Slender and humble in its youth
the oak grew in moist earth near the bayou.
Roots pierced the dark land
ate the rich gumbo
silently morphed facets of soil
into a heart
with unexposed power and poise.

Across the bayou
on a screened porch
a young girl watched the new rain
make puffs of dust in the dirt
she daydreamed in the drifts of clouds
and wondered where they were born.

A young man and his friend
off the beaten path of their travels
found the town pool.
Swimming, he saw the beautiful girl
perched above the deep end
and across longitudes and latitudes
of loving, laughing, and weeping
they birthed and raised a family.

The bark’s ridges and gaps reveal
centuries of storms and floods
the oak’s long limbs laden
with life, wisdom, and altered environments.

These two entwined lives enriched
by learning and prodigious practice
their wine a vintage
of passionate enchantment
imbibed by thirsty learners
across decades beyond ordinary borders.

But she like the oak
with open arms
her strength born in good soil.
Hers is a rare power of gentle love
hers a courage born
of some cosmic connection
at the heart of her beautiful humanity.

Dedicated to my cousin Melanie on her eightieth birthday. Both of us born in the Durand line in southern Louisiana not too far from the Evangeline Oak near Bayou Teche. Our lives were seemingly divergent but somehow parallel and ultimately connected, I think, by a power greater than ourselves. If you are interested in more, please see: https://www.currierpoems.net/teche-series

The drab day is clothed in gray
yellowed grass
lays silently soaking up rain
patiently awaiting a distant spring
not yet ready to sing its lively green.
Hoping for inspiration
I almost overlooked your present virtue -
patience.

I don't know why I allow myself
to be charmed by you,
your bright face and dulcet tones
promising me rich rewards
for my investment
if I give in just one more time
and return to you.

Why do I believe it will be different this time
when I have come back
time after time
submitting myself to your allure
only to see my efforts crumble
into a thousand pieces
like a clump of litter
from the cat box.

Maybe next time I will remember
the odor of those crumbles
and not allow my imagination
to fool me into returning.

But I doubt it.

I still remember him
his skin a shade of black
eyes off kilter
his red and white stick
propped between his knees.
But here we were in the same group
so I had to look at him
listen to part of his life.
He had the beginnings of a smile
but an overall sense of sadness
as if part of him was in rebellion
against his blindness.
If I had passed him on a sidewalk
I would have wanted to look away
to avoid dealing with his reality
and my own.

Not wanting
or unable to notice
the hole in someone’s life or vision
seems so normal.
After all, we can only take in so much
from moment to moment.
But it’s so easy for me to escape
knowing the pervasiveness
of my own blindness.

I have slowly loosened the grip
of one hand on hell
for a slow and gradual gain
but its persistent flame
still licks at my soul
has made me old
and beat in its heat.

I will not win this fight
with the dark and hoary blight
til I loosen both hands
to be wholly free
for the warm and deep embrace
of heaven’s healing grace.

In this twilight
after the day’s rich brew
of joy and error
your cup is always ready
to receive my concoction
no matter how stout.

And I can rely on you
to sip and savor it
treat it with the respect
of a connoisseur
and keep it
entre nous.

In the first light of dawn
fog shrouds the trees
and gentilizes the landscape
softens hard edges
unifies everything.
What is the fog telling me?

Subtract the number of details
that consume attention and energy.
Unify the landscape of life
into something more simple.

Maybe I should listen to the wisdom of the fog.

“…how close we are
     to being
     nothing
     most of the time

     and
     for some of us
     nothing all of the time…  - Bukowski: “Meeting Them”


Reading his poem freed me
but bound me to a budding desire
to write
and explore
its roots in a reality
I fear.

How close to being nothing
are we
and is it for eternity
or just a moment?

But just asking the question is liberating
as if I looked death in the face
and just smiled.

The flute played a lullaby in the distance
calling the man and his horse into desert’s blanch
where even tumbleweed had vanished.
He saw the streaked banks of the arroyo
that told a tale of currents
whose power clashed and hurled taut soil west
where the sun was going gold.

His face etched by storms
in many forms
he tried to ignore joint moans
by whistling Cohen’s Halleluia
that wiggled forth a salty mist
in his eyes.

