Mom has been gone for years
but just now I was brought to tears
from a poem about my childhood piano playing
and how she patiently listened, probably pained
Mom told me she loved hearing me play soft or loud
and ‘twas the one thing I could do to make Dad proud.

Replaying years of hurt for mistakes they made
bound me in shadows and shade,
but now late in life I again recall
the character of their care for my soul
and cherish the humanity of these two
and their suffering that got me through.

Traveling the dusty winding road
I reached the rain forest
heard the Macaw sing
saw its flash of glory in air
and I mused what I’d missed
in the dusty doctrines and dogmas
leather volumes
safe and secure at home
a home I feared might morph
into a wooly gulag
or a colonial province
where freedom groaned
and dragged like an anchor
in shallow water.

When I am sad
wrapped in the arms of God
I am also in joy.

It’s a cloudy day today
forecast predicts lots of wind
my mood’s a darker shade of gray
than it has lately been

dissonant as the music playing
today as out of sync
as my heart is staying -
feeling on the brink

of I don’t know what
like the weather - wanting spring
for this winter’s tightened my gut -
wondering what the news will bring.

Reading poetry and seeing art
makes me believe God’s within -
as co-creators not wholly apart
even in our darkest sin

but sometimes faith’s leap
seems too long
the chasm between us too deep.
If in weakness I’m made strong

maybe this day I’ll find the strength
find the art of which I’m possessed
discover the joy to jump that length
through the dark that says God’s depressed.

This day is so bright
and all seems so right
I wonder if I can stand it
I had not planned it
the clouds and rain
gnawed so unrestrained.

Early morn’s nightmare
still lingers somewhere
moored to the dark
where it won’t disembark
still clutching me in slimy grip
I’m on its derelict ship.

How can a dream be so strong
and make me feel so wrong
just a wispy demon in the night
by now should have taken flight
but here I sit in light of day
still hoping the malefic will away.

Slave?
By Glenn Currier

I had forgotten him
until he appeared in a dream -
he so qualified
me so average -
and I awakened barely recalling him
but the shame attacked me with a fury
and has not loosened its grip
even in the late afternoon.
And I thought I became a different person
after twenty years,
even in the last five years.
Am I still shackled to that old self
with scars like ex-slaves carried
from the chains and whips?
It seems people fade but feelings rarely do.

This day I can stay tied firm and fast
in the poison soil of the past
or I can plant new seeds
in loam teeming with life
seeds meant for light
for the bright
golden
sun.

Looking out the window I see
in the cup of a single holly leaf
a drop from last night’s rain
gazing glinting into my eyes
sun beams in that little drip
as if to herald the cosmic curator
of the visible.

Have you ever eaten so much
you got queasy or worse
found the porcelain god in your clutch
cursed yourself as dumb and perverse?

It’s really no joking matter to me
as now I picture myself there
pitifully low on bended knee
in need of an earnest prayer:

Lord, may I never again return
nor forget this impulse that brings me low
lead me to a more worthy food and learn
to shout to my ***** craving: Whoa!

In this peaceful dripping
of the rain
I see sparkles
even under a cloudy sky
resting, not quite ready to drip
from the leaves of the Tallow.

May I sparkle
before I take the trip
of the drip.

It comes in, sparkling and exciting,
with the promise of fun and zest
like a mist dappled with thrills

but it is a false promise
like the allurements of commercials
with smiling faces and a myriad of glitz

it ends in a state of shame
controlled by lords of the dark
and the owners of hell.

I brim over with gratitude for love
and the forces of beauty and mercy
that break the trance -
the spell always ending
with the unlit inglorious state of shame.

If we are obedient
we will be broken.

When I submit to my calling
as a human being,
if I am true to the ambition
of the puffy spear-shaped cloud,
to the voice of the smooth rock
formed as a heart,
I will stop
stay still
let their messages
sink through the borders of my brain
saturate the surging energy
within.

I will allow myself to be pierced
by her fears of being evicted  
I’ll feel the angst about her futility
before the indifferent landlords.

I will ignore my own heartache
about Uncle Jan’s fanatical raging
and instead
ask him about his son’s cancer
hug him when he breaks down sobbing.

