Do not cling to me
and our past together
instead stand back to see
the me still to be
a flowing brook
with floating leaves
and other pieces of earth.

My buddy the quarterback said to go long
music to my ears the chorus of my song
I could easily outrun all the puny secondary –
the guys from one block over on wealthy Dewberry.
We were all better at football on Lillian Street  
beating the crap out of those guys was oh so sweet.

Now mulling my interests, passions and such
I wonder why I love football so much
what with a life of writing, thinking and teaching
my football mania seems a tad overreaching
but still my arm flexes watching that heaver
connect in a perfect arch with his swift receiver.

Being Cajun in Texas where sports are king
probably explains something of why I’m so keen
and my pulse quickens as I remember
the neighbor boys’ shouts and calls in September
to meet them in our favorite autumn spot
down the street in that vacant lot.

Most of my life I’ve gone for short passes
connected with ideas and English classes
no novel for me, I fell for poetry
nor did I brave the rigor of a PhD.
Now finally, with my scores of years its not so wrong
to watch, leave it alone, wait a while, and go long.

Tonight after an isolating illness,
propelled beyond my darkness,
I walked into a universe of light
where stars are swallowed
into black holes
spreading their energy and light
into and beyond the shame or blight
dragged along by each
stumbling with the baggage of their histories,
then recovering
his balance.

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
unseen underneath.

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.

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.

I come here
to this island rich in growth
clear warm fluid
to catch its currents
and swim its nurturing depths
where I can breathe underwater
and leave traces of my darkness
to float like drops of ink
in a glass bowl.

These tropics
reside on the map of my heart
for me to locate
when covered
by layers of sand
in the desert
on gray slate days
barren days of lost inspiration
when I am turned in on me
and my tottering self
the me I see
on my pockmarked well-traveled and aged face
each morning in the mirror.

I arrive here
each time with a glimmer
a hope I can find
within me a point of light
some soft and pure place
a source a force
where I can rise again.

This distance between us occupied
minutes and hours multiplied
by walking and running thoughts,
divining the cost of careless loss
roving and darting with such might
not even a rest in dreams of night.
Then a trouble or something tragic
pauses me, and a moment of magic
makes all that distance naught.
I fly to you my love in thought
bound again by strings unclear
I yearn and ache to have you near.
     But again the world cries out to me
     and again I am gone - in its roiling sea.

This place is an oasis
in the midst of loneliness.
How could I be so lonely
while wrapped in your embrace?

[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

It’s like watching a flower bloom from a bud
or a seed pushing through the soil
moving onward and upward
slowly but surely
toward the sky
to eventually arise
in its fresh green glory
into the light
right before our eyes.

They are taking that old house
into their hands and hearts
removing dust and accumulations
of two full and splendid lives
molding from the clay of the past
moving through the soil of a present
full of challenge and struggle
into a new, alive
unpredictable
future
together.

This new growth
fashioned from precious artifacts
and art of these two mature siblings
is not a shell which is a house
but a new flowering
which is a home.

What a delight to observe from afar
this new creation
taking shape
knowing
that their roots and ours
are emmeshed
and inseparable.

Watching these two
bright, precocious ones
so precious, priceless and cherished by us
is as delicious
and delightful
as sharing a meal
prepared in the ovens,
homes and hearts
of our mothers.

In this dynamic present
we are grateful
for parents who taught us what it means
to make and keep a home
to love and be loved by the children
of generations.

All these children
are present in the creators
and observers
of this new home
taking shape
being painting
into a landscape
that will one day
sparkle
with joy.

Dare I spend my time with you
puncture my soul with your deep breath
feel the pain in your feet
walking the Earth and the universe with such love?

Dare I spend time with you
and risk falling into the abyss of deep sad blue
and losing my self in that fall
all with the chance that I will become
who I was meant to be from the start
of the ***** reaching the ****?

Dare I spend time with you
laying myself out
on the expanse of  your skin
feeling its coarse surface
learning its beautiful layers?

May I have the courage to take this small leap
to find you in the saddest and most joyful places.
If I dare to spend time with you
I will find myself in the strong grasp
of your immense reach.

In this small cathedral we meet
I sit here waiting for you
and it is not long before
our joyful reunion.
I weep tears of joy
being wrapped in your arms
feeling your creative energy
flow through my mind
into my fingers and back out
on this small screen.

