I looked up at night
yearning for the stars
but the man made light
eclipsed the ruby hearts of Antares and Mars.

Red and white pairs of light
move slowly up and down the hill
they fill the orbs of my sight
these lamps of electric human will.

I’ve a longing for the universe out there
for the touch of God’s creative hand
there must be a cellular link with each far flare
flung by some eternal plan.

But maybe the light I seek
is not in the sky
or that of which astronomers speak
or something captured by the eye.

But something of the universe within
scarcely noticed in the rush of my days
something beneath my skin
in stillness, silent, but deeply ablaze.

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

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

A meal of turkey and fixings
an afternoon of repairing her fence
making a shelf unit for their dining room
all these grand efforts
would feel good
and might get me noticed
but what about a smile to a stranger
a call to my cousin
putting away my old neighbor’s garbage can
smoothing my wife’s hair as I pass behind her easy chair
waving at the new guy on the block who doesn’t know me
bringing a cold drink to the yardman?

Going small
is better than nothing at all
when I’ve talked myself out of the big deed
due to time, tired, bruise or bleed.

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.

Silence silence nothing
at this moment of now
this nothing is not nothing,
but a delicate challenge
to a mind used to saturation in noise
goals busyness
purpose.

What do I fear here in this now
what phantom do I imagine
lurking in the darkness
basking in this brightness?

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 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.

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!

Things seem to be falling apart.
Our uncle dying from throat cancer
an old friend going home after a month in the hospital
no more touching or hugging
covering most of our faces in conversation.

All of this darkness
forces change upon me.
I have to work harder at getting you
I have to see you in your eyes
find you in your words and their meaning
since I can’t see your smile or frown.

But I always got just parts of you anyway
you poets in a few words on the page
you friends and kin in your stories.

So now I have to mine you
from smaller bits
see your smile in your eyes
really listen for the pearls in your words.

All of this doesn’t FEEL like a sacred moment
but it is.

I hope, after this painful letting go,
a new me is spit up on the shore
like Jonah after his bout with darkness
in the belly of the whale.

In early dawn I watch
the syncopating rhythm
of yellowing elm leaves falling,
wounded by an autumn storm
their drifting seems so gentle
but I slept through the storm
its violence ripping off a limb.
There is no healing of this feud.

I loved that limb and its bird feeder.
Is my small grief wasted
or does it cling to my soul
in tiny measure
to deepen it
like forgiveness after a marital tiff?

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.

His hand twisted the two wires,
          and the engine wondrously fired.

I yelled and cried when I broke my arm
          he easily wrapped it without alarm.

Sorry son, I can’t come to your game,
          the overtime list had my name.

Boy, there’s gonna be a delay,
          my big project is due today.

Your dad went out of town to speak,
          can’t play pitch and catch this week.

He picked up the phone and he heard me say:
          “Daddy, the cops wanna take me away.”

Tonight your dad’ll deposit his check
          then we can fix the car you wrecked.
                              ---------------
Thank you Daddy for all you’ve done
“Don’t thank me, your mama raised you, son.“

I regularly tear up with both sadness and joy
              seeing a daddy squatting, listening to his boy.

Father-son ties
mix long lows and splendid highs.
Yes, there are tears and yearning
for more than his earnings.
But now I see how my dad’s hand
protected and provided,
how he taught me to take a stand,
and showed me how to be a man.

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.

Alb blowing casually dancing
enveloping feet glad he ignited
joyous kind loving musical noise
overthrowing Puritanical quagmires
ravaging searchers trying undertaking
valuable xercises yielding zeal.

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

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.

There was a man who for all appearances
was living the american dream
fine clothes fancy sleek black car
women at his beck and call
celebrity and media attention
awards and accolades
but he was lost and empty
mostly miserable
weepingly lonely.

And I wondered if such a dream
is really a nightmare
if there is nothing deeper
sounder
loving
beautifully silent
selfless
infinite,
then I do not want that dream.

I’d rather be awake in wonder
in the richness of now
in the arms of my old lover
reading a good book
or asleep at home
under the covers wandering
a bright afternoon
or the shadowy byways
and rocky crags
of the universe.

This morning before my body woke up
my mind was unleashed in a dream.
I was back in a classroom
at an college campus somewhere
in an inconceivable city.

Not totally unlike my actual classrooms
of decades past when the culture was in ferment
and freedom reigned
rained a storm of acceptance
beyond tolerance where everyone
had a chance to become great.

