Woke up way to early this morning
went to sleep too **** late
but the universe was already awake, loose and free
eons before my eyes opened this day.  

The sun was up
and around walking in the garden
searching for weeds among the flowers and onions
he trod the mulch to fertilize creation -
he is at home there
in the dirt and clay
in the failures of the day.

So when I arrive in the garden room
and sit at my little computer
amidst the plants and shells and cats and angels
I feel as if I have come home
from the misty crazy regions of sleep
to find my deeper self
here in this tiny dot in the universe.  

Here I listen to Chopin and Indian flute
and music from beyond
awakened from somewhere
in the shadows and blood
circulating and populating my organs
playing the grand pianos , cellos
violins, flutes
and mellow mysterious oboes
within.

The sun is present
in the clattering molecules
of stone and bone
infiltrating
crashing
creeping
and propagating
making life and death
into a great and glorious symphony.

Before I woke this morning
the sun was wandering
the creases and crevasses of my brain
preparing me and making me whole
taking my timid self and making it bold
for the vagaries and variations
of this day
ready to climb
into this small moment
of time.

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.

Driving home from the airport
from High Ridge Road we peered at downtown.
I told our visitor
this is the view tourists like
looking at the city from afar
or driving past its monuments.
But if you really want to see the city
you have to smell the streets the morning after
or visit Aunt Stella in her trailer.

That night we did just that
laughing with the folks
sitting on her old stuffed couch
and on rickety folding chairs
she’d fetched from the bedroom closet.

We listened to Fred
leaning over his old guitar
playing it as if it were a woman.
His voice was gravel
but when he sang falsetto
I could see him in his mother’s arms.

Stella quietly left for the kitchen
and brought back beers
and saltines and sharp cheddar cheese,
Fred still crooning softly.
We were completely mesmerized by him
and his humble country charm.

As I sat there with our visitor
I was again a boy at home with Mama
and Daddy who’d just got in from the plant
in his khaki pants and shirt  
smudges of oil on his sleeves
smelling of the day’s sweat.

Samarian Effect
By Glenn Currier

There are some who sparkle and glitter
so full of thought and creative power
they’re like human transmitters
their minds and eyes seem to flower
and being close to them seems to bring
you zest and vigor, to a peppy place
wanting to search for the next thing,
to discover a quiet thoughtful space
within to water and cultivate
the seed of your own creative force
that something in you that’s great,
so you too will be a fruitful source.

Can't remember last time
I knelt down to dig in the dirt
but I do recall all us boys who'd climb
the sandy loam pile in the yard

to make castles, caves and highways
and let our fantasies reign -
oh what glorious days
when fun was simple and plain.

We cared not about smudges
holey pants or muddy feet
had not learned about grudges
nor become expert in deceit

hadn’t yet been betrayed
enough to live in hurt
and conjure all the ways
we could spite and spread dirt.

Maybe every now and again
I'd benefit from kneeling down
and digging deeper grain by grain
in earthy dirt - to find my being’s ground.

Isn’t it a shame
that I can only spare
a few moments with you
in-between all the really important things
I have to do.
I tell myself I don’t HAVE to take this time with you
when every time I do take time
I am energized and revitalized.
Do I not have enough time for that?

Time time time
energy energy energy…

How I count the costs
of relationship
and not its treasures!

I rest in quiet tribute and praise
for the exquisite joy
of this modest labor

The small dinghy drifts
on the surface of the sea
its grayed gunnels, hull
and vacant crossbars
betray its age
but its persistent float
speaks its worth.

Without a bold goal
its life at the mercy of currents and winds
it drifts
but still it floats.

It would be easy to feel pity
for this tiny rudderless vessel
to condemn it to the depths
for its aimless oblivious
drift.

But this modest creation
a dinky dinghy
still floats
rises, falls, bobs,
and wobbles
a survivor of sojourns
she remains

a mocking
clocking
launch
of hope.

When I find myself all in a tither
wondering and not knowing whether
I'll have enough time, energy or cash
you'll be by me anywhere in a flash.

All I have to do is think of you
focus on your wealth to get me through
you've got more than enough to get rid of
because your currency dear one is love.

"Currency," Copyright 2017 by Glenn Currier

Here I wait resting on the door jamb
standing betwixt and between
shall I stay here or drop my hand,
move beyond what I’ve known and seen?
What will be out there to my left and right
where will the next step take me from here?
They said danger is there out of my sight -
threats, jinxes, and disease if that step I dare.