Obedience
to the highest measures of my humanity
has its costs…

and rewards.

Outside life is in its green glory
springs and explodes with gusto.
Trees and plants shout with joy
irrepressible energy pulls me forward
leaps ahead from my dust and darkness
and takes me into sky from my fright
transforms my darkness into light
I thank you life for appearing in my night.  
It is in this mixture of shadows and sun
that you appear most awesome overflowing
running over the fearful edge of my soul.

As a child I looked forward to my coming birthday
and the gifts I would receive
the attention and the new little boat
I had wanted
so I could float in joy
with them.

This morning I read poems of angels
of arm and heart scars
I thought of blood and its flow
not in a ****** mystery
but in the flow
of life and time
and how precious to me are both of these.

I’ve been thinking about death
almost obsessing on it.
Then I decided
obsessing is stupid.
A lesson I’ve tried to avoid
as the decades piled up
on my skin and bones.

Coping with my stupid compulsions
a mountain I climb daily
surely I should have muscles
to show for it

and I do

but you can’t see them
can’t measure their mass
or flex them for cameras
they are noticeable
to those who know me.
Friends and kin are the ones
who detect the trace of my thorns

and

the sum
of what I’ve overcome.

But what of this muscular brawl
with death?
My best conclusion-
let go
and daily do
what God has led me to.
Love the ones I’m with

and

my enemies.

Death is not punishment
but a chance
to be make sparks
and dance with the divine
in the mansions
here and after.

I lived here far too long
in this cavern dripping its darkness
with accusations and critiques
that have wetted my back with thick moisture
sticky with comparisons.
The crevasses and stones were placed with my collusion
in crazy cooperation with shadow.

Sadly the path of my past is strewn with this profusion
but gladly timely shafts of light spoiled the deception
and I climbed to a luminous plain
encountered rocky mounts
with veins of silver and gold
that bantered with the pain.

Now my long conversation with light
has staunched the blight
and rarely does the tempest threaten
to drown my spirit in its flood.

For now my shortfalls are taken in stride
measured against the serenity of truth
that surrounds me.

Now my hands are joined to fellow travelers,
to the faithful who laugh with me
at the reaper of darkness
weak in the ditch
whimpering over the paucity of his power
in the face of brothers and sisters
redeemed by the force
of honesty, trust, and Love.

Written 11-9-19

I read of this little orchestra of players
who made instruments of trash
reminded me how God uses strayers
like Moses, David, and Johnny Cash
recycled their failures into glory.
They found a flash or flicker
of faith to make a moving story.
They gave their flaws to the Fixer.

I see the detritus and lessons of my past
a guy whose mind was all over the place
who soared, swooped, leveled and crashed
was thrown out reaching for second base
whose heart was wounded, erratic and hurt
but had a treasury of teachers on his path
who inspired and encouraged the introvert
to use words instead of physics or math.

Yes, words became my friends
opened vistas of meaning and learning
paid limitless dividends
set my curiosity and wonder burning.
Fragments of imagination
bubbled up like a spring
moments of ****** inspiration
of darkness and light took wing.

The salve of poetry has brought healing
its warm oils and sweet scent
delivered me from darker feelings
gave me vigor when I was spent
gave me drink in the dessert
brought me moments of glory
in a world of hurt
helped me tell my story.

So like those Paraguay players
making music from trash
from all of life’s layers
of flowers and ash
I’ve been to the mountain peak
and to fertile green places
in my true voice I now speak
and swim in glorious graces.

Sometimes I am still in high school
feeling alone like a fool
on the margins an arm’s length away
a nobody with nothing to say
just out of pace
chosen last for one side in a game
but I graduated
moved into the world to find my place
but at times I get in a clinch
and still feel on the fringe.

A twinkle in the eye means joy in the heart
someone who’s set apart
who loves being alive
with a mind in drive.

The Proverb’s truth set me thinking
of who I know with that twinkling
and it took me a while
to think of one with eyes that smile.

I then considered the heart of joy
and remembered the little boy
who learned to play the chord of C
to sing with glee in a major key.