Halleluia for all the years.
He hummed the line
he heard Leonard say:
don’t dwell on what’s passed away
or what is yet to be.

The flute again cast its spell
not a knell but a psalm
of praise to make
and create what he could
be it on paper or carved in wood.

Here we are again
in the presence of green
Life all around us
You saturate everything
It is good to be here with you
alive on Earth
I cannot leave you
even if I wanted to
But who would want to?
Those who live in pain
who wake up again and again
in darkness
who cannot see
who - try as they might -
cannot be awake
and alive in you.
I ache for them
and I can enter their darkness
only because I am saturated
with you
still
alive.

When I pause here
in this private spacious room
and allow the silence to swirl around me
I bathe in love and anticipation
of finding a free spirit
in the small details of my day.

Here I don’t hear the sounding horns
the low moans of trucks
the frenetic exclamations of TV mavens.
All I hear is a quiet voice
calling me to stay here
my attention undivided
if only for a few moments.

In this quiescence I discover
the depth and the richness
of just being.

What a day to see light and its colors
catch the human heart
in its glorious song of love.
For just one day may I see and say
joy and peace and signs of creation
signs of life on the dark landscape.

New beginnings that thumb their noses
at my old and aching bones
and every muscle memory of failure
every nodule of shame trying to grow inside.

For just one day let me glow inside
reaching with care everywhere
I dare to believe
there’s someone who deserves it -
or not – I give it anyway.
Stoop to look into sad, bleak eyes
that they might see the light
the passion and kindness
that stirs inside.

Let’s have one day of light.

So few times this month
have I wandered into your soul.
I know you are waiting for me.
I know your heart yearns for my arrival
but I am too lost
in this world
until I come to this quiet place
and sit peacefully here
and wait for your still small voice.
Only then do I discover  
the grand canyon
where your great soul echoes and humbly abides
waiting patiently for me inside.

Oh how I miss these moments in you
the times I come here far too few.
When I’m out and about drifting
as if it mattered,
my mind off-target and scattered
lights here and there in nothing
in smoke and dust
randomly finding a sprig of life
spotting in shadows a beam of light
and if I am lucky
that faint spark wakes
and reminds me I was made for you
you – a glint inside my breast
a piece of the universe compressed
an atom ready to be split
ready to explode
to expand
and soar.

Hallelujah from the heart of Leonard Cohen
just took Leonard and his old scratchy voice
into my heart. What a gift my music app
just slung into my afternoon
to wake me from my late afternoon fatigue.

I do not take these tech gifts for granted
remembering when I would have to get the LP album
from off the crammed shelf and play it on a turntable.

Here in a moment of peace
I look up and see the trees
and the neighbor’s garden
beyond my windows.

And I thank God for this lovely peaceful moment
thank my old piano teacher
and the conductor of the Houston Youth Symphony
where I sang before my voice changed
and my parents who carpooled me from our suburb
to the old auditorium downtown
where my young mind and soul were nourished
by adults who cared for our young minds and voices.

Who knew that the gifts of these people
would spring up in my mind eight decades later
and mental images of Leopold Stokowski who directed us
at a grand concert in the Houston Music Hall.
He loved children but delivered high pitched hell
to the symphony players at rehearsals.

He has been down the block
maybe even in another neighborhood
or an adjoining town.

I know he has been tracking us
keeping up with our movements
not a spy or even an enemy exactly
but my fear says he's close.
The other day when I fell
and thought I heard him whispering.

But I got up, am still walking.
Cooked spaghetti and meat sauce last night
cleaned the dishes
spoke to my beloved
kissed her before she went to bed.

Yet here I am typing before daybreak
barely half of my needed sleep.
I thought I heard his weight making the floors creak.
Is he in the house
or just my imagining?
His ambience hangs on me like stink.

The near approach of death is startling.

We come from different regions.
He is from a land stretching from a mystic desert
through rivered green hills
atop eon-deposited bands of coal
ending on the shores of a mighty ocean.

