The life of parents is gauged in teaspoons
of sweat, vinegar, blood and tears
in early mornings and tire of late afternoons
all collected in a cup of salvation for years.
Small sufferings and moments of pain
become sacrifice for a child’s little sins
so the youth won’t suffer the blame,
cost of loss, but the joy of life’s wins.
All these payments made without wrath
may never be repaid to them in their time
but lessons taught will etch a path
for a child to grow up into its prime.
Anyone who loves the unkind
or selfish or one who has spurned
virtue or left goodness behind
pays debts the errant don’t earn.
Dedicated to Kevin Williford in honor of his forthcoming work: Serving in the Lord’s Blackberry Patch.
Mom has been gone for years
but just now I was brought to tears
from a poem about my childhood piano playing
and how she patiently listened, probably pained
Mom told me she loved hearing me play soft or loud
and ‘twas the one thing I could do to make Dad proud.
Replaying years of hurt for mistakes they made
bound me in shadows and shade,
but now late in life I again recall
the character of their care for my soul
and cherish the humanity of these two
and their suffering that got me through.
Written after re-reading a poem I wrote two years ago, “To tired to write?” which I have included below.
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.
Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?
I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.
Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?
I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.
Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.
Written April, 2018
My emptiness gnaws at me
erodes the dark coating on my soul
my hunger is a yawning bowl
of clear glass yearning to be filled
with your love
what nuggets of golden light
or even what suffering you might
will to me
to grow me
into what I need to be.
I trust you with my hunger
with the calluses
on my hands and feet
and the hardness of my heart
to touch, soften, repair,
and birth there
some fibers of new life.
Like fingers running across a harp
from shoulder toward feet
I fall deeper into you.
My fingertips pause
here and there in their journey
to feel the sweet vibrations
of your body
and in these small silences
I enter your divinity.
So many hours of each day
I go about doing all the things I want
accumulating long moments
without a thought of you
but when I do stop to notice you
to commune I am again renewed
and filled with your love.
May I take a few long or short moments
with you each day
May I be infected
with a sureness
of your love
May it spread within me
like an IV flowing confidence
in my okayness
In the face of fear
and desperation may
I be a cove of calm presence
May you be well
whole and robust
in every cell
In this time of solitude
may I encounter
the awesome power of now
I feel you easing into me
occupying thin layer
upon thin layer of my soul
and I occasionally notice
a smidgen of joy rising
as if first light was dawning.
But this is not first light
for it has been accruing
like silt in the river delta
depositing fertile soil
for an emergent growth.
I just had a moment
when I felt the great beyond
What a joy!
A poem is not finished
until it is read or heard by another.
So when you read or listen
you become a partner
in this humble endeavor.
for one eternal moment
What matters matters
it doesn’t matter
that there are so many things
and people that do
Sometimes I am still in high school
feeling alone like a fool
on the margins an arm’s length away
a nobody with nothing to say
just out of pace
chosen last for one side in a game
but I graduated
moved into the world to find my place
but at times I get in a clinch
and still feel on the fringe.
The first soft gray light of day
creeps in from the east
not even a glow
just barely enough
to see the clouds stretching over me
but I know a love
that is the dawn in my darkness.
it is a cold day
the heater soaks the space
but how difficult it is
to feel the warmth without words
The foam of ocean waves
the cries of a newborn babe
the profusion of pedals in a daisy-dotted field
clouds nudging each other
a kiss a sloppy seal
a song that thrills
all these words owned me
took me for a moment this morning.
the shifting layers of gravel and soil,
the thin crust of busyness
are the hours of merging and melting
from our friction and romance,
in other words
the love and trust
that is our bedrock.
My neighbor pruned his pear tree
he did it with such deliberate care
for the load of summer fruit broke limbs
he waters and nurtures that tree so special to him.
Pruning lets in the sunlight and air
vibrant limbs and blossoms appear.
What can I prune for good health,
for light, love, and soulful wealth?
I was caught up in the usual daily wrangle
for my attention among the images and stories
on my phone and the computer’s tangled
tries for some small measure of life’s glories.
Then I looked up from the bright screen
and saw the long elegant leaf lit by the sun.
The tributaries of its mysterious green
softened and focused me from many to one.