But it happens a boy becomes a man
and sadness, hurt, and error span
years of breakups and loves in the dust
vanished dreams, promises and trust.

Still his soul stays open and awake
and he learns to forgive mistakes,
to forge new ties to fall but rise
and again that twinkle dwells in his eyes.

If I were blind
I’d still be able to enter the deep cavern of my mind
filled with eight decades of your creation,
and sensations as deep as earth and high as its sky.

Here am I Lord ready to jump as high and as deep as you will.
The layers of my life as uneven as the thrill
of color in strata of the Grand Canyon
as sure as you, my dear faithful companion.

Here in the green meadow of your peace
I find a place to release
all the conflict and pride I’ve amassed
in this long life passed

in the blink of your eye.

On the news I see video
of fallen trees and devastated homes
wrought by a tornado -
too late for damage control.

But I have in me
fallen trees
crumpled garbage cans
wrecked plans
vertical vehicles
dead pets
stacks of regrets
and borrowed sorrows.

So here I am displaying my damages
spilling my darkness in this light.

Thank you
for abiding for a while
in this modest attempt at damage control.

a small cup’s inside a vat
drip by drip
I”ve been working
on filling up
that cup

when it is full
and overflows
then I am done
for then the vat and I
are one.

Watered in the heat and fervor of summer
the sage explodes its magenta glory
bees buzz and feast on its nectar.

It captures the sun
smiles and giggles its delight.
It is a joy to see life burst
and stir a flurry
as the zeal and vigor of its limbs
cannot be contained.

I too need watering
in this infernal season
of clashes and wrangling
seemingly determined
to turn my verdant soul
into a desert.

The builders let me visit here
free to roam the halls.
They’ve built some walls
and stairs
to upper floors with streaming light
and to a darkened basement.

I’m honored to be allowed here
to write words on the wood
to see pages posted that could
render me speechless if I let them.
But instead, these writings of pain
these revelations of shame
are like knives that pierce my heart
and I pour it out on the floor
and ceiling and dark corners
through the windows
into the night
into the light.

The builders nail their dreams
and desperation and beams
of hope, desire and grief
and lattice of love and belief
trying to do their part to complete
the work of this edifice rising
each day each hour
we builders immigrants
looking for home.

I hear the deep soft clanging windchimes
and catch their movement in the wind
a sad flute sings an elegy
the green plants gently strain for rays
the sound of the heater
its warmth on my left leg and thigh
the wide body of the hawk
gracefully swoops down beyond the windows.

These seconds abiding
in the intense present
make long hours and ennui days
worth any minor miseries.

Being here in this creative moment
shows me the power
residing inside of me
if I but pause in silence
or on the wings of soft music
and abide in this space
for just a little while.
Sigh.

How small I am in my eyes.
May I see me as tall as you do.
My underestimation
keeps me from the gestation
of the universe within me
aching to explode.

This terrain is unfamiliar
long vistas of green and golden fields
and to the side dark ravines
quicken alertness and care
to avoid hollow fruitless depths.

A gathering of souls
beckons me back to be among them
to tell of my journey, my vision.

But I carry with me shades of the ravine
attached as doubt.
Someone told me to be myself.
An odd order,
for who else could I be?

Still…
just about the time I think I know
my self
it is eroded by swift waters
sweeping by and into me.

here I am in this piece of time allotted to me
in the warm currents
of your precious heart

The sage bush
waves in the wind
spreading its subtle scent
like incense for the Earth
a plea to passers-by
to pause and breathe
in peace.

It’s simple, simpler
when in my raucous brain
I well fight the warring birds
and focus on a single idea.

Being wrapped in your love
feels so good on a wintry day
makes me grateful even for the gray,
for this life I get to live with you
and the spring that soon will break through
the browns and the downs.

The bald little boy
turned to his father
sad entreating eyes
wordlessly
both hands up
clawing the air
as if squeezing
invisible rubber *****.

Dad reading Newsweek
a distraction from his local terror
saw the silent request
turned routinely
pulled out of a canvas bag
a fuzzy white lobster
handed it to his son
who held it to his chest.

