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.

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.

Here in the gray light of dawn
I see you, gentle and tender,
approaching us
and I am in wonder
thinking of my ignorant and obstinate species
and curious about why you keep coming back to us
you beautiful being
each morning and twilight.

My deep sleep dreams disturb
confuse and trouble my mind,
but awake here and now I find
the placid lake of your presence
and abide in your uncanny arrival.

The hair on the back of my hand
glistens in the lamp at night
it tells me I am a man
I am a creature
a thing created.
I did not create myself
even though I act as if I did.  

You made this body
and you keep it alive.
When I look at my hand
sometimes it reminds me of Jesus
who was also a man.

I yearn to feel his touch
his arms around my shoulders.
How often I need his hand
on the small of my back
giving me a gentle shove.

When I picture that hand
in my mind’s eye
I see the hair
the veins that bring the blood
from his heart,
a heart so full
so big it reaches to heaven.

It also reaches into my heart
when I think of his first noticing
and then stooping down
to touch the person on the side of the road
the person nobody else would go near.
I am touched to tears.  

That was the hand of Jesus
reaching down as it does now
to this sinner.

All the wax spent
flame went
wick yet glowing
as if to whimper
I don’t want to die.

I open the big glossy book
full of beautiful illustrations
galaxies, nebulae, moons and stars
cross into my view
as I travel its pages
I’m awe-struck.

In the black background
clusters of color and light
this page-turning cosmic flight
humbles me
a tiny speck
in the expanding universe.

Dark matter
dark energy
dot this inner space
wasted moments
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
and grace
in this still expanding speck.

“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.

The storm came through with fierce winds
a large limb fell off our tree
as I inspected the damage
my neighbor joined me in his bare feet.
We chatted about the dove
perched high in the tree
about the variety of trees in our yard
and other musings
in a long peaceful conversation
as we sat on our neighbor’s retaining wall.

As I write I think about how conversations like this
on cool fall days and in the midst of summer
act as retaining walls
for the social landscape of our town
strengthening the links that bind.

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.

Last night sitting on the edge of my bed
a bed that seemed more like a ledge
there with a burden in my head:
Should I look up or just feel the dread?

I sat longer and I think I prayed.
I knew he was a God who cared,
but lately on the verge of afraid,
my faith seemed weak and impaired.

I wondered if they were right
that the short blast of rays
won’t hurt and will **** the blight
the doctors say is in its early phase.

But why pray to a God who seemed unable
to help my aunt who died
from a disease so unstable,
so good at finding places to hide?

So here I was, teetering between trust
and its evil opposite, doubt
doubt he can alter life’s ******.
Does he have any real clout?

In this dark of mind
I came to see I really don’t know!
So why let my inner skeptic always lurking behind
reign and empower its verdict of no?

Instead I choose to lift my head
from that lonely fretting place
and embrace a Father not gone and dead -
but here, now to create and renew me with grace.

“Teetering,” Copyright © 2018 by Glenn Currier

I get up in the morning
and my first duty is to our cats
to ensure they have food and water
to satisfy their simple needs.
They have no urgency to gather in
the myriad strands and filaments
of my mind to focus on them.
Unlike me, they are without ego
or neurosis or compulsions
or impulse to chew and devour
startling new currents of thought
or to dissect and parse tradition
to produce some new light of intellect.
Their feline genius of simplicity
is my present focus of admiration
and desire.
But of course I could never dissolve
the accumulated humanity
focused in my solitary mind
and achieve the elegant ease
with which our cats occupy
their meager patch of earth.

I push through the fog of doubt
convinced on the other side
is the light of day
clear and bright.

I see your action in my life
and feel it as surely as the air sweeps into my lungs
when I wake and my body moves
into the new day.

Do you know someone
who’s in the background of your day
and when you pause
if you’re lucky
you remember and smile
can’t suppress a thank you
but feel just a tint of sadness
they’re not in the foreground?

It cracks me open -
this time with music and muse.
My pen punctures a hole
through a membrane
of routine and lazy habits
into my darkness
stale air escapes.
This writing lets in light and life
it is water on soil
a flowering.

I wrap my arms around Earth and Sky
for I am a child of trees and seas
and even in their magnificence
I am comfortable and safe
knowing I am loved
for I drink clear water
it washes over me
cleanses me of stain and shame.
This cozy Cosmos yields food and light
grand canyons and stars at night
and keeps me warm
in the arms of awe.

Trying to read deep poem
TV, fan, drum music
Attention too shallow

To feast one moment at a time
on a bite of eternity
what a blessed gift!

It comes to me
on a path yearly worn
yet a path fresh with each step
each breath
each electron sparking through my brain
in its electric searching.

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

You walk lightly,
said the old wizened man,
As if the floor were too thin
and you, afraid to use all your weight.

I looked at him with a surprised grin
and said
You are perceptive
no one ever said that out loud to me.

He just grinned and winked.

Glory is a word I seem to be using lately
Loving my life and the people in it
Overshining sadness, pain, and darkness
Remembering the goodness of the Lord
Years of abundant love from many angels.

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

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

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

I thank my muse
for drifting in a momentary breeze
through the crack in the window
officiating at this marriage
of memory and writing.

Can I find a spark in this darkness
see through this grim mass
that surrounds my small galaxy
to see a dawn
within that gloomy volume,
experience colors unseeable,
hear a beating heart,
feel its pulsating energy?

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.

The little chickadee
with his fulsome squeak
is feeding on small seeds
left by the jays and dove -
enough for him
and his swift flight.
May I learn
to take just enough.

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.