I lost my crazy mind in this living blade
and found this poem waiting there for me
in the simple power of its now where I stayed
for a tender eternal moment in its joyous jade sea.
To see what partially inspired this poem:, go here: https://www.currierpoems.net/green-leaf
In the first light of dawn
fog shrouds the trees
and gentilizes the landscape
softens hard edges
What is the fog telling me?
Subtract the number of details
that consume attention and energy.
Unify the landscape of life
into something more simple.
Maybe I should listen to the wisdom of the fog.
When someone fears not my freedom
opens their grip and surrenders
any hold on me
the blessed result is a kind of peace -
maybe a pause before I approach the cliff
but in that small moment a glimmer of grace
enough to save me
a space to crawl a few layers deeper
to find what lies beneath,
a slender root, a fertile bit of soil
a mystery on the desert plain
that nurtures a tender shoot
to take me into a hazy future
Freedom to die
to the hell within me
to the surface me
that pretends control
to the hidden pain that gobbles my light
These little deaths free me
to embrace the little boy within
the creative self
the beautiful alive soul
the pure core
that sustains us all.
When Some One, anyone, fears not my freedom
opens their grip and surrenders…
The geese are standing there
just being geese in the grass
poking through the leaves
going deeper for nourishment
may I follow their example
There it is, first light! The debut of dawn
another first - soft rays of a new day
fresh dew settling, cooling the lawn
the dew and irrepressible light make way
to this browning patch of earth
another prelude in my eyes
a gentle affirmation of life’s worth
in this glistening silver sunrise.
This freshness prods my lethargy
and is easy for me to take
but do I have the kind of energy
to allow a love without break
unconditional and pure
I wonder if I have it in me
to let such a love endure
to settle into me like dew - light and free.
It’s a quiet cool twilight
and through the windows I see
elm and pear standing in elegant silhouette
arms and delicate fingers
calmly reach for the sky.
They know not the years’ end is nigh
they remember spring summer and fall
and now they rest in winter’s arms
theirs the wisdom of passing
season unto season
their roots reach down and deepen.
We two are quiet at twilight
yet reaching for the heavens,
but we do know the years we’ve stayed,
more than eighteen thousand days
in the embrace of our love
season unto season
our roots deepen
and reach into our hearts
finding reason upon reason
to learn and grow and mature
millions of minutes step by step to endure.
And breath by breath
she has said yes upon yes
to this man unworthy of the grace
I have found in her voice and her embrace.
In moments of anger and near despair
we crafted a sculpture of care.
We’ve walked through darkness into light
knelt before each other sad and contrite
for our failures and night upon night
we have laid side by side
and together we’ve stayed
conquered our pride
found the divine in each other and beyond
turned tears and fears into a durable bond.
Still her smile melts me
floats me and bolts me
and her lips still thrill and pull me into her fiery orbit.
Even after this long, this woman I cannot resist
and yes, she persists
in her acceptance of this old guy
who can still bring a sparkle to her eye
a chuckle to her voice and a smile to her face.
Here we are at this twilight time
golden and holdin together
and – still – yes, still we rhyme.
Dedicated to my wife, Helen Elizabeth Currier on our 50th wedding anniversary - 12-30-19.
Do you know someone who heals,
in whose presence you feel whole
you do not have to bow or kneel
nor beg nor fool nor cajole?
Do you know another whose care
and ability to reach inside
erases doubt and lays you bare
your doubt and pride are laid aside?
Distrust in me is the boulder rock
that averts, delays and hesitates,
stems the tide and sadly blocks
the flowing stream of healing grace.
There you are through the seasons
in your humble green
not seeking attention or glory
even in spring your little magenta flowers
peak out from your branches too modest
to make a loud fuss.
The scent of your body
to the place of your birth,
the plains of heaven.
May I take your simple doctrine
of acceptance and humility
to heart and rest silently
unconcerned with appearance
happy to let a soft inner light
be the meek gospel of the universe.
This morning I was reflecting on the way the divine is manifested (and mostly ignored) all around me in the most humble things of creation. Then I noticed the sage bush in our back yard, planted and growing a little way off from the corner of the sidewalk. I remember smudging (burning a small bunch of sage) as a meditative spiritual practice decades ago. I can almost smell the unique aroma of the smoke rising to my nostrils and on to the heavens. Even the memory gives me a momentary wonderful peace.
