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.

About now she is having her first cup
in her java ritual of waking up
starting the day by feeding the birds
who swoop too eat and hear her words.

St. Francis is smiling up there
seeing her quiet presence and care
presence to what is real
in the moment and what it reveals.

The creator is in his or her creatures
in shape, contour and natural features.
I don’t need TV, *****, caffeine
or any other fix to intervene.

And it is good to have friends who are kind
who help the helpless and the blind
who feed birds and spirits of the down
not looking for applause or renown.

Knowing and loving and being there
for others, taking time to care.
Having friends like this - a treasure
impossible to repay or measure.

So when I’m tempted to medicate
in any fashion, let me meditate
or be present to friends or birds in flight,
let me abide in their darkness and their light.

Written 07/08/2018

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.

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.

Guilt and its grave cousin shame
a heavy gnarled ball and chain
on my ankle, holding me back
sinking me into bloodthirsty black.

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.

An insect clinging to driftwood in choppy water
that’s how I felt
small alone bewildered lost
looking for a swift escape.
Not a good place to be.
Scanning the horizon for a buoy
a lighthouse a beach
any mooring.

In the next room she was reading
and with a timidity belied by the long golden strand
of our marriage,
quiet, almost shy I went to her
and said in a worn voice, I need to talk.

Me in my otherwise articulate self
was foundering throwing about for words
finally admitting I was dumbfounded
sodden by fatigue
from the self-imposed tethers
of friendship and loyalty.

Boundaries, she said, boundaries.
You have a young mind in an old body.
Let go and read some poems
and write one.

She knew what I needed.

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

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

Her dark hair, red lipstick
slightly weathered but alluring face,
the swift efficient way she poured our coffee
a slight sheen of sweat on her cheeks
evidence of her ownership
and hard work at her cafe.

My friend and I having fished from the shores of the nearby lake
from first light
now basked in Pat’s femininity
strength, confidence, and congeniality
as she took our order.
We smiled knowingly at each other as she left our table
our mouths watering as we thought about
her and her pancakes-and eggs-breakfast.

Do you know someone
who suffers humbly
without fanfare or ego?

I know someone like that
who’s a bridge
between my own weakness
and the light beyond.

How brilliant
this rescue
this simple span.

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

I enter the sanctuary
my hand traces the brown skin
of the smooth wood
atop the last pew
where Saint James sits every Sunday morning,
his slender body planted in spit-shined shoes
that reflect the light of that sacred space
the light that pours from each tortured soul
that sings the praise, joy, pain, and love
inked in the green hymnals
that we open, feeling with our thumbs
the edges of pages
gathered over ages
from the fervent hearts and minds
of our faithful progenitors.

I will hug and touch
the shoulders and backs
of my fellow believers
who will grace these pews,
beating hearts scattered like red pearls of love
in the perfectly aligned rows
where each of us broken
beautiful brothers and sisters
will sit and listen to the Word
stand and sing
and breathe in and out the same Spirit
that cracked open his heart
and bled the universe.

I myself broken
and opened
am here where finally I belong
among my fellow travelers
pilgrims one and all
living our salvation
among each other
shoulder to shoulder
heart to heart
cheeks traced by tears
of joy, sorrow, faith and hope
we, tied together by Love.

In these first days of fall
the trees prepare for their journey into winter
summer’s green
yellowing.

Honey bees buzz the sage
enter its majestic green body
through the sweet portal
of its magenta blossoms
for one last deep drink
of nectar.

My winter approaches
may I imitate my brother bees
maximize what sweetness
there is in my small world
and pollenize
where I can.

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.

The clock was running and the hour was late
my mind was racing at a crazy rate
the traffic on the road was oh so dense
big trucks roared by, their drivers were tense.

My troubled mind was blue but I looked up
and saw a sprinkled wealth of buttercup.

And then I knew that even in delay
the fate awaiting later in the day
would not be something that I had to fight
for I’d remember then this splendid sight .

Along the way bluebonnets were ablaze
swaying in the wind and giving praise.

If on my path misfortune should I cross
when I encounter pain and suffer loss
I hope I can recall the glory of this drive
give thanks and praise that I too am alive.

