I heard you singing
oh what a melody
awakening me
to cool clearness
to a fresh nearness
and peaceful resonance
with the preciousness
of Earth.

Contrast the days of anger
creeping and seeping into me
in such stupid little things
as an unscrewable top
a ***** fork dropped
a page that wouldn't turn
a candle I couldn't burn
talking barking heads
fomenting darkness
and dread.

Last night I saw your sympathy and sadness
as I poured out my madness
into the bowl of your heart
threads in me torn apart
dangling jangling my nerves
and knotting my stomach
but there you sat calmly listening
your eyes glistening
full of understanding and love

oh what grace
what a delicate lace
woven of affection  
through you
from above
to cure my affliction
to settle me
into my soul
into that sacred soil
where heaven is sprouting
right there below my doubting.

And so this morning
from the tendrils of my sleeping
I heard singing
the larks and love
God and Earth are bringing
and dancing behind my eyes

until they opened
and beheld
an ever burgeoning
ever startling
spring.

I got to wondering today
if I am an old dog
who can’t be taught new tricks
if that windmill going round and round
catching the wind between the blades
is really who I am,
if the universe surges
into the spaces still left in me,
if it is trying to wake the music
yet alive inside
in the curves of my heart,
if the blood pulsing there refuses to go down
in one grave path
and insists on a symphony of swerve
an inclination in a new direction.
If that breeze is really grace
then maybe I am being reborn
a puppy full of life
eager to be all the dog it can be.

The maple makes its glory complete
with such elegance and grace
halo shadow of crimson and gold at its feet
wet fall day a shimmering sacred space.

A poem is like a tickle,
it gives both joy and pain:
with blissful tears and tearful giggles,
you'll read that poem again.

A poem is like a damaged heart in need of surgery:
a cut that heals,
a line that leaves a scar
along your heart.

Francie Lynch
From his portrait on HelloPoetry.com
https://hellopoetry.com/francie-lynch/

I hoist the old scarred oaken chair
onto the workbench.
I think about how this nick
and that scratch
and that unglued cross bar
happened
and how many years it has withstood
the heavy weight of the humanity
who have found it and laid their burdens upon it.

And I give thanks that it is still repairable
still of use and available
for the brief respites
of those it serves.  

I give thanks that I too
am still on the workbench.

I am alive
yet so small
almost nothing
I am a leaf on a great oak
whose roots reach into the cosmos.

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.

The paint is flaking and falling off
splotched edges
discoloration
stormy days
weathered years
creaking and leaking
cracking from heating
the physics of aging
and seasons of raging
the terrible toll
they are taking
makes you think this old house
needs replacing.

But listen to the voices
of laughter and loving
hear echoes of weeping
and promise keeping
poems that were spoken
being whole and broken
see the tears that were shed
the glories in bed
sighs and lies
some of them said
inside the house that was home
these many years.


Inside spirit reigns
with angels unchained
where heart and soul
on a journey bold
through seasons of pain
where demons were slain
new life was greeted
death was cheated
souls were enrolled
in miracle courses
treasures discovered
of higher forces.


This old house of seventy six years
holds joys along with fears.
The structure isn’t new
but inside
there is
youth.

Every letter I type is a drop of me
eyes so full of life
they drop a tear
and in that bead
that pearl rolling down my cheek
is sadness, joy, care or grief
the sweat of my heart.

Daylight Saving Time

Hello morning
open my eyes
pull open the blind
from this darkness.

I need saving
from this blinding night.

What’s your shadow?
Illness
depression
anxiety
confusion
misdirection?

I’ve fallen into these dark goblets
crowded, muted - howling their darkness,
misguided by the misguided -
friends, kin, lovers,
all the screaming screens.

It is daylight saving time.

“Daylight Saving Time,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

Piano and violins
in the hands of artists
string me along
in a peaceful stream of joy
their delicate threads
wrapped around my heart
on a gray morning
to quince my loneliness.

On the horizon I see the clouds above the breaking daysky
and dark arcs of rain pouring down soaking soil.
These great open spaces invite my spirit to be free to fly
and join the source of all thunder
and this gray dawn.