But if I move back into the shady cool
I’ll be safe in this cozy inner space.
Being in between without old rules
not knowing the beyond I’ll face
is scary but this is a journey of revelation
even if sacrifice and loss is in this race
I trust I will find peace and inspiration.

I am grateful for these hours of sleep
but four or five are just not enough
so here I am awake
having left in bed
the sweet muddled foggy chamber
where some mysterious mystical mighty force
knits together the disparate broken seams
through which my saneness fell
the previous day.

I believe in being awake
to the richness hiding in every day.
I know how easy it is to miss
in the banging clattering hiss
the inexpressible gift
of now.

But I also know
what a full night’s sleep can do
to chase away the blues
and recapture the few joys
and surprises nestled
and stashed
in the mystic cache
of each day.

So I beg whatever angels
guard that muddled foggy chamber
to again admit me
grant me gladness
and the saving gift
of a full night’s sleep.

I seem to lean
into my shadows, failures and faults.
That ***** too natural
and my downward leaning too easy.

What darkness have I learned?
What sullen seed has
merged into the deeper passages
to transform
into thorns?

Is it my repeated stumblings
or the sin of another
inflicted early
but now forgotten?
Maybe it’s so terrible
my mind has stashed it way way down
now a fungus still alive in the dark?

I feel too at home
dwelling in that cave
and I am in need,
I am sorely in need
of light,
enough lasting exposure
to **** the blight
scorch the itch
and set me leaning
into an upward pitch
to thwart the dark

proclivities.

This is not a time for lamentation
it is time to glide to climb boldly
for clean clear air of creation
reach inside like you told me
find what you’re hiding behind
jump up and jump down
is my mind mine
verb or noun
stuck to
you...

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
and routines
back home
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
at home.

My lines are letters to you
and when you reply
your words are blood of your life
not so much a flood as arteries of light
and along these lines your grace tries
to reach me and squelch my lies.

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.

In the morning coolness
just after dawn
such sweetness
settles upon me
in these few moments with you
alone in this sacred space.

Here You gently filter
your peace and love
into me
before this day’s stream rushes upon me
with its swift flow
boulders
and turbulence.

Here for now it is just you and I
in this silent colloquy
in this exquisite intimacy.

I rest unperturbed
and blameless
in the presence
of your quiet majesty
and forgiveness,
nestled comfortably
in your warm embrace.

This precious moment
of trust envelops my heart
protects it from all harm
says good morning
to my soul.

On the edge of the cliff above me
***** rusty barrels loom
full of pollutants
detritus massed
from the darkness
of my errors
poor decisions
momentary failures to recall
and then act on the ideals
I rely on to inspire and move me.

Here I am at dawn
on the brink of a new day
full of possibilities
laughter, tenderness, listening and lingering
here I am at a moment of genesis

IF

I have the sense
and shameless audacity
to simply notice and accept those looming barrels
and their polluted contents
as yesterdays
and leave them there.

a five inch wide vine
five hundred years old teaches
me humility

The tongue wags with sudden impulse
swearing on myself what I’d never utter to another
a volcano of failure erupts like a reflex
gushing in a tide of crimson anger
making me wonder if my mind is master
or merely a servant of fleeting feelings.

I embarrass myself and subject those in earshot
to these small virile tsunamis of garbage
molesting and spoiling peaceful moments
while they silently love me
and cherish the molecules of purity
they see and summon in me.

It will take a higher power
to stem this tide
for my own devices have pitifully failed.

I call out to the heavens
mount me on eagles’ wings
bear me on the breath of dawn
change my mind
and pinch my tongue
between your finger and thumb.

If I but open my fist
leave the damning shouts
on the evening news
no telling how far I could go
what I could release
from a heart also opened
how many galaxies I could find
mountains I could climb
peaks I could occupy
above and beyond
the clouds.

Which church corner should I go to
which is safe with green lights?
It seems every one has glue and goo
rays of sun and dark of night.

Being a follower - not my big skill
not comfy on the disciple ship
but I’m hungry and want my fill
trying to get God in my grip.

But I keep finding him all over the place
can’t capture and save him just for me
see him in a cat’s and a child’s face
he won’t be my prisoner.  He is free

like his forgiveness and open heart.
So this ship is one I might board
the ship of joy about to depart
the cost of this trip I can afford.

The ****** is part of the body
and I should love even the ******
but I don’t have to love the excrement
that comes from it.

I should not malign *******
for they serve a good and necessary function
but I can reject the stinking slimy crap
that comes from them.  