I have missed this intimacy
that fills me with poems
and lines along which you travel
from me into the universe.
Those lines pierce my heart
and it overflows with life and love
because you have entered.

This is a sacred space
for here I bring all the trials and pain
and lay them out
for your creative plunging being,
plunging past the terror and hate without
into the deepest part of me
a chamber of reunion.

The breeze stretches and cools the season
along the country road
variegated light, leaf-filtered
from trees that lean
in rivalry for my eager eyes.

Their foliaged arms dangle, then drop
an amber snowfall all around
as if to awaken me
to the autumn creep
into my bones that click and tick
with each tottery step.

Earth awakens me to the beauty
in this splendorous season
of the gliding swaying passage
of life in alteration
and spiritual invitation
to bathe in the slow current of creation
along this road
and its cool and bright possibilities.

Ghosts

The ghosts float about
sometimes above my head
sometimes in my chest
they wrap themselves
Oh to be lycan
I saw a wolf in the northwest covered with snow
blue eyes looking right through me
as if to say wake up you stupid human
stuck in the mud
float in snow my man!
I feel the heat on my inner thighs
creeping upward tickling enticing
as if the summer is trying to peak its head
through cold winter soil
the shiny black snake coils
around my ankles
squeezes telling me to be not afraid
of the primordial divine impulse
to take my earthiness and embrace it
bring it to the heavens where it belongs
with my spirit.

The Woman

The long thin silk scarf around her neck
***** and flies off her left shoulder
like angel wings in the wind
caresses my cheek and neck
wants me within her feminine self.
Ah! what sweetness to behold!
her soft skin gentlizes me
takes my hairy clunky body
lifts it into my dreams
into her moistness.

Awake

And now I am awake
to spring in its irrepressible green
daffodils at the base of the pear tree
direct my eyes from earth to sky
like an organic gothic arch
long puffy clouds stand still
against the bright azure sky
heaven on earth.

Above the hardened world I see a cloud
white edges soft but dark pervades its heart
beside the brook a stone so bright and proud
her striking beauty makes her stand apart
I bow my fingers wrap around her waist
I lift her from her lesser comrades there
I touch the smoothness of her face
her sheen and curving lines without compare
I want to take her home with me to keep
I pause and hear the moving gurgling brook
and cast her back into the liquid deep
I hear her splash and take a final look
     And with her loss I feel a tiny grief
     but smile I touched her being oh so brief

It was the next day
after I saw her walking down the hall
with pain still etched on her face
that my anger began to give way to remorse
the erosion of my ego
together with an almost divine spark of mercy
finally led me to seek her out, face her,
and say “I’m sorry honey for raising my voice to you.”
She looked at me, the tension in her face gone,
smiled and said, “I’m sorry too.”
At that moment we were together
in a small peaceful, glorious
and powerful
space in the universe.

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.

The thorns in my side
I try so hard to hide
with humor, cleverness, even kindness
but after so long they are well-planted
like seeds they’ve taken root.

I am a man full of grace and gratitude
even changes in attitude
I float on great waves
in my wooden dinghy
precarious atop mighty waters
and angels visit
take me into smooth azure lagoons
where I reside in peace
even serenity from time to time.

I weep in great sadness
occasional fits of despair
drowning there
I swim up to gulp for air
leap and glide into the light
breathe mercy in my flight
pray for courage and gumption
but discover
I cannot stay afloat alone
so with abandon I dive
into bright souls whose hands and hearts
reach down to rescue me.
Some of them are thorn people too
battered, broken, and rugged
who’ve found the courage to change
the things they could.

I guess these thorns are there
to ******* up for air
to give me the zephyr of humility
the certainty of a love
that save me.

One moment I am high
with the light of soulfulness within.
The next I am down
in the clutch of desire
and enticements.

I awaken in darkness
still terrified and running
from the mountain lion.

But what if I’m the prey
of my own judging
captive of my comparisons?
At times I feel those verdicts in my gut
like when I can’t concentrate on a task
I SHOULD be doing.

When I notice my tight gut
and my mind wanting to flee
I can stop trying
and lying to myself
set my imagination free
roam a wilderness I choose
like right here on the flat and fertile plains
of this poem’s lines.

I hear the wind
whipping through the freshly-leafed elm
its long sonorous undulating chord
is as light as sunbeams
as alive as the spring saps
rushing wildly up the redbud and pear
eager to burst out of their limbs
into green glory.