In these times
where time vanishes
I sink into Earth like the rains
where there are no horizons
or division of land from sky.

I am grateful for being an earthling
despite the desperate tiredness
in my leg and calf muscles
and the aching in my joints and back
at day’s end.

The gift of sleep
sneaked into me
in the darkness and peace of night
and there in my dreams
I became a being of imagining
a me in fear and sadness
on the brink of courage
and in my drift
across the slumbering sea
I find beings familiar and different at the same time
men fulfilling possibilities
beyond their imagining,
men becoming.

So here I am drifting
into consciousness
on the melody of an Indian flute
and field lark songs
into another day
where this old me
again becomes
an earthling.

The music plays its dirgelike tune
repeating it repeating repeating
until it is painful to keep listening,
lonely in its dreary tedium.

I am not sure whether to call this
an ache
or a yearning.

Being enclosed here in this seemingly endless loop
makes me want to jump out of it
onto the ship wreckage floating by me
to find a place with more life and lift
a field of clover and daisies
bees buzzing about the tasks of their short lives.

It doesn’t take much to find excuses
for avoiding the unpleasant,
things for which I can find no uses
at the time - find no reason or rhyme.

Truth is, I don’t tax my mind to think of that reason,
don’t imagine how much good it would do,
don’t think how this is just the right season
to do this thing I don’t want to.

But oh how hard I’ll work to think
of ways to do this thing I love to do
find the recipe for that yummy drink
go to the game, find its venue.

I’m so very skilled and do it with ease
thinking of a good dodge or ruse.
This kind of creative work is a breeze
how skilled I am making an excuse!

By the end of next month
the hummingbirds will be gone
and I’ll have to find other wildness
to bring that tiny measure of joy
to my mornings.

His ample graying beard
nearly covers crinkled flesh
his eyes focus on the stars
that surround him
his hat with its spangled band
bent slightly down in front
seems to say: I am traveler of Earth.

I wonder what transcendence
dances behind those eyes
slowly moving like Zorba,
arms out gently waving,
an eagle in flight.

Like the old man
I want to bear witness to the universe
in the wave of my mind
to give flight to words
infiltrate, expand and release them
and maybe figure out my small part
in the great mystery.

Missed a step of the stepping stool
smacked the sidewalk with my face
felt like a blithering fool
what happened to my grace

First parched earth of drought
now we’re so soaked with rain
the birdseed’s begun to sprout
dare I holler or complain

I think I need a change of scene
boredom cries for the next valley over
to smell the new scent of green
hear honey bees buzzing clover

They say hearing voices like yours
can be soothing and cozy
but too much harmony bores
and I think a little stink can be rosy

Living life in extremes
isn’t for me and isn’t sound
maybe it’s about stretching the seams
but not to be unbound

I don’t know if balance is my fate
Yes, equilibrium has its uses
but I like a tune that syncopates
and enough spice to excite the juices.

This dark soil
teems with potency
of light and life
the sun stirs the soul
hidden in wait
for the creative juices
to flow and saturate
its seeds to spring.

Sometimes diplomas are deleterious to a degree
it seems the cap, gown, and certificate holder
buys a telescope and starts using it to see
loses the ability to write freely and bolder
becomes particularly adept at speaking in snark -
so much easier than personally and intimately connecting -
preferring critique to finding and being a creative spark
becoming expert not so much from practice as from correcting.

I knew a man who used to be my friend
until he acquired his PhD
then he began to depart and ascend
too high for him to see little ole me
I knew a few too who were doctors and buddies
whose degrees didn’t pedestal them
who didn’t let their higher studies
erase their humor, make their hearts go dim.

Would it be insensitive and unkind
to say I don’t like letters enclosed with Christmas cards?
Usually they glow with all the lovely and bright things
in the family that make parents proud.
You don’t hear about the dark underbelly
of their lives that would likely ruin your Christmas mood.
I suppose that is a gift.  But it seems so unreal.  

My wife wrote one this year.
It is mostly about adventures and comic misadventures
in our travels.  
A couple of the stories reveal the raconteur in her
and remind me of her dad who was a master storyteller.
Her letter brings a smile to my face.
But there is too much about my various afflictions -
detracting from my strong male image.
But at my advanced age, I care less about image.
And that’s a good thing.