The challenge for me is to distinguish
between the ******, its product,
and the rest of the body.  

Even though it is difficult for me
I must pray hard for X-ray vision
and the observational ability
to see and hear the heart hidden
inside all of us.

On
a ledge
with nothing there
to grasp - on edge.
The height has me scared
all alone on this wall.
Can’t find the person I am
not ready to let go and fall
into the deep black below this dam
I’m not connected to future or past.

But it’s not a time for lamentation
it is time to glide to climb boldly
for clear clean air of creation
reach beyond like you told me.
What am I hiding behind
looking all around?
My mind’s not mine
up or down
stuck to
You.

I’ve always had a fear of water that’s deep
I remember my fright in the city pool
how I made friends with the shallow end
how close to the sides I’d keep.
I still recall that curved stone edge
how my fingers held on and I felt a fool
being so scared when the other kids
would jump in the deep end with joy
how I felt like such a silly scardy boy
and I envied their abandon and grit
the big splash when their cannonball hit.

But it’s true my daddy was never there
to teach me to swim
to help when I came up coughing for air.
Oh man, how I could have used him
and his strong arms to hold me
and show me the breast stroke
slap my back when I choked.

Now I still thirst for a father
when I get afraid of the deep water.
The difference is now I’ve got a dad
who’s always there when I’m afraid or sad.
In fact I look forward to the dive
into the deep where I’m so alive
centered and at peace.
But I’m still learning to let go and release
the edge of that deep pool
and breathe in the depths… of spirit fuel.

My love is a gale force wind
the earth swings and my heart sings
for you I will lean and bend
but I neither bow nor adore you in the end
that word only for the author of the wind.

Why am I surprised by my imperfection?
As a child, media portrayals of heroes
inspired and enticed me to be heroic
but my fallible family and crazy-wired brain
always kept me from being
all I aspired to be
putting me in a constant state
of unease about being me.

You might say, “Welcome to the human race!”
Thank you. I appreciate your hospitality.
I don’t know if it is comforting or scary
to know I’ve got lots of company.
Sometimes both I guess.

My line of sight is broken
by the leaning tree
I cannot see the universe.
This short-sightedness
an inborn malady
but still the red-headed sparrow
perched on a nearby branch
in its small simple beauty
gives me a glimpse
and makes me grateful
to be an earthling.

Being inside of you
arouses my creative impulse
why do I neglect this ingress
and its ecstasy?

In the coolness of a waning winter
spring waiting in the wings
here you are you beauty
in your dark magnificence
you stand quietly without pomp
your silhouette a public secret
unassuming and unnoticed
reaching out to the fading light
as if to say “I belong here
so nice of you to visit.”
I belong here too.

And in this now
I feel a harmony of being
in our moment of silent union.

My eyes and my mind
are drawn upward
as if in a Gothic cathedral
and its pointed arches
but here you are gesturing
in all directions
with your thousand fingers
serene in your eastward lean
a perfect prayer of earth
to the beyond.

“Twilight Tree,” Copyright © 2018 by Glenn Currier

I sit here on a metal chair
hunched over, my head in my hands
I feel incredulous unable to wrap my mind
around being in this chamber of fools
with the others who came here as slaves
of a monster master.  

But each of us came with a captor within
who led us here in chains.

So here I am hiding my head
under a hood of shame.
I gave up my freedom
with each seemingly harmless fix
and step by step I led myself into the custody
of this man across from me.
Just this little bit won’t hurt,
I told myself.

And before long that trickle
became a roaring ravine -
me in the middle desperate
to keep my head above water.

The counselor sat there silently
with a look on his face that said
“Man, this is serious as a heart attack.”

But I’m not a ****** addict like the rest of these guys,
I thought to myself.  
I shouldn’t be here.  

And still he sat there, silent,
watching me cry, sniveling like a baby.  
This is not me
I thought
but here I am in my body
without the comfort or warmth
of a caring arm around my shoulders.  
Alone.  
Humiliated.

In spite of my raggedy self
I am a new creation each day
made by ever-flowing grace.

Who have you known
whose life was a steady blaze of light?

There are many in my memory
with striking moments
of blaze
revealed in little decisions to love
despite pain and suffering.

My cousin Gary
had a persistent neck pain
so bad he had a constant bow
but gladly answered my calls for help
with my stubborn computer.
His wife wouldn’t tell
but I’m sure like all of us
he was selfish and ego driven
from time to time.
That pain: a cancerous tumor
that finally took him and his cheer from us.

