness
that I have,
but by God!
he was faced with the same choices
between fidelity and desire
between horniness and selfless love.

Yep I fail in ways he did not
but he failed to get rid of lust just like I do
he failed to avoid selfish desires.
Of course, I act on them
and ***** up in ways he did not.
But do you think he didn’t feel ******* up at times?
Of course he did.

All of this humanity
is what makes me like him.
Jesus was a guy.
That he was more
is what makes me love him.
My mama had pictures of Jesus with rouge and a pretty face in our home. I never did like those pictures of him. Then I saw a picture of Salvadore Dali's Christ of St. John of the Cross. That's the kind of Jesus I could relate to as a teenager and young man. When I got my own apartment I got a print of that picture of this man on the cross. It captivated me and set me on a path to pursue this guy who was human and hairy like me. At that time in my life and for the rest of it, I did not like an overly divinized Jesus, a Jesus that made him less than human.
Mar 2 · 239
Strange Companions
When I am sad
wrapped in the arms of God
I am also in joy.
Feb 26 · 433
Deliver me...
Glenn Currier Feb 26
Across the burnt field
I carry my load
I pierce the smoky expanse
my energy flags
I yearn for rest
but the burden gets heavier
I am alone
and slog for both of us.

I converse with my mind:
“Please, a small spell
to float this flood
to higher ground.
Find an ounce of push,
then I can unravel.”

A midnight exhaustion overtakes me
I lay depleted
at wits end
I pray
a surrender
my self
gaunt, frail, devoid.

Before sleep an appeal
to a power greater than me
deliver me from these ashes.
After a complex surgery my wife is in a painful period of recovery. Together with the help of friends who bring food and love, and with divine assistance, we will make it. BTW, the prayer worked. I woke up the next day refreshed and ready for what would come.
Feb 16 · 72
Winter Trees
Glenn Currier Feb 16
Standing alone you spring to life,
then the warmth explodes you
covering every inch of your arms and bodice
adorned in your full flowering dress.

But as I swiftly breeze by you on my way
and only take a glance
at you among the others of your nature
you blend in your emerald maturity.

It is not until winter
when you reveal yourself,
naked for us to bask
in all the tributaries of your inner world
and I discover your complex truth,
the heart of your loneliness and abandon,
where you have surrendered
your stunning appearance
and reach up and out beyond your earthly roots
for a life beyond seasons.
Winter trees have always fascinated me. Their dark naked beauty at twilight captures me and casts me into a peace like none other. I disclose myself to others to some degree but never have I surrendered all my externality as do winter trees. This kind of abandon might only be possible in a deep and abiding relationship. Or will it be possible only at death? I don’t know. But I  think we have much to learn from these marvelous creatures?
Jan 26 · 94
Slow Dive
Glenn Currier Jan 26
I need to plug into your symphony
listen for the strains of your heart
pull myself apart from my tense doing
slow down, dive deeper, below the surface,
then ride the ripples to the distant shore
of your gentle, loving soul.
Jan 22 · 109
Glenn Currier Jan 22
So many great stories of people leaving home
to find a place home enough
where they could find themselves
become more,
someone extraordinary.

Most of my life has been such a quest.
Like butterflies I emerged from cocoons
after staying a while in a place to grow
into something or someone
I could live with.

I was lucky to find people along the way
strong enough to hear my voice,
people I could trust to stay when I was honest.
Those brave ones became homes for me.
Jan 22 · 389
Exuberance Lulled
Glenn Currier Jan 22
I wish my imagination glistened
as it used to

I long for the rush of enthusiasm
with dreamy violins and brassy horns
of Tchaikovsky and Mahler

Where has the music gone
the tingly feeling in my chest
the excitement
now replaced by numbness
and in the midst of silence
shrill electric strains between my ears
Jan 17 · 700
Love Lifts
Glenn Currier Jan 17
Your love for me despite the nicks and flaws
lifts me from the pits and the claws of darkness
heaves me over hurtles to the fledgling light
Jan 4 · 127
The cards know
The cards of the 30 year old deck
festooned with Monet´ prints
swoosh so easily pliant in our hands
we unthinking about what the cards must know.

The dealer endures rebuke for bad hands
and pleads randomness and no malice
but still has the cheek to brag of her own good lot.
The cards bear unholy smudges of anger
and oh the tales fingerprints could tell:
loss of cool, onslaught of quiet ire
if not murderous fancies
all shielded by superb acting
and control
of ****** muscles
and the pace of breathing.