So this year, have mercy on your friends
and don’t include a letter unless you type:
“Optional Reading” at the top.

Merry Christmas 2017

I know poetry is about words
and I do dote on words
I treasure digging up just the right one
to lay out on the carpet and let fly

but I wonder if
it would be well
to just dwell
in the heart space
in silence

to hold the object of my anger or irritation
there
in silence
surrounded by blood
and warmth
there
in the anchor of life

I have come to realize
poetry and its cousin prayer
are just as much
about the heart
as words.

Guilt and its grave cousin shame
a heavy gnarled ball and chain
on my ankle, holding me back
sinking me into bloodthirsty black.

Being in first light
I can see lamps lit
and the clouds strewn across the gray dawn.
From the east
the sun whispers greetings
of the new day.

Being in first light
I wonder what faces I will see for the first time
whose hand I will see reaching out to mine
that first grip always telling me something
about the gripper
making me curious
about him and his world.

Being in first light
the western horizon is still dark
its terrain unknown.
What adventures will reveal themselves
and beckon me beyond the barriers
of my comfortable world
as the sun rises?

Being in first light
neither foreground or background
are fully visible yet.
This state of mystery
gives me a tingle of excitement
and wonder.

I think I like
this moment
of first light.

Written at first light 7-20-18

This morning I woke up feeling lonely.
I don’t know why.
I have people around me who love me
and want to hold on to me
and I onto them.
I know…
feelings like this
and dreams
fly and soon evaporate into the cloudy sky.

But today some dark critter
a residue of the night
has hooked me
and won’t let go
it has reeled me in
so here I am using these lines
to cast my mind out into the choppy waters
to see if I can connect
with something swimming there
that’ll make sense of this tenuous mess
in which I wander and wallow.

I don’t seem to find my self
comfortable, wholly accepted and at home
with the people and places I roam
in this soaked and leaky vessel.
I know it’s stupid to be out here floating
when songs and words I’m often quoting
drift inside my head
planted there by many magnificent progenitors
who earnestly bred
a young man for whom they cared.

But loneliness does that.
It puts me where I know I shouldn’t be
by all grateful accounts.

I think to myself
I wish so and so was here to talk
but they’ve long gone and walked
from me
who has lived so long.

So here I am alone
casting out
or in
to find the answer, a home
or a place of some special grace…
while I sit here with these lines
in this lonely state.

Hello out there…?

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.

I wish it wasn’t so hard to say “I don’t know”
to enter the cloud of unknowing
to be wrapped in solitude
and float there
free of activity
and self.

There is no one to call me dad
maybe there’s someone to comment:
He looks so sad or he’s just mad.
But I never had the courage to father
a real flesh and blood child.
That does takes grit
not just to release that delightful seed...
but to be a real father I mean.  

So on fathers day
it has to suffice
to glory in others’ daddiness
and that’s alright.  
It gives me a small but special joy
to see a father squat down at the child’s height
to look into his eyes and really listen -
be it in an airport or market. What a lovely sight!
It brings tears to my eyes.  I know not why.
But it feels so deep and so right
to see them, to be with them
in that moment of grace.

In this sense I guess its ok
to pause and say
that I was a father today
taking on the small burden of another
with a smile or eyes that listened fully
to her or his pain.
That’s always what I longed for from my daddy.
That would have been a gift
he could have given me
on a fathers day.

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.

Light rain falls into my day
darkened skies hang low
inside dry suffused dismay
and a small nagging unease
reminds me a clear sunny day
is a gift in the murky malaise
to make this persistent haunt
bearable
until again light reigns.

The sun rose again at dawn
lilies opened blasting praise
I found a road to walk on
to face my fear and malaise.

How have you risen today?

A son forgave his errant dad
A father forgave his son’s sin
from their chains they got unclad
and found a way to begin again.

How have you risen today?

My wife and friend came with me
to church and sang and listened
were open and willing to see
the light and my eyes glistened.

How have you risen today?

Confused and lost I’d gone astray
and thought I was dying inside
gave up on finding the way
learned I could still come alive.

How have you risen this day?