In between the chords and notes,
spaces and pauses, can I find rest
for my hands long enough to get a dose
of the muse, a cosmic moment to reflect?
And when a chord is sustained
it carries me in anticipation
of what change or pain
will come, and for what duration.
From measure to measure
I wait upon the muse
for some small treasure
to dwell, disrupt and suffuse,
interrupt the normal routine
and reveal something splendid,
an artistic moment unforeseen
a miraculous onset unintended.
Do the angels and the divine
intervene in a poet’s affairs,
create miracles in the mind
momentarily suspend daily cares?
Or are we listening to the music and muse alone
save the few who gather around
our lines for now til we’re gone
to embrace wholly ground?
I lived here far too long
in this cavern dripping its darkness
with accusations and critiques
that have wetted my back with thick moisture
sticky with comparisons.
The crevasses and stones were placed with my collusion
in crazy cooperation with shadow.
Sadly the path of my past is strewn with this profusion
but gladly timely shafts of light spoiled the deception
and I climbed to a luminous plain
encountered rocky mounts
with veins of silver and gold
that bantered with the pain.
Now my long conversation with light
has staunched the blight
and rarely does the tempest threaten
to drown my spirit in its flood.
For now my shortfalls are taken in stride
measured against the serenity of truth
that surrounds me.
Now my hands are joined to fellow travelers,
to the faithful who laugh with me
at the reaper of darkness
weak in the ditch
whimpering over the paucity of his power
in the face of brothers and sisters
redeemed by the force
of honesty, trust, and Love.
Written 11-9-19 after some reflection on a tiny bit of fear I had about reading at a funeral a poem I wrote for a dear friend and his family. There will be some colleagues in the audience from the college where I used to teach. I used to compare myself to them and often found myself wanting. My meditation and reflection on this is contained in this poem. Thanks for reading
There is the ancient story of a shepherd boy
whose king outfitted him with armor
to ready him for the challenges of the day
and the boy could not walk
so he threw off the armor
picked up his sling
and tended his father’s flock
with peace and joy freely erupting in song.
My armor is not wealth or wit
I cannot make myself fit
into the current conventions and hype
trying to conform to the normal type
stops up the energies that yearn to flow
freely and gleefully and urge me to go
to the dawn, darkness, clouds and sun
to wrap myself in words that run
like sparkling streams
and windswept dreams.
Poetry is my armor for each day
where worries and problem allay
where I search my feelings and mind
for the word elixir loosening knots that bind.
This armor does not weigh me down
but frees me to my triggering town
where I find and create the poet me
and the landscape of my soul’s poetry.
My favorite book about writing poetry is one by Richard Hugo, Triggering Town where he says, “Your triggering subjects are those that ignite your need for words. When you are honest to your feel¬ings, that triggering town chooses you. Your words used your way will generate your meanings. Your obsessions lead you to your vocabulary. Your way of writing locates, even creates, your inner life. The relation of you to your language gains power. The relation of you to the triggering subject weakens.”
Here I am in the middle of your days
before the summer has said goodbye
and the brown beauty of fall has arrived.
It is easy to forget to notice your
persistent pink exuberance of crepe myrtle
to escape the warmth of your winds
for the coolness of the den.
There is still time to grow
before autumn ushers in the first snow.
Being in your midst makes me mellow
slows me and gives me time to re-member
those I’ve loved in the midst of you, September,
time to listen to you in the songs of birds
hear the wisdom of your words
on the peaceful cusp of Libra and Virgo.
Speak to me September
blow your breath upon the ember
of this era in my journey
let not the sparks still remaining
be lost in the cross fires
and anxiety of these days.
In your haste to bid farewell to summer
forget not my moments of wonder
let me hear your thunder
and please before you leave me
speak to me in your deep warm voice
and resurrect me from the wasteland
of this languorous slumber.
Hold me in your arms
fold me into your heart
touch me and let me feel your softness
take me away from me
help me to see
through your big brown eyes
drench me in your light
for I am down
and in the dark
remind me to laugh
and lift me with your wings of hope
smile me that last mile
before I am too tired.