This drama plays out
unspoken but with latently lurking
hurts, slights, envy
and long smoldering resentments.

Even patriarchy rears its ugly self-righteous head
and cords of tolerance of the old man are strained
and taut to the breaking point,
Pete now realizing why Kit no longer plays when Dad’s at table.

But then there is the rare event
like when it’s revealed that Liz had the better hand
but folded because she knew Burt needed a win tonight.
This poem was inspired by a poem, “Playing cards,” by lua on this website. Please see that poem:
Our family room has a vaulted ceiling.
Facing each other in that place,
our eyes meet and in this gaze
across the room
we take flight
through hot afternoons
into cold dark nights.

What we reveal in this air
is the stuff of dreams and things
of joy, pain and sorrow washed in tears,
and when the clouds have cleared
there we are in a sacred space
in the wind and tide
where a mystic spirit
arrives and abides
for quiet moments,
and on this holy canvas we spread
the blush of eternity.

We bring memories of our dances
and missteps where we fell
into each other’s arms and laughed
at the folly of two fools
who leapt across their rifts and fears
across dry days and long years,
sank into the hearts
of each other
and flew to vaulted horizons
where together we reached
to touch the face of God.
My wife and I were sharing tonight and reflecting on the experiences we have had together, sharing a spiritual, emotional, and relational journey including the many places we traveled. It was an intimate moment in which we were aware of the sacredness of this space in our cozy home. We both felt inspired, our eyes glistening a bit, and I told her I needed to write. We are so grateful as we begin yet another year together. Yesterday we celebrated 52 years of marriage.
Glenn Currier Dec 2021
Thinking of my closest relationships
makes me marvel at what a fool I am.
A map of the streams of my loves
would show small settlements
tiny villages where I’ve rested
from my frantic search for meaning -
spaces made by nights of talking and sharing -
spaces of kisses, cries,
shouts and whispers that kept together
the threads we coiled into a chord
of memories.

Memories of foolish leaps we both made
into a friendship, a kinship, a marriage
a co-creation.

What faith abides in me that causes
me to abandon logic for love?
It is a mystery to me
how I can stay in this embrace
despite our divergencies?

But it is a splendid mystery
I celebrate.
I bow to my new friend ruqayyah I met on this website. His poem, “keep your friends close” caused me to write this poem. It is about the trust necessary for close relationships of all kinds. I think of my relationship with my relatives, my friends, my church, my wife. All of these are based on some degree of trust.
Dec 2021 · 111
One Day of Light
Glenn Currier Dec 2021
What a day to see light and its colors
catch the human heart
in its glorious song of love.
For just one day may I see and say
joy and peace and signs of creation
signs of life on the dark landscape.

New beginnings that thumb their noses
at my old and aching bones
and every muscle memory of failure
every nodule of shame trying to grow inside.

For just one day let me glow inside
reaching with care everywhere
I dare to believe
there’s someone who deserves it -
or not – I give it anyway.
Stoop to look into sad, bleak eyes
that they might see the light
the passion and kindness
that stirs inside.

Let’s have one day of light.
Dec 2021 · 80
Glenn Currier Dec 2021
Rumi urged jumping into the boiling sea of passion
and grief would run from you.
I have been in that sea.
Swimming in those waters
caught up in the currents
keeping my head above water
there was no time for grief.

Now, still, there is passion
but more like a vat of rich soup
about to boil.

The tentacles of loss
reach out to wrap themselves
about my wrists and ankles.
Age, a slow moving barge,
moves up on me
but my arms and legs splash,
and determined,
I inhale a rich tide of inspiration
from courageous friends.
I breathe love
in poems, whispers and music
and battle the sinking.
Dec 2021 · 127
Predawn Peace
Glenn Currier Dec 2021
It is predawn and still dark outside
but I cannot sleep.
The cool of aching winter calls
but the oaks, still green,
soon their leaves will fall
like me who so easily slips away
from the grasp
of the universe
that always beckons me to join
the elements of its peace.

But too often
I choose the storms
the collisions
and scattering properties.