Today I found a new truth
that if you are really inside
I’ll always be in my youth
and when I die I too will arise.

That’s a few other ways you’ve risen today.

“How have you risen today?” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

I enter the sanctuary
my hand traces the brown skin
of the smooth wood
atop the last pew
where Saint James sits every Sunday morning,
his slender body planted in spit-shined shoes
that reflect the light of that sacred space
the light that pours from each tortured soul
that sings the praise, joy, pain, and love
inked in the green hymnals
that we open, feeling with our thumbs
the edges of pages
gathered over ages
from the fervent hearts and minds
of our faithful progenitors.

I will hug and touch
the shoulders and backs
of my fellow believers
who will grace these pews,
beating hearts scattered like red pearls of love
in the perfectly aligned rows
where each of us broken
beautiful brothers and sisters
will sit and listen to the Word
stand and sing
and breathe in and out the same Spirit
that cracked open his heart
and bled the universe.

I myself broken
and opened
am here where finally I belong
among my fellow travelers
pilgrims one and all
living our salvation
among each other
shoulder to shoulder
heart to heart
cheeks traced by tears
of joy, sorrow, faith and hope
we, tied together by Love.

How sweet is our time together
falling softly into violin strings
up into sky on mockingbird wings
across piano keys of white and black
where there is nothing I lack
and every moment stretches
across horizons blue and gold
no matter how battered and old
my body of bones and flesh
every minute green and full and fresh.

The winds and bright dying
of the leaves of fall
have brushed away the turning season
into the callous cold of winter
leaving behind a brown texture
of oak and pecan
scattered on the still green lawn
where they rest humbly,
their identity as living species
shriveling into the fog of memory.

I wonder what I can learn
from those leaves and the trees
who gently let go of all the little lives
and lay them on the ground
first to decay and then transform
from drying aching olding  
into a mysterious unfolding.

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.

The pickups across the alley seem asleep. No lights, exhaust fumes, man at the wheel ready to wheel into another work day.
Winter-denuded trees blend into his roof like dark rivulets from its peak. No lights in this dawning Saturday, all still asleep.
Except the birds feasting in the newly seeded bird feeder. In the softness of this new dawn their flights are silent.

The fog shrouded morning suffuses softness to hard edges.  Clapboard storage unit rests quietly on the edge of the lawn.
Rakes, mowers, hoes still asleep, no work tension in their bodies. Fallen browned leaves lay on still-green lawn gently carpeting “the back.”
Cold black fingers of tiny limbs indistinguishable as individuals, smudged and blending instead. No limber bending till months-away spring.

Trees in the distance surrender their stark names to clouded sky not yet brightened by the distant weakened sun. The fog has laid upon this place
a muted harmony.  No dissonant horns or voices heard in this diffused snooze of now.  The only movement: from the winged creatures
greeting the day just yards away reminding: life still pulses. I fall into this peace.

The fog of sleep
a hallway moment away
where my self is mellowed
and lost beneath the sheets.

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.

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.

I woke up in your country this morning
not sure where I traveled in the night
but now I hear the surf
finding this shore
with its frothy pulse
resonant with tidings from China
the Aleuthians and the arctic.

This kind of awakening
is always fresh
yet familiar
full of your heart
with its pain and kindness
unfailing compassion
and sure but quiet invitation
to stay on the path
you made
and continue to make for us.

It is so good to be here
in this place
near the sea
to breathe its pacific
salty vibrancy
and peace.

“Awakening in Your Country,” Copyright 2017 by Glenn Currier

Underneath
the shifting layers of gravel and soil,
the thin crust of busyness
and distractions
are the hours of merging and melting
from our friction and romance,
in other words
the love and trust
that is our bedrock.

The geese are standing there
just being geese in the grass
poking through the leaves
going deeper for nourishment
may I follow their example

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.

The alarm got us up before the sun fully awoke
we pulled our sleepy bodies out of bed
got on our grungies not even fixing coffee yet,
got our gear together in the pickup
and headed for the peninsula
where we hoped the sand bass would be schooling,
searching for some breakfast of worms or flashy things that looked to them like food.
If we were lucky we hooked a few which we would cook later
or save for the freezers back home.