Back in the corner of the closet
they rest covered in layers of dust
so thick I can barely see their color
but I remember the days of trust
I placed in them on ladders
dragging the hose through mud
standing before the radial saw
cutting with fear of drawing blood
Yes they are quite ugly
scuffed and parting at seams
soles worn and getting holey
walked through broken dreams
But I’ve got more work to do
I shake off the past with their dust
put on these old shoes cozy and true
and step into another future with trust.
I open the big glossy book
full of beautiful illustrations
galaxies, nebulae, moons and stars
cross into my view
as I travel its pages
In the black background
clusters of color and light
this page-turning cosmic flight
a tiny speck
in the expanding universe.
dot this inner space
in scattered remnants
undetectable by astronomy
or particle physics
in this collapsing sun.
Thank God for the stars
in my universe
who need no telescope
or cosmic observatory
to enter the inner space
to trace and find the heart
in this still expanding speck.
Written after again paging through a wonderful book I got several years ago: Voyage Across the Cosmos, A Journey to the Edge of Space and Time by Giles Sparrow. Also after watching an episode of Nova on PBS entitled A Black Hole Universe.
Writing is like jumping into a deep mountain lake
to find some tiny piece of my soul
submerged and floating there
an immersive brooding wistful prayer
or a flight into the blue thin air.
It is a cinematic journey
recording the fruits of noticing
what is right in front of the eyes
and finding what is deeper
Writing is looking into an old man’s eyes
and discovering the person there
just as much a spiritual venture
digging toward his center
as a physical sensation.
It is a magical mystery tour
taking the visible threads
in hand and feeling my way
to the roots
or pausing and squeezing the fruit
for its juice.
It is fun
it is a morning run
or an evening rest
pain, joy, and dreams expressed.
Writing is moving, grooving, including
taking a moment in time
exploding it in rhythm and rhyme
finding in the ordinary the sublime.
I roam the roads of this land
hop the hills, read the script,
listen to the sounds of logic and consequence
feel the wind on my skin
smell the flowers and grass
in this familiar landscape.
But I yearn for another place
an unexplored, exotic, even eerie space
I approach and tiptoe into a foggy
twilight border devoid of signs
nobody, no memory, no lines
I try to surrender to the fog.
But soon I’m back in the charted
remembered current waters
picking up the day’s packets bracelets and bobbles
but my legs soon start to wobble
in this state of awake
and again I search for a crossing
through the foggy realm
into the sweet lost land
Written after a bout with insomnia.
What would you miss the most
if you had to leave this life
the book asked.
I’d miss you
your big brown eyes
your comforting smile
your big heart
the tone of your voice
and the way you say, “You know?”
when you’re on an enthusiastic roll
your lively spirit
your yummy omelets with bits of stewed tomatoes
your relationship with the divine
of connection we have
telling you about my ****** afternoon
and watching you really listen to me
the way you cackle when we watch our favorite comedy
watching you quilt
your luscious lips
talking to you when we’ve just awakened
and the way your voice is soft and innocent
speaking our gratitude about our lives together
sharing our pain
being able to weep with you
when I am discouraged
or get inspired by something
how your eyes sparkle when I do so
the way you love our cats
caring for you
you caring for me..
Just to list a few
She stands at the wall reflecting
on those who were lost at sea
names and poems and words connecting
her to those poor souls and to me.
Beyond those memorial walls
the mighty Columbia into the Pacific spills
whose depth and wealth have called
so many to sail from Oregon's green hills.
From the safety of their home
they left for the great unknown
where writers and poets travel
every time they pen their spirit in word
to explore what God and life has unraveled
what pain, sorrow and joy have stirred.
Her kindness and her reflection move me to write
my poems of wandering from a safe and tidy home
to regions of imagination’s heights
shadows, sorrows, or oceans’ foam.
She reads and lives life’s poetry
knows its canyons and desert sands
she yearns only to be free
of the noise and anger of badlands
to smell the freshness of a cool and gentle breeze
feel the air brushing her arms
to look up and see the greenness of trees
to be free from crushing and brutal harm.
I see her standing and watch her reflection there
with seafarers, poets and lovers at peace
where God’s creative breath stirs air
and torments, terrors, and quarrels cease.