Why is it my mind gets wrapped
around my heart and squeezes it
seizes it and sends it into isolation
until it is languishing in its cell
to the point of desolation?

It's not that my mind is blind
going everywhere without care.
Fondness is in there -
a word my mind knows -
but it is consumed and subsumed
by the focus, fascination
and interest of the moment.

This sharpness of attention
dulls the part of me
that can get lost
in the sweet aroma,
white softness and brilliance
of a magnolia bloom.

But oh this moment of writing
and gazing on that bloom
expands the room of my heart
warms, softens, and awakens
the rush, the transfusion
the perfusion of grace.

In this writing,
this moment of pausing
I have again found
my heart
the ***** of my ground.
I hear the deeper sound
of violas and cellos
feel the embracing warmth
the ineffable touch
of emotion
I forgot to pack
for my trip
into the ineluctable grip
of technology.

“Technology’s Grip,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

Dear friends many of you have moved
from surroundings I knew and loved with you
but my memories of us have not defused
like clouds hanging dark but always new.

In old age it is the memories that flow
and make you present with hearts beating wildly
times we drank beer decrying the status quo
and when we celebrated little things like being Friday.

We celebrated a lot when life was so full
alive with discoveries, conflicts, and diversity
when our desires and thoughts pushed and pulled
and we felt pain and hope in multiplicity.

But now so many of you are gone
to places unknown: some to you and some to me
and together we won’t know joys of new dawns
we will deal with things like that **** aching knee.

For some of you your children are grown
for me poetry, love, and God enliven and wake me up
but nobody can take from me the bonds I have known
bonds cast with you in sharing, caring, and lifting life’s cup.

In long moments in a waiting room
trying to ignore the next challenge of my body
I’ll be grateful. I’ll not dwell in spaces of doom
I’ll remember those times of being good or naughty.

I’ll visit the rooms and the halls
where we gathered to learn and teach
in those precious moments of my recall
I’ll gather you together for the universes we’ve yet to reach.

Written 6-30-18

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.

It was an evening of tears.
Not of pain or sadness
but those that arise unbidden and unexpected
after witnessing a hardened woman
who finds a sliver of grace
to forgive herself and another.

Tears of gratitude
from the sudden awareness
of undeserved goodness
given freely.

This flow welled up
from something so deep within me
it belies masculinity, logic,
or the thick and high walls
cast up from hurt.

Tears that pierce scar tissue
wrapped around the soul
from pain or the fear of it
from abuse and the remembrance of it.
These are powerful tears
more mighty than the brutality
and shameless arrogance
I witness on the evening news.

Oh how full I felt
from this unabashed weeping
as if I had been visited by angels,
innocence,
or something that can only be called
divine.

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.

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

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

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

I cannot resist your wriggle
your movement wrestles me awake
from my routine slumbering lumbering day
your breath
your wind are my oxygen
telling me I’m alive
you move from heart to fingers
and dance on the floor
of this keyboard
with your partner
pen on the smooth flat surface of paper.

It is more vital to write my heart
to write write write as I MUST
than to obey some poetry manual
or imitate Longfellow, Rumi, or Frost
or any other.

Writing your movement is like breathing
I cannot go long without it
you impel me to this place
this oasis
this pure land
these tropics
where I let you speak
and have your way with me,
you my magnificent muse.

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.

In snowy peaks
and gray valleys
grassy plains
and lower back pain
the falls
and rivers of grief
thorny branches of the bois d’arc tree
the womb
of a lily or a lady
pioneers and sinners
losers and winners
on the road
in the heart of home
what you imagine
and what you dream.

I am here in the hazy light of a new dawn
writing to you.
You and I here alone
is like floating in a soft piano nocturne.
Gliding over the keys with natural finesse
is a taste of heaven.

Here in this muted light
with you in mind
a privilege no less
than being in the majestic presence
of loving and friendly royalty.

Writing to you
from the inner reaches of my heart
is a journey
more precious
than the emerald landscape
I can see
to the far horizon
of this new day.

The freshness of this moment
basking in our love
is a tiny sprout
greeting blessed light
thrilled with the sticky twining
of its new life.

It is good being here
alive with you.

Written 7-19-18

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
motivated
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!

She looks into my eyes
as if searching for my feelings
for a hint of my disposition today
can’t she tell by the softness of my voice
the sweet things I say
can’t she sense my love  
in these moments together
or
are we both really alone
and this union a figment?