I from swamps and warm southern coastal climes
from a father who saw with urban eastern eyes
both parents merging into deep flowing rivers
full of lifegiving nutrients and radiant spirits
but I too ending on that same mighty sea.

We steer our separate vessels
our hands firmly on our singular tills
but each with the same cosmic navigator
merging our journeys into a brilliant universe
full of multi-colored nebulas and planets,
but our star sheds upon we two pilgrims
a potent lively light.

Two souls wrapped together
in seasons and all kinds of weather
here we are these precious three
you me and one we can’t see.

Making our path, finding our road,
through our hearts a river flowed
a torrent of love and wild romance.
We tripped, but we danced our dance.

Your big brown eyes held my gaze
we talked and tried in a thousand ways
to merge as we fought and sought a third one
we drifted and flew from planet to comet to sun.

Where we were going we did not know
we ran fast at first but now… we walk slow
our speed or height mattered less to us
than building together a bond of trust.

So we’ve yet another adventure ahead.
All those years ago when we wed
we didn’t know the privilege we’d share
from solid earth to now in mid air.

We’ve smelled frangipani and cactus flower
sung sadness and joy and hymns of power.
From three threads together we’ve spun
a beautiful, sturdy cord of one.

The cards of the 30 year old deck
festooned with Monet´ prints
swoosh so easily pliant in our hands
we unthinking about what the cards must know.

The dealer endures rebuke for bad hands
and pleads randomness and no malice
but still has the cheek to brag of her own good lot.
The cards bear unholy smudges of anger
and oh the tales fingerprints could tell:
loss of cool, onslaught of quiet ire
if not murderous fancies
all shielded by superb acting
and control
of ****** muscles
and the pace of breathing.

This drama plays out
unspoken but with latently lurking
hurts, slights, envy
and long smoldering resentments.

Even patriarchy rears its ugly self-righteous head
and cords of tolerance of the old man are strained
and taut to the breaking point,
Pete now realizing why Kit no longer plays when Dad’s at table.

But then there is the rare event
like when it’s revealed that Liz had the better hand
but folded because she knew Burt needed a win tonight.

I dropped the pencil
had to pick it up
bent over my big belly
with a huff and a grunt.

Late for church
forgot to shave
with three days of stubble
I stood in front to sing
a sting and a red face
when I felt my cheek.

Didn’t feed the cat.
Forgot to get the eggs.
Left the lights on all night.
Forgot her birthday.
Oh me!

Each small thing
mounts a minor chord
sheds a shadow
of fear
what’s next?
       .       .       .

For all the little things
and the big ones
every day’s a hunt
running from the hound
in ceaseless pursuit.
I drop scraps from my stride,
dive into the river
and go with the flow
to yet another innocence.

It is cold outside
as winter overtakes fall
the room has a chill
but then sipping my coffee
the rich brown liquid takes hold of me
and the fields of a foreign land
gather in my mouth
I hear the shouts and laughter
of the workers harvesting the beans
I poke my finger into the soil
and Earth fills me with gratitude
for its fruits
and its glorious life.

Ah! Nothing like hot coffee in the morning.
I sigh. I smile. Life is good here now.

It is an error
to think that I am my work
my paycheck is my worth
bosses are the ones
who define who I am
based on what I’ve done
or the profit I’ve won.

I’m not be a prince
or a splendid knight
with shield and sword shining bright
in the moneyed corporate kingdom.

But I can use my eyes to see
tell the pulsing heart of a tree
convey the glittery waters of the sea
listen, laugh, and cry with you
hold you when your life seems through
emerge from a hideous mucky dark
still sparkling with a dazzling beguiling
human spark.

I looked up the origin of the word:
from Greek “possessed by God,” it said
although enthusiasm is small in me these days –
a tiny flickering flame in a glass of red –  
still it burns hope
to be wholly possessed
beyond the earthy bed.

the cloud was gathering
and i could tell that it was filling up
getting saturated
with enough grace
to rain on and erode
self-will and hubris
the dark, jagged, and silly monolith
which is ego and pride
so wide in our species.

as the cloud completely filled and spread across the expanse
a feeling of serenity and strength
spread out within me.

after awakening
it occurred to me
that the membrane between imagination and soul
is so thin they burst out on one another
on occasion
and when they do
something marvelous happens.
i think it happens more often
in artists, mystics, seekers, believers,
poets and children.