How sweet it is to close the distance
between us
to find each other
and dwell together
in moments of love, respect,
mutual admiration,
and laughter
that seem so rare
out there,
to abide in sweet and precious harmony
for a while.
The last three days I traveled south to visit with three of my relatives whom I have not seen and hugged for far too long. We shared meals, a few card games, a little music, and a movie. These have been times to cherish and remember in the long months we will again find ourselves apart, at a distance, all trying to avoid the loneliness that haunts humanity these days.
Dec 2021 · 821
Drops from Heaven
Glenn Currier Dec 2021
“Look for the soul,
you become soul;
Hunt for the bread,
you become bread
Whatever you look for,
you are.”   – Rumi

A glorious magenta thistle blossom
a humpback whale breaching
a haiku by my friend John
a kitten swatting at a bouncing string
a silent moment just sitting peacefully
Debussy’s La Mer
a giggling baby
a golden leaf falling from oak.
This morning I had a moment meditating that brought tears to my eyes. It felt like drops from heaven. As I wrote the above piece, I thought of Rumi and looked over on my bookshelf spying a decorative box: “The Card and Rumi Book Pack.” I took it down and opened it. Inside the book cover was a well written affirming inscription from the one who had gifted me this beautiful volume in 2001 upon my reception of an “excellence in teaching” award. It was from Valerie, a former student who is Native American. She ended her remarks with “Aho!” a Kiowa word that means thank you. I opened the book and turned to a tabbed page and read this quote from Rumi: “ At every moment, Love’s voice talks to us from left and from right, all we have to do is to know how to listen.”
Dec 2021 · 310
Poor Leopold
Glenn Currier Dec 2021
Listening to Leopold’s symphony
for two minutes,
I was bored.
My mind wondered.
I recalled the dramatic first chords
of Wolfgang’s symphony 41
how it awakened me
how I was hooked by his energy and zest.

Even though Leopold taught his son,
the fame of the impulsive and creative Amadeus spread
as he wrote and played
and captured the attention of the world.

I wonder what poor Leopold thought of his own work
in contrast to his prolific son
a son who seemingly created great music
from nothing
who freed himself from tired conventions.

A creator makes something from nothing
and I wonder if being lost in nothingness
as we poets sometimes are,
if letting go of the familiar
makes it easier to create.
Nov 2021 · 122
Three Threads
Glenn Currier Nov 2021
Two souls wrapped together
in seasons and all kinds of weather
here we are these precious three
you me and one we can’t see.

Making our path, finding our road,
through our hearts a river flowed
a torrent of love and wild romance.
We tripped, but we danced our dance.

Your big brown eyes held my gaze
we talked and tried in a thousand ways
to merge as we fought and sought a third one
we drifted and flew from planet to comet to sun.

Where we were going we did not know
we ran fast at first but now… we walk slow
our speed or height mattered less to us
than building together a bond of trust.

So we’ve yet another adventure ahead.
All those years ago when we wed
we didn’t know the privilege we’d share
from solid earth to now in mid air.

We’ve smelled frangipani and cactus flower
sung sadness and joy and hymns of power.
From three threads together we’ve spun
a beautiful, sturdy cord of one.
To my beautiful wife, our marriage and journey of love with our higher power, as we embark of another adventure through challenges of health and spirit.
Nov 2021 · 51
Dreaming of Daddy
Glenn Currier Nov 2021
I am no Freud or native shaman,
experts in dream interpretation,
but the other night I had a dream
of my dear departed daddy.
We were lying on the bed together
and he told me how I had hurt him.
He almost whimpered his disappointment.
This man who was a paragon of strength in my life!
How precious it was to feel his warmth, vulnerability
and humanity in this close encounter.
Even now my eyes grow misty
as I remember the way he was in that dream.

I wonder if in my dreaming
I hugged the Father of the Universe
and felt the frailty of nature
the sadness of it for what we have done to it.

Maybe we need to feel this intimate connection,
this union of our humanness with a powerful love
to grasp the enormity of our responsibility
in this relationship.
Nov 2021 · 39
In Clouds of Gray
Glenn Currier Nov 2021
Here I am in clouds of gray
the curtain closing on the day
on the horizon the last light
softly lingers before the night
bright voices of day’s gladness
fade away, my heart veiled in sadness.

The blustery afternoon shook the wings
of elm, its leaves, flying golden things
I hear them sing as they fall
then whisper their farewell call
now in the gloaming of the day
the clouds invite rest or a moment to pray.

Ask sursease of sorrow ahead
but dwell not on shores of dread
believe the voice from inside
in each passing moment abide
let go the chains of control
find a piece of joy in your soul.
Ahead in coming months are serious invasive treatments for back, shoulder and other issues for someone I love very much. This poem is my attempt to process it all.
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