This dream was a pulsing field hospital
where healing permeated everyone present
where our combined body heats generated a sweet aroma
of intellectual and spiritual sweat
that transported each of us beyond
the confines  of our individual biographies
and stories of human suffering

We heard poems and songs composed
by students eager to learn from the oversouls
of everyone present there
students of every background imaginable
we were a single body
a collection of lungs breathing as one.

Thank you Great Dream Weaver
only you could extend my soul to the Universe
in one glorious magnificent moment
greater than time itself.

This old teacher was young again
in a mutually creative minute of sleep
regenerative  and artful
beyond the confines of flesh and blood.

Gratitude is such a weak word
for what I feel
now for this marvelous scene
more than any puny fact or actuality.

It was an evening of tears.
Not of pain or sadness
but those that arise unbidden and unexpected
after witnessing a hardened woman
who finds a sliver of grace
to forgive herself and another.

Tears of gratitude
from the sudden awareness
of undeserved goodness
given freely.

This flow welled up
from something so deep within me
it belies masculinity, logic,
or the thick and high walls
cast up from hurt.

Tears that pierce scar tissue
wrapped around the soul
from pain or the fear of it
from abuse and the remembrance of it.
These are powerful tears
more mighty than the brutality
and shameless arrogance
I witness on the evening news.

Oh how full I felt
from this unabashed weeping
as if I had been visited by angels,
innocence,
or something that can only be called
divine.

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.

Last night a man told me the story
of his visit to a mass grave of believers
made by the former KGB in Russia.
As he looked on that scene
his sadness surged into sobs
thinking of the torture and death
suffered by those good people.
But then a flow of joy merged in the moment
as he looked at his Russian hosts
who still carried the faith and fidelity
birthed by the prior generation.

As I listened last night
and now reflect on his story
I am struck by the depth, pathos
and sheer humanity
underneath my friend’s tears.
In that profound moment
the ineffible mixture of sadness and joy
seemed a creature of the spirit -
of an invisible higher realm.

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

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

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

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

I wonder if I will ever know real satisfaction
until I get to the other side
of the moment when I run out of time.
Is this life but an appetizer
and all I can hope for
is to be occasionally
surprised by joy?

In this quiet lake
floating on a fugue and the Clair de Lune
the softness of your touch
soothes me smooths and sands away
rough edges.

How sweet this pianissimo movement
before the bombast trumpeting of work and muscle.
These times make a life of worth and dignity
give now its power
and hint of eternity.

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.

I dive nose first into your inner essence
there in your yellow *******
your mighty flowering all the way from your roots
in the succulent whiteness of your blossoming being
you reveal to the world what it means
to disclose, expose and surrender
your deep secrets
to all who stop to take notice,
to him who planted and nurtured you
to your magnificent wholeness
to the creator of the universe
in which you flourish.

Your scent is a hint
of the mystery which is you
my sweet magnolia blossom.

Above the hardened world I see a cloud
white edges soft but dark pervades its heart
beside the brook a stone so bright and proud
her striking beauty makes her stand apart
I bow my fingers wrap around her waist
I lift her from her lesser comrades there
I touch the smoothness of her face
her sheen and curving lines without compare
I want to take her home with me to keep
I pause and hear the moving gurgling brook
and cast her back into the liquid deep
I hear her splash and take a final look
     And with her loss I feel a tiny grief
     but smile I touched her being oh so brief

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.

Your voice crackles like red logs in a camp
singes the tiny hairs in my ears
burns in my numbered parts
eddies over the big stones
rolls pebbles left and right as if looking for a place
to lodge and rest, away from the pounding environment.

Your long and insistently unruly hair
tickles the tiny places inside
that never thought of being tickled
never figured to be touched by your hidden wildness
the disguised untamedness
stirs my groggy languid waters
your wild, full flushed heart pounds
rhythm into my flat languid and resistant plains.

I am a sandy arid desert dotted with cacti and pigweed
thirsting for the fluid you excite with ease
and draw up from my depths.

Songs erupting from the well of your faith
come forth from your sober mouth
and waft over our sallow selves
over our normality and our implacable comfort.

Your vocal chords echo Leonard Cohen
a pursuer who never found the object of his quest
but you do not deify the journey
like so many traveling troubadours.
You rest assured of your place up yonder
the place safe and secure in green planet that is you.

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.