I woke up this morning
feeling gratitude
even in the warning
my legs gave in my first steps,
gratitude for one more day
for one more hour or minute
on Earth now in my brief stay
on this tortured beautiful planet.

Breathing full
along the brown tree line
next to the silent teal pond
birds still singing winter.
I feel my chest tingle
like when I was twenty five
discovering scotch
a woman’s breath on my neck
still believing somehow God was in that host
the priest raised.
All was ahead of me
and, as now
unknown.

When she went to sleep
she prayed that a calming peace
would enter her body,
a body bloated with the potency
in her first pregnancy.
The Holy Ghost that she prayed for
swirled in her dreams
like a wispy cloud, golden tendrils
enveloping her with energy and imagination.

Finally she got to sleep
only to be awakened after midnight
by me delivering to her the pain of labor
she shouted to her honey beside her
startling him awake and out of bed
to get her up and grab the suitcase.

Darkness enveloped her
and fear, foreboding and near panic.
By three a.m. she was in Our Lady of the Lake delivery room
and I was on my way out of her
to greet what would be a clear cool morning
for July in southern Louisiana.

Little did she know what she would endure
from this screaming squirming little boy…

still habitually in motion
eight decades later.

After a moment of small grace
I realized in its presence there is nothing small.

I watched a movie last night
toward the end saw a couple on a boat
rowing toward the western golden light
then the clear Aegean
floated me into a cove in my brain
where mystery and emerald waters
became plain.

My memory organizes my life
by place.

The brownish sandy beach
where I whittled driftwood with my first Case knife.
The oleanders near the cyclone fence,
climbing the wiry fence tops chasing my friend Vince
who cursed those wires that caught his *******.
The river running through Tamaqua
on a family trip east as a kid
but I can’t see the faces or hear the names
of my New Jersey kin
I do see the wood box where me and my cousins hid.
Gone are the faint glimmers of folks
beyond the red-blooming poisonous bush
the names of aunts back east I wrote juvenile letters to
but I recall their ice cream parlor wall painted bright blue.

Closing my eyes
I see the yellow floor
and the bent aluminum legs of the kitchen table
I wiggled under as fast as I was able
to avoid Daddy’s long brown leather belt
and when he missed I heard his anger melt
when he couldn’t suppress a giggle.

Ah! the joy of my lively geographic memory.

I roam the roads of this land
hop the hills, read the script,
listen to the sounds of logic and consequence
feel the wind on my skin
smell the flowers and grass
in this familiar landscape.

But I yearn for another place
an unexplored, exotic, even eerie space
I approach and tiptoe into a foggy
twilight border devoid of signs
nobody, no memory, no lines
I try to surrender to the fog.

But soon I’m back in the charted
remembered current waters
picking up the day’s packets bracelets and bobbles
but my legs soon start to wobble
in this state of awake
and again I search for a crossing

through the foggy realm
into the sweet lost land
of sleep.

Vines and their tributaries
climb the wall overtake
and name of our neighborhood:
hidden canyon.

Four decades ago
we explored the woods
and found the rocky canyon
etched into the landscape by ten mile creek.
Our limbs were limber
muscles young and strong
adventure coursed in our veins.

But now no woods
just houses and streets
our jaunts into the wild
with woodsy small creatures and critters
are gone.

The mystery we found there
now supplanted by novels, poems and stories
of children, young explorers and writers
and I traverse the thicket
of my small universe
searching the hidden canyons of
mystics, dreamers and poets,
combing a terrain deeply inscribed
by the hand of the divine.

I am above ground
looking down
I behold
a canyon or sink hole
where people are gathered around
a shiny Rolls Royce deposited on the ground
by some unknown force.
Somehow I make it to the floor of the hollow
but soon I fear being caught there doomed
and look for a way out of the gloom.
I see a pathlike outcropping on the southern wall
a few others follow as I walk to it to make the crawl.
One old foot at a time
I carefully climb
but eventually I must stop
the outcropping severely narrows near the top,
grass and dirt within sight,
but too far for a safe berth
I cannot pull myself up to flat earth.
I look down the steep side
the fall would be two hundred feet if I slide
I feel dizzy and scared, a void in my groin.
So close to success, near safety and normality
yet now discouraged
wrapped in doubt and fear
where to go from here?
It seems nowhere but in the abyss
all my difficult progress amiss.