It is as if she is wondering
in her little mind behind her amber eyes
what it is like being human
as I wonder what is like being feline.

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.

The dark oaks’ gentle rhythm
caresses the faltering twilight
and a dim sadness creeps
into the receding day -
a pendulous cloud upon me lay.

In the hotel room
a hazy hint of doom
my limbs are weary
my mind made bleary
by the thickness of the day.

Mind you, this is but one moment in a journey,
but the glories of last week are swiftly fading
the darkness, a stealthy force invading.
I even wonder if death
might actually relieve
or even lift this aging me.

In my early sleep
images gently pass before me.

The greenness of Oregon,
its forests of fir sublime snow-capped mountains to climb beaches and surf
flung from the Pacific’s
awesome depths. Images and memories
of this emerald State,
and its coastal cottages
breach my fatigue and float me
into comfort and the peace
of deep blessed sleep.

I awaken from these restful wanderings
wondering about the passages of this journey.

Yes, we traveled the outside:
through babbling bubbling Portland
up and down Eugene’s hills
Salem’s capitol, shops, bars and grills
we drank craft beers, ate fish and chips,
spoke of the coming solar eclipse
storied ourselves to the sea
saw gulls and kids play in sandy glee.
All of these you could see, snap and post.
But the hidden passages strike me most.

As this journey ends
I reflect, I feel, I soar
through the opened doors
and windows - I see inside
what we’ve tried to deflect or hide.

Behind my tears she saw the pain and gain
heard my weakness when I’m drained
saw the joy in my little boy
finding gifts and a big man’s toy.

I watched her speaking with her hands
walking gently as if to caress the sands
not sparing self-critical comparing
telling stories of movies and hikes
and trips across America on bikes
I saw her in her sparkle-eyed girl
heard a woman who been IN
but not OF the world.

Maybe leaving this body behind
is not so horrible and baleful
not so very unimaginable
as when I was young
for now there are fewer songs unsung.

As I began this ballad
I was down and pallid.
And it’s true - the surprises of my life
are no longer popping or rife
with excitement and the new
of audition, graduation and debut.
Instead, now I’m alive and wild
with journeys of faith and love
hearts made of gold
and serene searches of soul.

“Oregon Passages,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

I was banging on the big wooden front door
with both fists
there were little square windows
each framed with four mitered corners.
I could see into the church
people singing and raising their hands
but I couldn't get in.

I have many dreams at night
almost all of them forgotten
but in this near-waking state
I knew this one meant something
I needed to pay attention.

Pay attention
what a phrase!

Moving my hands and arms
across the canvas
with the brush in two shades of red
lavishing the northeast corner toward southeast
next to blacks and blues.
Yellows now circling like covered wagons
into the blossom of a daisy.
These strokes took care
in praise of pigments
throwing a few coins for toll
just costly enough to
keep me moving west
the sun not yet setting.

There are always doors
or blinds I cannot open
nearly as easily as I would like
too heavy or out of reach.
Patience also costly.
Like attention.

About now she is having her first cup
in her java ritual of waking up
starting the day by feeding the birds
who swoop too eat and hear her words.

St. Francis is smiling up there
seeing her quiet presence and care
presence to what is real
in the moment and what it reveals.

The creator is in his or her creatures
in shape, contour and natural features.
I don’t need TV, *****, caffeine
or any other fix to intervene.

And it is good to have friends who are kind
who help the helpless and the blind
who feed birds and spirits of the down
not looking for applause or renown.

Knowing and loving and being there
for others, taking time to care.
Having friends like this - a treasure
impossible to repay or measure.

So when I’m tempted to medicate
in any fashion, let me meditate
or be present to friends or birds in flight,
let me abide in their darkness and their light.

Written 07/08/2018

Here it is right at hand
nothing startling or grand
but it seems such a climb
to simply take….. my……... time.

It is hot
I am sweaty and already tired
a lone mason out here in the sun
my back bent over the edge of the foundation.
Behind me the stack of bricks
in my hand the trowel
snatched up from my weathered toolbox.

My forehead drips joining the goo of mortar
I lay the mortar bed row
and grab the first brick
to begin the southern wall,
the wall that will face the first squall
of this troubled season.

Tomorrow makes its way into the history
of my heart – always a mystery to me
it is full of people, music, feeling, and strain
a morsel of ache and moments of drain
it has taken me
walked and run
from rising to setting sun
from shame to grace
from a lower to a higher place.