My heart is giving me fits,
but there is no way I'll let it quit,
so I'll keep on fighting the good fight,
until everything is alright.

By my cousin Bill

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.

Don’t brag about your good fortune in bad weather
unless you’re ready to hear how theirs is better

In the soft tinkling of the piano
I hear the gentle peace
of the meadow
and feel the breeze
tickling the hair on my arms.
In the coffee the rich warmth
and wisdom of my muse
trickles down my throat.
The noise of the day
switches off
reshaped into the fullness
and unbridled breadth
and splendor
of the universe.

The Tallow sapling is swaying
in union with wind and saying
good morning
wake up to a swinging
universe singing
softly in the early breeze
waking up trees
oh how the first movement
of this precocious symphony
shows up Chopin
Debussy and Copeland
in its sweet harmony
with the sun
and moon
and precious tides.
Look at the yawning and stretching
from side to side
in the awakening
of this day.

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?

When I try to hold on to a lovely present
its gift disappears.

I seem to be at home on the margins
where I can be alone
with my folly
sweltering in my private bowl of stew
simmering in the sins
surrounding and piercing me
but you found me there
invited me into your heart
where you loved me
redeemed me
sewed my seams
pulled together my crazy quilt
made separate parts into a whole.

It is good to be in this place
in this time
the plants awakening to the light
the soft music
easing into my soul
the candle flickering
the air and me
cool and still
in this now.

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.

Living with day and night
black and white
crepe myrtles of white and pink
variety and variance make me think
now and then a dissonant pitch
makes my life rich.

But sometime what seems at odds
is not.  Like seeing Love AND God
contemplation AND friendship
solitude AND kinship.
Why must it be either or
against or for?
Why can’t we see through
the differences between me and you?

What is so sad
what seems so bad
is when difference leads to rejection
then I must leave for my own protection.
When she said, “If you are this then you can’t be that!”
I left.  I won’t be her doormat.

Some people thrive on opposition
attracted to dominance and friction
but at this stage of being me
I choose to be free
to see through those things that divide
beyond the outer mar to the beauty inside.

I cannot imagine grace
its slow quiet crawl
into my soul

The last time I was sick
throwing up pints of ick
not once did I think of love
or anything above
that porcelain refuge
the object of my deluge.

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

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

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

makes you shout and sing
for that longed-for thing
you look hither and yon
for what seems so far gone.
Then you must work on relearning
to let go of sick yearning.

Sometimes it seems my little world,
all its attractions, issues, and challenges
conspire to keep me from you.
But in the morning,
before I fall into the coarse canvas of my day
I encounter the pure linen
and texture of your love for me,
the thin red yarn
of my love for you.

There you are through the seasons
quietly standing
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
transports me
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.

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.
We are
joined
coupled
engaged
embarked
walking together
united
for one eternal moment
now.

This morning the plains are shrouded in a thick fog
and here I am right in the middle of it
drifting all around
looking for a buoy, a light, a sight or sound
so I’ll know I am somewhere
and not nowhere.  

I wonder how many of us
are in their own foggy world
if the planet has little patches
hovering over our species
each of us wandering -
sometimes with great determination -
looking for a place, trying to see
somewhere firm in the shrouded sea
a place calm and silent to be
just for a minute or two or three.

Inspired by Michael of HelloPoetry.com and his poem, Nirvana.

I watched the squirrels chase each other
along the long limbs of the cedar elm
as its leaves fell sporadically
silently whispering
the approach of autumn.

I took a deep breath of cool air
thinking thanks
for mother earth
her gentle breeze stirred the trees
leaves slow dancing with the sun.

I sit comfortably pleased by the pleasance
of this bright day
and the final flowering of sage.

You in your dark charm
play in the background
in the shadows
like a minor chord in a thriller
to create tension and doubt
your poison seeps through every tiny crack
in my sanity
all the more at day’s end
through the fog of my fatigue
but you are always poised there
waiting just beneath the surface
counting the moments till
you see an opening.

The setting sun with its orange brilliance
carries me beyond these confines
to an unbeleaguered space
where wings lift me
and angels swiftly
whisper the truth
and the real
is revealed
absent of
any stain
or strain
or me.

“What a Sunset Can Do,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

Deep in winter
the cold seeps to the bones.
Has the warmth of love gone
lost in another season?

It seems time’s pace is slow
fervor and inspiration
low or hidden well
beneath dead leaves
where grieves
my heart now
for not lingering
in the sweet glow
and smooth surface
the pausing pace
of serenity.

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

From where does this doubt in my poetself come?
A neglectful or ignorant adult
or my alienated teenage years?
A therapist could better declare
all the stuff from my past that impaired
my image, security or sense of self
find the dark corners in my mental health.
So I’ll leave it to all the shrinks
to discover why I think what I think.

Why so reluctant to publish a book
or collection of my work
make a website known far and wide?
I still don’t know what that’s about
but I hate the damnable doubt
in my poetic abilities and skill
and loathe my comparisons to the greats
getting even close seems so uphill.

But that Rothko quote makes sense.
It frees me
and lets ME be.

I’m not forcing anyone to do anything my way
but when others read a poem of mine
they are invited into my mind
to take a piece of my heart
and see my world that moment of that day.
There is no force involved
it was their choice to read
and I’m grateful they took the time
to linger with my verse or rhyme.

I love that old Sinatra song My Way
it might have had a self-centered air,
but it was a courageous thing to declare.

I also give thanks for those brave enough
to post their poems in public
to reveal to strangers and self-disclose.
It IS like taking off your clothes
to let us see what’s underneath
and I thank the gods that be
for a momentary journey into those worlds
to try on the artist’s priceless pearls.