The foam of ocean waves
the cries of a newborn babe
the profusion of pedals in a daisy-dotted field
clouds nudging each other
a kiss a sloppy seal
a song that thrills
all these words owned me
took me for a moment this morning.

my psyche is stretched
thin without depth
in humanity’s waning
straining staring into the abyss
of loss

I’ve said only half-jokingly
I’m a slow learner
of life lessons.
I was wondering about snails
if they learn as slowly as they move
but does our species
ever learn
really absorb
even the basic how-tos
of saving ourselves and our planet?

I might never sate my appetite
for ice cream, tenderloin, or fried fish
but sometimes
it’s hard to empty myself
and make room
for the other fella’s little world
or for God.

even a moment of it
fills the dry corners of the soul
with light, peace
and gentleness

Lost in labyrinthine passages
flitting from one bright dangly thing to another
following the lead of my cravings
which was no lead at all
somehow roads were paved
in your direction
and I found my way
into the chambers of your heart.

Born seemingly pathetic
the boy grew up learning patience
with seemingly pathetic creatures
learning to see the divine in all
and in this vision invited them
and empowered himself
to rise
to be who they really are
rather than what they seem.

The cloudy mucky morning
portends this winter’s end
whatever dawning light
needs importing from within
to burn away
the showers aborning.
That’s why I’m here with you
so you can hear and I can read
the plot arising.

I’m awaiting
a vessel fit for floating
a song worth singing
a fire to light the candle
to connect the spirit in me
to the flame in you.

Slow and easy the old cells flake off
unnoticed as my body replaces itself
over time
not bound by one tiny galaxy
or even millennia
your pace is in my every step
shake of my hand
or moment
when one eyelash meets then leaves the other.
You are in the silent pop of synapses
emergent in an idea
in my chest swelling and tingling
with a notion learned between the lines of a novel
in the words of a wise old nun
in the feel of my body in my lover
the scent of her hair
the shake of  my chest
laughing at her hilarious joke
but especially when I shut my mouth
bear with the silence for a while
and listen to the peaceful
voice that speaks only in quiet
only when I can empty the chatter
and effervescence in my mind.

I read poems, stories, see movies
where protagonists fall in love
give themselves to their lovers
only to later be betrayed or abandoned -
a story as old as humanity.

We two lovers
entwined for five decades
still must re-new our love over and over
each still a mystery,
in a fashion a foreigner, a traveler
on the road
a road strewn with rocks
tiny pebbles that get in our shoes
irritate the soles of our feet
unsettle our souls.

And on our better days
we can laugh at our folly and flubs
and end with a knowing smile and hugs.

But still there are molecules of our being
hidden from each other and ourselves
that will betray our trust.

So many great stories of people leaving home
to find a place home enough
where they could find themselves
become more,
someone extraordinary.

Most of my life has been such a quest.
Like butterflies I emerged from cocoons
after staying a while in a place to grow
into something or someone
I could live with.

I was lucky to find people along the way
strong enough to hear my voice,
people I could trust to stay when I was honest.
Those brave ones became homes for me.

The fierce knot within
is a ball of black strands
with tentacles
reaching out in every direction
threatening.
I know I need to face this cowardly menace
or it will keep growing
into a yawning void.
I hear Lucifer knocking at my door
his insistent thumping says he’s annoyed
because he knows
I am buoyed
I am ****** away from the black hole
into this bright river’s flow.

My tears drip down my cheek
each one a piece of me
atoms of my love
for you.

The birds' songs are inviting me
to join them in joy
in holy union with Earth
where they make their home.
May I have such a relationship
bring such joy
to each small encounter of the day.
My desire is to be wrapped in a spirit of kindness
cloaked with love
as I step into the stream
with my fellow creatures
for I know the pain of anger
the dark valley of revenge.
Today I want a different mind
and heart.