What cynic said
love is not redemptive?

The arrow in my dream pointed up
I wasn't sure what that meant
but I slowly swung my legs out of bed
still woozy but knowing I had to write
so I got up.

I walk with my head down
watching the darkened floor so each step is safe and firm.
Recently I saw my sister walking with her head up
looking at the trees
looking up to see the branches growing.
I worried she would trip on a crack or branch or rock and fall.
I worried.
She walked with her head up.

She is a good example for me
looking for growth
When she looks down it's for all the gifts
the Doug Firs and Cedar leave for good Earth
some of the samara she gathers like precious treasurers,
takes them home and spreads them about
for adornment of her place.

When discouragement or sadness get me down
I need to remember to look up
beyond the muck
toward the stars
where creation began
and listen for the bang
in the voices
of jays, cardinals, friends, loves, and strangers.

is an arc I can catch a ride on
to an infinity of realms -
time travel
heaven
hell
love
friends
enemies
words
soul
fields
seas
fresh breeze
banyan trees
...

There it is, first light! The debut of dawn
another first - soft rays of a new day
fresh dew settling, cooling the lawn
the dew and irrepressible light make way
to this browning patch of earth
another prelude in my eyes
a gentle affirmation of life’s worth
in this glistening silver sunrise.

This freshness prods my lethargy
and is easy for me to take
but do I have the kind of energy
to allow a love without break
unconditional and pure
I wonder if I have it in me
to let such a love endure
to settle into me like dew - light and free.

Countless songs sing your might
and your brawny romance with us.
The kiss, the sigh I return in moonlight
seems so weak.
But that is my puny judgement,
for when I am in the clutches of love
when I allow its vast waves to overtake me
I can get up from my sleepy lazy state
and stretch my muscle and bone,
walk toward your pain or joy with a stride and demeanor
no masculine actor could ever emulate.

Yet you are the mortar full of feeling
the octane of which clamors a symphony of sound
I cannot even hear
but feel it in my chest and biceps and thighs.
Your sadness clouds the stars
your joy makes them beam
your anger burns bright and hot in them.

So how can I hurt you?
Above all, by my indifference
when I break free and flee your embrace
when I strike you in the face
and punch you in the gut
with my pride, lust
and magnitudes of madness
my shame brings tears to my eyes.
It is not a shame that disables me
but awakens me to my limits.

How you must fear my freedom
because of what I have done,
what I do with it in my life?
How lonely you must feel when I abandon you
in favor of pleasure or hubris!

If you are invincible and lord of the cosmos
how would you make yourself so powerless
and vulnerable to emotions?
Because you sparked the creation
of my species and my planet
and even became human
to show us the profusion of love,
sensations and sentiments possible.

Including hurt.

The big story of this day is Jesus’ Resurrection from death.
It will be celebrated in homes and churches throughout the world.
But I think Jesus is more interested in us than us celebrating him.
He wants us to recognize
and celebrate the way we rise
from our darkness, and digressions
failures, weakness, sadness and depression.

When Jesus was on Earth he was honest.  He was himself.
That’s what got him in trouble.
He teaches me to subdue the anger and every hint of violence inside
to be true to the unique creature his Father has crafted
not special or above the rest of ordinary men
just different and true to my own voice.

Unlike Jesus, I am not that courageous and mighty with the power of love.
I still fantasize doing damage to those whom I deem evil
still I care too much about what others think
about how I look or sound in public.

I am unlike Jesus in too many ways,
but I am like him in my rising from darkness and doom
from my own self-made tomb.
My resurrections might be tiny
but large is the Spirit in me
and the ability to see
the light
to see the right
and pursue it wherever it leads
into meadows and into the weeds
away from tradition and my roots
beyond my past moorings
toward truth
and its small soarings
telling my little stories
from death to glory.

What matters matters
it doesn’t matter
that there are so many things
and people that do
including you…

and me.

When I witness your beauty
mingle my soul in your galaxies
bathe in your sweet fragrance
see the piercing tumescence
of your desire
your passion to scatter your seeds
in waves of wind
upon the earth
into the most protected regions
of our minds
I know you are a poet
who cannot resist reaching
beyond the confines of your self.