When we got back to the campground
we’d comb our hair brush our teeth and head into town
for Pat’s Cafe who served the best biscuits, eggs, hashbrowns, and pancakes in the region
and if we were lucky Pat herself with her long black hair and **** lips
and substantial hips
would stop by and in her Texas twang and charm
she’d tell us about their farm
we’d speak of our wives
and some of the small details of our lives
and how we loved that large beautiful body
that sparkled and sang to us each spring
and how we savored dipping into Lake Whitney.

In late afternoon we would laze about the RV
discussing Theilhard and Jesus and Charlie
he’d speak of Bob Wills and we’d share
trying to make sense of the spirits there
and how they made us leap and soar.
We spoke in sync and explored
lines of novels, and fascinating texts
that made us eager to discover what was next
that would make us laugh or shed tears
of all those memorable years
we’d been brothers
afloat of the same waters
becoming men who hoped to make their mark
spark something good in the minds
of other seekers who also drank wines
fermented in corridors of learning
who had the same yearning
for knowledge and truth
embedded early and deeply in our youth.

There we sit in our partial darkness
her in her soft and easy chair
me in mine so I can see her face
and the smile or frown residing there
for these brief moments of grace
her reading from our spiritual book
me listening, waiting for angels to arrive
in a story or words that’ll become a sacred hook
into my soul or life’s burgeoning archive.

Evening after evening sometimes so tired
we can barely hold on and avoid sleeping
right there, each old body in its easy chair
sometimes laughing sometimes weeping
she my wife, partner in this long life
both of us gathering our souls
in this splendid crucible of light.

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?

What is it I love about autumn?
Is it the syncopated falling -
an umber mirror of my life
the chronic crawling
back from a dying state,
the challenge of letting go,
hope of writing a clean slate
or is it the blessed wait
of this transition season
for the coming blast
and its harvest
of accretion?

Thinking of him flings me from these plains
to the nearest body
of water whose mist smells of salt and life
the unrestrained passion
and ****** of sea.

The book, Odes to Common Things,
a gift of a dear friend
who knew not the arousal,
the seed of near sensual desire
it would plant in me
like the buttery aroma of a woman’s hair
or the taste of her moist lips.

Even a thought of Neruda
takes me to the stormy stirrings
wrought from the ***** of the Pacific.
and sounding on the shores of Chile.

How could the writing of a man
a continent away
foment in my chest
a fervor akin
to a spiritual awakening?

I read him in English
but feel the thump
of his Latin heart
in my body.

“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.”   - Mark Rothko

To have the guts like Sinatra’s to declare
through regrets, tears and despair
“I got through it all and did it my way”
Oh, to trust the power in me and stay
always authentic and true
to my point of view
no matter how out of sync
or what proper poets think

The Rothko chapel with its paintings of black
took me completely aback
they seemed non-paintings to me
but I sat in the changing light and could see
the artistry in that quiet urban place
I could feel his gentle grace
he forced me to see his world
in his hues and strokes and curls

A Rothko or Sinatra I am not
but if in my lines are caught
the sweet or dark breath of my muse
if I speak in my voice with its hues
maybe a whiff of spirit there
will cast a piece of my soul and snare
someone’s musing causing them to write
and fling out their world in their light.

Writing poetry is an exercise
in making myself rise
from ordinary preoccupation
to enter the realm of creation.

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

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

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

Getting a poem from a poet or friend
is an honor for me and I will attend
and count it a privilege worth prizing
a noble moment of the creator’s rising.

Gathering into the hatchway
I push my breath from rest
in the clouds and adventures
into the city with my sister
who would rather walk and breathe
and push her body out and away
from convention and comfort
while I try to make up excuses
to use the car.

She stops to notice the police
trying to corral unruly homeless
while I seek refuge on a grassy *****
with a few of my elders enjoying the sun.

I know the city and the commerce
that has gashed through soil
of this once quiet prairie
to construct one steel obelisk
after another
making art and poetry sad afterthoughts.

Now it is time
for me to move my creaky bones
into a day yet to aborn
beyond my bed,
to wash myself in the infinite seed of creation
splashed upon me
with each dawn.

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.