Author’s Note: My sister Genie who lives in a large urban area visited Astoria, Oregon where the Columbia river ends in the Pacific Ocean and local citizens have erected a memorial park with several walls of polished black granite that display the names of mariners lost at sea. There are also sentiments and poems about those lost souls one of which Genie photographed and sent to me. As I examined the photo I could see her reflection on the wall as kind of a background for the poem. That photo and my sister who loves nature and trees inspired this writing. I wish I could post the pic here for you to see why and how it inspired me.
Below is the untitled poem on the memorial wall photographed by my sister.
Weep not for me that I go to sea.
I shan’t be lonely, though vastness surround me.
The brotherhood of the sea shall be my family.
The kinship of the deep my company.
Weep not for me, nor worry over harm.
My heart stays with you, still and warm.
In sunrise and starlight my hearth and home
I carry you with me wherever I roam.
Weep not for me, whether bad luck or good.
Tossed about in a shell of steel and wood.
An ancient salt sea sails within my blood –
I but follow its tide through ebb and flood.
Weep not for me that I go to sea:
in the limitless ocean I am free.
When I was a young idealistic thinker
I took the bait hook line and sinker
now I’m an old more skeptical believer
but I hope I’m still an open receiver.
dings and whistles from the slot alert him escape -
sit before my image enter its wild wolf canyon escape
winding road in lofty forest landscape
beckon her - leave him for my green escape
triple x signs promise writhing bodies
heavy breathing and dark dank escape
the flute lay still of the silent table sparkling
sweet melodic memories of fingered escape
the frothy surging surf traces the seam of the sea -
bathe in my *****, wrap your self in my fluid escape
locked door soft light from below no sounds
inside creative energy sparks a poetic escape
on the placid lake he casts his hopes
awaits the tug - he and his prey escape
she stands eyes closed, smiling face turned upward
feels the breeze in her hair thanks God for this sweet escape
he runs in the field of goldenrod tears stream
and he screams a desperate entreaty for escape
the sylvan spirits flown from the mountain trees
into the green glen whisper as angels - escape!
Author’s Note: This is my first modest attempt at writing in the Ghazal poetic form. Thanks to poet Rob Kistner whom I met on HelloPoetry.com for the inspiration for this poem. Rob is an extraordinary talent who writes with a free yet disciplined artistic brush. This is the URL for his poetry on that website: https://hellopoetry.com/Artheo/
The ceiling fan sends its emissary
to breathe upon the candle’s flame
the humble blaze enclosed but free
in the small clear glass vessel.
Silently it wiggles and swirls
asserts its freedom
responds to the breezy envoy
May I and you, constrained and nourished
within life’s bounds,
embrace freedom’s grace
and respond with light
as we dance with the wind.
Why do I care what you think
or how you feel about what I say or do?
Should I, especially at my age?
But is not interaction itself the mutual influencing of behavior?
So when I speak to you and you to me
we are changing each other
just as the morning breeze bends the young Chinese Tallows
shaking each spring leaf as if to say, “Wake up tree, its time to grow!”
and the Tallow whispers, "Blow winds blow."
Caring just means I am human
and in spite of everything
I am glad about that.
Now they are memories
like silver threads in a gliding tapestry
how wondrous feeling and smelling the sea breeze
the aromas and excitement of the market
the cool magnificence of the mountains
in late autumn on the brink of winter.
These travels and their newness
still dance in my head
but even now my gut clinches
remembering the effort and focus
on preparations each day.
It’s the dark side of the coin
sadly evoking shame
to even mention it
a blotch in the snow
on the marvelous trek north.
But write it I must.
I wonder if it take courage
to be pitiful in public,
but maybe that’s what poets do
undress in front of everyone.
It is the stuff of nightmares
and here I am doing just that.
On the other hand…
How sweet the peace
sitting calmly writing
looking out on the back yard
the tallow trees coloring
preparing to shed a variegated carpet below.
Maybe it took travel
to help me appreciate
the beauty of
these serene moments
Written two days after our return from a glorious ten day trip from Texas to Vancouver and Whistler, British Columbia. This has been a draft, but I revised it and made it public today.
A meal of turkey and fixings
an afternoon of repairing her fence
making a shelf unit for their 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?
is better than nothing at all
when I’ve talked myself out of the big deed
due to time, tired, bruise or bleed.
When a man loves his wife he loves himself
I have heard it said
and I’ve read
of the interplay
of self love and love of another.
Can I love my brother, cherish my mother
if I do not accept myself?