I wrote a poem for him when he was still here
he was a Cajun artist without peer
for her a paean to a life well lived but now gone
her gentle self slipped into an eternal dawn.

All too few left who care
to read or hear
my poems of yesteryear
not even a single tear
from anyone but me
for these souls who graced my life
and led me to pause, think, feel, and write.  

What sweet sharp sorrow
drifting now in this dark and lonesome lake.

the skeptical scientific me
who wonders if it’s a show
people putting their best selves forward
for me and thee?

the faithful me who chooses to believe
in resurrection and life after earth
the me who remembers rebirth
and the joy that rained in my heart?

the me that lets go and falls into love
of the greeters and door-openers
happy to see smiling faces
on a day with parted clouds above?

the me bruised
with the bumps of reality and loss
nailed daily by the boundaries I cross
forgetting prayer and missing cues?

I know something of the person I am
but which self in which place
I fall into isn’t in a program.
In my better moments that fickle self
stumbles and falls into grace.

Justice, justice
You lay sweetly upon our souls
this morning
after the turmoil.
I wish you were not so rare a visitor.

Living with your depression
in that sphere of despair
is like gasping for air
becoming the dark pool’s possession.

White trapezoid streetlights spill
amber blotches on the avenue of walls behind them
on the wonky bench
she leans on him
their coats and their bodies
warm them this cool evening.
The rectangle of light he holds grips them
their intense focus on a video, oblivious of all else.

Does he even feel her hair on his cheek
or her hand on his inner thigh
or care that her knee touches his.

At least they are present together
their bodies touch.
Their warm breaths commingle
but do they even notice?

Is this a non-cyber moment
an intentional prelude to intimacy
or merely two atoms about to make a molecule?

I cannot know the worlds two people are entering
or divine the wispy cloud of their intentions  
but I can ****** my imaginings into their night
and wish for them the warm might of love.

The old man stooped down
in his veiny swollen-knuckled hand
a box smaller than a tennis ball
wrapped in silvery paper
the child took it
raised it to his ear and shook it
no sound at all
without a thought he cast it aside
and turned away in a desultory stride.

Even at this young age
the silent shiny gift bored him
as did the kindness toward him
he seemed unaware
of the elder there
or his value
not worth even a smile
or a flicker of respect.

I wondered
if this was a child
of abundance
or neglect
too much presents
or not enough presence.

And what was in that shiny box?

hummingbird ***** up
nectar swallowing in gulps
Life awaits my gulp

I get so tired of one religion
tearing down another.
It seems so cheap to me -
a protestation better muted
in favor of a simple act of helpfulness.

It’s early morning
as he starts down the rocky bank of the lake
he slips
his rod and reel in one hand
his other on a boulder to break his fall.
Already fishing, I am about to laugh
but I see the consternation and fear
on his face.

Late that night we sit up
reading a favorite writer
who never failed to transport and beguile us.
We laughed
remembering a previous predicament
we had barely escaped together.

Comfortable moments of quiet
just thinking about what we had read
trying to make it fit in to each of our so-called separate lives
back in the so-called real world.

But I wonder if those times were more real
as we re membered the body of our friendship.

Why is the heart the icon of love?
Why not the finger or the thigh?
Would it be just as compelling to say
He loved her with all his mind?
The mind is surely involved in loving -
deciding to do the dishes rather than watch football
or to be romantic when she touches your cheek
while in the midst of writing the last page of your novel.

Why didn’t I ever make love to Mabs
in my twenties rather than discuss politics?
Oh! She was so cute
and smelled like heaven
but our kisses were dry.

I gave my heart to Helen tonight
and she gave me hers
we laughed and teared up
as we shared romantic memories.

And why can’t I feel the heart of Jesus in me?
Is it some spiritual vapid void?
I love and know him but having his heart
escapes my grasp.
I hope before I pass
I will feel him pulsing in my veins.

Maybe another poem
or five or more will help,
for I know my  muse knows
the springs and streams I seek.
And here on these pages
may be an answer…