I can decide if I will let go
and enjoy the moment
with the crepe myrtle across the way
and swing in the breeze with the sunflowers
or
if I will pull the shade of fear over my eyes
and attach to my feet the weight of worry.

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

Usually when I open my eyes,
creeping through the blinds a sun rise
brings a thimble of gratitude to my sleepy mind
for yet another day above ground.

But last night
news of flooded darkened homes
faces full of desperation and despair
haunted me
delayed sleep until another morning
was about to dawn.

I turned the lights on
just to make sure.

Now I am awake
and drink
a cup of gratitude.

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.

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

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

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

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

I was banging on the big wooden front door
with both fists
there were little square windows
each framed with four mitered corners.
I could see into the church
people singing and raising their hands
but I couldn't get in.

I have many dreams at night
almost all of them forgotten
but in this near-waking state
I knew this one meant something
I needed to pay attention.

Pay attention
what a phrase!

Moving my hands and arms
across the canvas
with the brush in two shades of red
lavishing the northeast corner toward southeast
next to blacks and blues.
Yellows now circling like covered wagons
into the blossom of a daisy.
These strokes took care
in praise of pigments
throwing a few coins for toll
just costly enough to
keep me moving west
the sun not yet setting.

There are always doors
or blinds I cannot open
nearly as easily as I would like
too heavy or out of reach.
Patience also costly.
Like attention.

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.

Leaping from below the sands and receding surf
his head held high and proud
breathing salty breeze.
Sea creature or thoroughbred
what would he do
upon clearing the sandy womb?

I stood there in wonder
poring my darkness into his
hoping his silhouette legs
would emerge before the sun fell.
I yearned to feel him splash his majestic self
up to me.

I’d ride him away from the darkness
looking for light
encounter creatures of the night
on the edge of the sea.
My horse and me on this gusty spree
are one in this seascape
running free.

The days of running and taking two steps at a time
from the first to the fifth floors
now take residence in my memory.
Ah! those agile days
those green days of glory
gracious energetic evenings
mornings of discovery
legs alive with their power
biceps bulging with urgent effort
sensual adventures glistening.

Now fresh challenges await
just as vital and crucial
in a crucible, a cauldron of change
urging me
to union with tallow and elm
a sunrise symphony
of creative awakening
grace of diving deep waters
of a blue and beckoning sea
to the newest version of me.

In the long or short expanse of your life
can you say you have become a hero?
I often wonder if I’ll be remembered
for anything important when I’m gone.
No biological children to carry my name
no feats that brought me fame
no bravery to save a life in danger
no building or great wealthy gain
no great status or social changer.

But more and more lately
being considered or thought of greatly
is not my concern.
Now-a-days I ask myself if I’ve taken time
to listen or smile or write a rhyme
to pause for a minute or an hour
to stop, notice and smell a flower?
Have I spoken kindly in a bad mood
or shut up when someone was rude
or let traffic in my lane
or fed my soul as well as my brain?

Today I ask not if I am a hero
but simply if I am becoming.

“Becoming a Hero,” Copyright ©2017 by Glenn Currier

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is a lie.
I can’t get into your skin
nor see the blight on your soul
nor know the wealth of your life
in the darkness and the light.

It seems to me – and I could be wrong –
these four words
discount the other’s experience
dismiss the depth of a friend’s feeling.

Can’t I come up with something more creative?
Ask a question to find out more?

Have NOT been there
like you have.

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.

The feeling of fear meeting someone for the first time
the delight looking at a little child playing
near ecstasy smelling a magnolia blossom
a secure feeling upon seeing Pampas Grass.

The unsafe feeling being with the blonde man
who had been nothing but kind to me
then… finally I remembered
the sandy-haired boy who made an object of me
at age seven behind the barn on a summer day.

So much of the self is hidden
chaining me to the old
keeping me in a caterpillar state
stumbling over chunks of earth
ignorant of what can happen
in the cocoon.

But learning, writing, remembering
can make me a Monarch
flying into spring.

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.

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.

Her mind seemed red as an apple
she looked at me squint-eyed
as if I were a dark ugly shade of blue
when I spoke ideas
on the other side of her veil.
I could tell the veil had divided us,
me now a continent away.
Later a sadness washed over me
thinking of her departure.

Then I thought of her kind heart.

Both of our hearts pump life
into the most distant cells,
to our ***** toes and grimy fingers
fingers we must poke into stink and rot
poked with love
beyond our comforts.

So next time we meet
I will remember her heart.