I’m still unclear which comes first or if this dilemma
circles and confounds
and will puzzle me forever.
But I know with sureness when I love you
you soften and look at me with those big brown eyes
and sometimes I think I detect mist there
and when I run my fingers through your hair
I know your complexity and gentleness.
When I embrace you I know the fullness of your heart
that you loved me from the start
but even more now my precious one.
Maybe being a man this paradox of the circle of love
will never be mentally clear
but in my heart I know, my dear,
my love for you makes me me.
A profusion of tributaries pulse within
surge and fall away so swiftly
who I am becomes a question
I can only answer when I throw myself
into the great and powerful now
by tracing them on these pages.
Floating upon the waters
has been natural for me
on my wavy journey of faith
yet for most of my life I have been moored
to one or another church or spiritual dwelling
and there in the six directions
of the medicine wheel
or in mindful silence and meditation
I found solace and inspiration
and challenges to be a better man.
Born into the Roman church
from a mother whose tie to sanity
was her rosary
each bead a knot
and the chain her bond to the holy.
Novenas, prayers, litanies, and creeds
became the native tongue
taught when we were young
mysteries and sensory symphonies
of the rituals filled us to the brim
spilling dreams and designs
for a special future
ending in the Great Upthere.
But a destiny of storms
awaited me on my journey there
as I fled into a barren night
a zeal and appeal of career my light.
Now in the lateness of life
I am again moored in a church
in love with several humble followers
of Jesus the Christ there
songs and Word and wisdom fill the air.
And back home I have my own medicine woman of a wife
a five decade anchor of faith
a vessel and fiery heart full of love.
So here I am no longer floating
or boating from one port to another
my friends are dying and growing old
my body battered and heart weary
but I am alive, again brimming and often teary
for God has taken hold of me
Jesus who hounded me has tackled this old fool
and the Spirit has chiseled and shaped a jewel
tenderized my heart with his reckless love,
his overwhelming endless push and pull
and with his merciful Light has re-created and made me full.
I see you from the third floor
you there with white blossoms in your hair.
I envy the birds who fly freely
And rest in your shiny green glory.
I wish I could smell your sweet scent
Hold your soft pedals to my cheek
to heal all the blemishes
make smooth the rough spots
witness the fragrance of my serenity.
There are leads on my chest
to detect any vagaries within
but you are the best heart monitor
circulating in the deep vessels and chambers
checking what pulses and moves in me.
I trust you there
in the darkest parts of me
where life wanders.
In the hospital to monitor how my heart reacts to a new medication. I love writing about my “heart” issues weaving in both meanings of the word
The birds' songs are inviting me
to join them in joy
in holy union with Earth
where they make their home.
May I have such a relationship
bring such joy
to each small encounter of the day.
My desire is to be wrapped in a spirit of kindness
cloaked with love
as I step into the stream
with my fellow creatures
for I know the pain of anger
the dark valley of revenge.
Today I want a different mind
In this quiet lake
floating on a fugue and the Clair de Lune
the softness of your touch
soothes me smooths and sands away
How sweet this pianissimo movement
before the bombast trumpeting of work and muscle.
These times make a life of worth and dignity
give now its power
and hint of eternity.
pianissimo: a passage of music marked to be performed very softly
The big story of this day is Jesus’ Resurrection from death.
It will be celebrated in homes and churches throughout the world.
But I think Jesus is more interested in us than us celebrating him.
He wants us to recognize
and celebrate the way we rise
from our darkness, and digressions
failures, weakness, sadness and depression.
When Jesus was on Earth he was honest. He was himself.
That’s what got him in trouble.
He teaches me to subdue the anger and every hint of violence inside
to be true to the unique creature his Father has crafted
not special or above the rest of ordinary men
just different and true to my own voice.
Unlike Jesus, I am not that courageous and mighty with the power of love.
I still fantasize doing damage to those whom I deem evil
still I care too much about what others think
about how I look or sound in public.
I am unlike Jesus in too many ways,
but I am like him in my rising from darkness and doom
from my own self-made tomb.
My resurrections might be tiny
but large is the Spirit in me
and the ability to see
to see the right
and pursue it wherever it leads
into meadows and into the weeds
away from tradition and my roots
beyond my past moorings
and its small soarings
telling my little stories
from death to glory.