This old heart has filled me with tears
of sadness, joy, faith and fears
awe and anger, glorious heights
lowly dark and bruising disgust
love full of passion, pain, and trust.

Touched by victories over incredible odds
moved from darkness to cirrus gods
from squalls and brawls and angry shouting
snatched me from moments of demons and doubting.

Heart to beating heart in warm embraces
football in sandlots and youthful races
fearful greetings and tearful goodbyes
falling in love with her big brown eyes
heart to heart in evenings of sharing
from being apart to coupling and caring.

And so tomorrow I and my heart
go again for another new start
in the hands of healers
and angels from afar
whatever comes from this
if all is well or it goes amiss
I fear not whatever the course
for I have been - and will be - in the hands of the Source.

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

I looked out over
the peninsula of ice
reaching out into the rippling lake,
unsettled as I.
Snow covered peaks on the horizon
like clouds,
dreams and ideals melted
in decades poured out
in earnest labor.

The tall gaunt preacher
stood stoop-shouldered
his black hat barely gripped
in his hand held against his left leg
his face sad, eyes cast down
as if to discern what had gone wrong.

The rusted out bike
tires flattened, lay on bricks discarded
from an old church
with a cast iron cross
aching and alienated.

A once sparkling life
may seem barely more than refuge
but a soul stirs
still beaming,
a lighthouse
on the sea
crashing against the rocky shoal.

Now I can float with you
on dreams of possibilities
daring to hope again
for a season of light.
We are partners of the universe
in flight
not fright.

Dreams are made of possibilities
not of economics or hands
and bare-***** probabilities
but of living tissue
of heart.

And then she said no.
I said I knew
you’d decline my offer
but I had to try anyway.

Sometimes no is the best answer.

The sun is already warming
the first arousal of morning
but my lover is traveling the hills
and valleys of her dreams still.

Sweetpea knows the sounds
of my awakening and abounds
onto the bed’s corner place
where I read my first daily stirring of grace.

She knows of all the places she could land
it is here she gets the glide of my left hand
my hand across her soft brown coat she is well-versed
for she knows this time of day she is first.

“Feline First,” Copyright © 2018 by Glenn Currier

There she stands
cup of coffee on the table
looking around at the flowers and foliage
enjoying this early summer morning in the shade
a wisp of a sad smile
and lines on her face speak a long life.

I wonder where she has been
what waters what deserts or valleys
she has traversed
whose lives she has touched
how many lips she has kissed
whose passing she has grieved.

Now she's gone
but I thank God
for this interlude
with her
as I sit here with my coffee
looking through the window
in the coolness of the condo
writing and listening to guitar
feeling the peace of this morning
and gratitude
for this momentary encounter.

"Momentary Encounter," Copyright 2017 by Glenn Currier

Every evening when day is done
my body tired from an active day
you cover me and ready me to come
into an orbit far away.

A place native peoples reside
where Kokopelli wanders and plays
and eagles ride the winds, glide
and rejoice in setting sun’s golden rays.

I fly into a patchwork sky
where I am stitched together,
comforted, protected under your watchful eye
where hawks soar and tickle with feathers.

I visit frightful places
hear horrible screams
see angry and twisted faces
feel my fears in my teary dreams.

I am grateful for these flights
for the certain and steady care
that covers me on cold and windy nights
for this Quiltmaker beyond compare.

You are there in air
rustling in leaves
whooshing in sonorous song
chiming in wind among the trees.

Even here on this silver screen
you beam key to key bouncing
exciting protons making small creatures
one character at a time.

You even whisper so quietly
in the daily hum of my life
I rarely hear or notice
the strong power of your love.

How can I miss the soft sound
hiding in the passages of my day
in my every breath
you traveling freely
in every molecule of my being?

I need to try harder
second to second
to listen first
to the sibilant sound
of you tiptoeing
in the background
your acoustic presence
in every step I take
every noise I make
every thought I conceive
you never never leave
me here or anywhere alone.

Sometime you seem nearly silent
until you roar back in the hymns
I can hear if I but listen
for you in the voices
of strangers, enemies and friends.  

You seem invisible
until I open my eyes
to you there in the creases
frowns and smiles
of every person I pass.

You are a symphony
and its composer
I can encounter
if I pay the coin of my attention
in the small moments of my day.

This day I hope
I can wake up
to the holy
all around
in every sight
in every sound
in the silences
tucked away
in between.