“As a Royal you were always taught to maintain a buffer zone between you and the rest of Creation” – Prince Harry

I was a working class boy
from an oft-reeking neighborhood
there south of Greens Bayou
where a north wind
made us breathe rotten-egg air.

I was no royal.
But when I read the Prince’s quote today
I wondered if my mom’s childhood-induced fears
imposed a buffer zone on me
to protect me from the tough guys
whose dads ground pipes and did wiring
in local industrial plants.

Years of drinking beer sitting in the rear
I watched bar fights and felt Mom’s fear
as surely as if she’d been sitting near.
I didn’t stay in the Scouts long enough
to learn the stuff of being a man
didn’t hunt with my brother
and learn from him how to take a stand.

Now an adult, I’m sorry I wasn’t wild,
too bad I became too shy and too mild
shunned risk and danger, stayed too clear.

Was it some thin metal strand from me to my mama’s fear
that robbed me of things that make a man?
I know I learned empathy and gentleness from her
and hold not a shred of anger
for her or Dad who worked so many hours
away from that field of dreams.
I know their love saved me from violent extremes
and made me cherish God, music, and art,
tragic, as well as sensual, and exquisite scenes.
So here I sit writing
reflecting with preludes, green plants and memories.

Harry, Prince the Duke of Sussex, Spare, Random House, 2023, p. 54

I am bowed by the weight of bad news
tentacles of evil
creep in to wrap around me
like a dark cocoon
at mixed intervals each day.

Oh how I need love!
It is the only power greater
than the clouds dripping, pouring upon us.

The burning candle
its flickering flame
in the green glass
speak life to me
life within
beyond the reach
of threats and fear.

I bow to the light.

Love
love and its green flame
capture my attention
I adore it
and throw off the cloak of darkness.

Here I stand
now free
and open
in love.

Our family room has a vaulted ceiling.
Facing each other in that place,
our eyes meet and in this gaze
across the room
we take flight
through hot afternoons
into cold dark nights.

What we reveal in this air
is the stuff of dreams and things
of joy, pain and sorrow washed in tears,
and when the clouds have cleared
there we are in a sacred space
in the wind and tide
where a mystic spirit
arrives and abides
for quiet moments,
and on this holy canvas we spread
the blush of eternity.

We bring memories of our dances
and missteps where we fell
into each other’s arms and laughed
at the folly of two fools
who leapt across their rifts and fears
across dry days and long years,
sank into the hearts
of each other
and flew to vaulted horizons
where together we reached
to touch the face of God.

On my way to the car
I glanced at the sage’s leaves laden
on what had been ground dried
by two dreary desiccated months
of a blustery autumn
aching for the  moisture of winter.

This rainy cold night
seemed to be saying don’t go out
but there was something
that beckoned me beyond the warmth.

Wet streets magnify the lights
dancing on the pavement
as if to deny the darkness a victory
******* up the day’s grim mood
into a mass of grass and mud extruded
by the slow mushy pace of my boots.

The changing seasons
have the mysterious mission
of rustling us
out of our fatigue or ennui
hanging mosslike on our battered psyches.

Maybe the seasonal shift was that beckoning
into the rainy night
to transform me by its cavorting light
to come here and write  
on these pages rich
in dreams, imagining, and flight.

A man wants to make his mark on the world
to leave something of himself that will endure.
It is the human thing to do.

For some it is children
for some a book
a dare-devil act
or other feat
that will interrupt the routines
of a father, mother, farmer, pipefitter, or pastor
make them pause and notice
for a moment
or even learn a thing or two.

But I wonder if these small interruptions
in the lives of other mortals
are worth
the sweat, angst, hours, gut wrenching
and immense energy of a life.

The sage’s magenta petals fall in the heat of the afternoon
and no man, woman or child notices
but bees lit there and ****** a little life
from the blossoms’ hearts.

Maybe I should be content to bloom
for a few days in summer
then fall away
to the earth
the love
from whence I came.

I am on the tense edge of fatigue
its gray snare
its numb mute grip
squeeze out  
my vigor.