I’ve had flashes and flickers
but a steady blaze?

Is there one person you know
with the steadiness
of that light?

Translucent and
undeserved mercy
streams into me
humbling me like giant sequoias
who draw my eyes to the heavens!

Listening to some lovely piano music
I am transported into another realm
my eyes misty with gratitude and appreciation.
What is it about good art
that punctures my heart
and pours into it wonder and light?
When I encounter it I know
I am but a dot,
insignificant in a beautiful universe,
yet I know I belong.

At every turn I have looked
listened, felt around for a door
a door here and a door there
one that would open
let in the air
let me aboard
not afraid nor bored
or in doubt
always leaning toward
life, whatever would restore
the child’s enthusiasm
the young man’s excitement for the next adventure.

So many doors:
music, art, trees, flowers,
incense, a lover’s lips,
poetry, stories, a lunar eclipse,
lizards, drums, psalms,
the smell of her hair, the feel of her arms.

Still I search for a door open to the light
to heaven and depth and height.

The beauty of your body elates the eyes
mountains, streams, trees, lakes and sea
the radiant day of your first sunrise
snow and air and eagles set free.

Your people lift and delight my soul
with their peace, kindness and joy
native and creative energy unfold
and turn this old man into a boy.

Oh Canada! sadly and soon I must go
I’ll miss your freshness and peace
when I cross the border below
may my affection for you never cease.

In this space between Middle C
an octave above and below
I hear you climbing up into me
settling soft and slow
between the tense downer of last night
and my early morning need
for sleep and the wide feather of peace.
The piano plays on
into the awakening dawn
where stars are gone
and the summer sky is born.

Last night I went to an old friend’s wake
he lay in the coffin now at peace
gone overseas from the land of pain.
Pictures of his active life and loves
lay about on small tables
where persons gathered alone
tearfully remembering him and the stars in his universe
dwelling in moments of solitude with his soul
to reflect on the paths he crossed
entering for a brief era
the valley of their loss.

The room was loud with laughter
and stories like the one I told
of beer and touch football three decades ago
when our bones were young
joints moved easily and swiftly
running and receiving passes
on legs that now move like molasses.

Hugging old friends and catching up
was like drinking a cup
of sadness and joy.

He was a man of peace
and there in that still presence
past grievances and sins
no longer swirled among us
but only volumes of shared lives
meeting our husbands and wives
abiding in a circle of re-membering
as if we were limbs and organs
of the same human flesh
still pulsing with unfinished work.

We were a wake
to our souls and his
and today I meet all those beautiful souls
in place of hope
that these precious moments
of rising from death
will remain with us
for our small sliver of eternity.

Say no to arrogance and power
no to being totally devoured
by ego, division and separation
no to hurt and alienation.

I’m grateful to all those who day upon days
in a thousand little ways
say yes and rise from the dark
who strike the stone to make a spark.

I am grateful for the Great Mystery
that fills my personal history
that wakes me in ways surprising
with a thousand moments of rising.

I find myself caught in recycling
not cans and paper and glass
but thoughts and actions
habits can help
but being stuck in the habitual
sloshes me into a swamp
dank and stagnant.

What if I broke the cycle in half
opened myself to hidden reaches
of my mental soulful caverns?
Maybe this interruption
would reawaken my muse
from her drowsiness
sparkling and sprinkling me
with poetic stirrings.

It’s worth trying.

I am not divine
nor am I earth or you
but I’m not other than these

[Senryu]

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
with light.

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.

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.

The cardinal is pecking
in the bird feeder
making cardinal out of seed.

Here I am
looking for a small piece of the divine
inside.

It is a profusion of earth
direct to my brain
in one breath
its brown luxury
sensual and sultry
a lover's naked warmth
under heavy quilts o a cold winter's morn.

It ignores inner constraints
penetrates points of pleasure
hidden deep and unnoticed
until I open this new can of coffee.

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.

Gently softly now I float
a small wispy whitish cloud
unto your ocean

The ants
                      are crawling

                                          on this screen

hoping like me

                                                to find the inside

                       of this light

He was introduced to her
all the while looking through her
to see someone who mattered,
who was smart and degreed enough
for his time, after all, she was just the wife.

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

And… now she’s in demand as a speaker of note
with expertise surpassed only by her heart
she leans and listens with wisdom to impart,
life’s struggles and southern roots lend a common touch -
soaked in family love - no need for titles like doctor and such.