I hope that on my journey I’ll look up
and see the sprinkled wealth of buttercup.

celebrity TV interviews
preening for the screen
they leave me hollow
but what am I expecting?
authenticity?
ha! rare if not impossible
as the camera shouts at the soul.

audacious introspection
from one who thinks he is enlightened
in a special way
blissfully unaware of the grip
of ego.

i say this aware
and repentant
of my pride.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 wish it wasn’t so hard to say “I don’t know”
to enter the cloud of unknowing
to be wrapped in solitude
and float there
free of activity
and self.

Yesterday on an otherwise blue-sky day
a massive bank of cumulus clouds
spanned the southern horizon
great puffs of cotton piling up, surging, rising higher and higher
their moist life irrepressibly breeding before us
they were the most beautiful thing I saw that day
except the brown eyes of my lover
who gently held my right hand
on our trek into the country.

To have someone who can turn
my coal into gold
is far more than an alchemist
it is a precious presence
of immeasurable value.

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.

Like a film filling space one frame at a time
it falls together seemingly by accident
but before I know it there it is –
a story, a revelation
a dawning
an aha! moment.
And I don’t even think about
the minds that came upon the ideas
images, humor or drama
together.

I should think about that the next time
a series of seemingly unconnected events
fall upon
or into me
with a surprise ending.

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

The ants
                      are crawling

                                          on this screen

hoping like me

                                                to find the inside

                       of this light

There we sit in our partial darkness
her in her soft and easy chair
me in mine so I can see her face
and the smile or frown residing there
for these brief moments of grace
her reading from our spiritual book
me listening, waiting for angels to arrive
in a story or words that’ll become a sacred hook
into my soul or life’s burgeoning archive.

Evening after evening sometimes so tired
we can barely hold on and avoid sleeping
right there, each old body in its easy chair
sometimes laughing sometimes weeping
she my wife, partner in this long life
both of us gathering our souls
in this splendid crucible of light.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 imagine the man across the alley judges me
but I don’t know
I think she likes me
but I don’t know.

I feel sad about the thoughts of him and her
that I don’t even know
my imagination captures me in an I-loop.

Then I read Edmund’s poem
                      he takes me on a spiritual adventure
                                    into peace, love, life, nowhere, somewhere,
                                              dancing in the rain

I think about dancing in the pain
               and here I am still waltzing
                            dripping and glistening.

Poetry invites imagination.

Dare I spend my time with you
puncture my soul with your deep breath
feel the pain in your feet
walking the Earth and the universe with such love?

Dare I spend time with you
and risk falling into the abyss of deep sad blue
and losing my self in that fall
all with the chance that I will become
who I was meant to be from the start
of the ***** reaching the ****?

Dare I spend time with you
laying myself out
on the expanse of  your skin
feeling its coarse surface
learning its beautiful layers?

May I have the courage to take this small leap
to find you in the saddest and most joyful places.
If I dare to spend time with you
I will find myself in the strong grasp
of your immense reach.

“To write is to go looking for what I don’t even know myself before I write it.”
- Annie Ernaux, winner of the 2022 Nobel Prize in Literature

I went into the dark canyon
not knowing where it would lead -
another adventure
taken up to pursue a dream,
my hand holding the reins
not knowing what lie ahead
nor what I was looking for.

The notion that led me here
words in my head
the meaning of which were a cypher so cryptic
I knew not what quest I would wrest from them.

But I had been told that this riding
was an exploration of the unknown.
That I was just a hapless pioneer
in a borderless land,
a wilderness
requiring a spindly surrender.

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

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 came here at a late hour
sure that I left my spirit in the dust of the day
but here after dusk absconded with the light
my muse flutters in
joins the candle flame and the piano fugue
lifts me like a dragon fly
doing acrobats on a summer day.
I write to capture
the small miracle of this moment.

The first soft gray light of day
creeps in from the east
not even a glow
just barely enough
to see the clouds stretching over me
but I know a love
that is the dawn in my darkness.

Daylight Saving Time

Hello morning
open my eyes
pull open the blind
from this darkness.

I need saving
from this blinding night.

What’s your shadow?
Illness
depression
anxiety
confusion
misdirection?

I’ve fallen into these dark goblets
crowded, muted - howling their darkness,
misguided by the misguided -
friends, kin, lovers,
all the screaming screens.

It is daylight saving time.

“Daylight Saving Time,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

I want to become a diver
like the scuba guys in the Thai cave
risking death to save life,
going deeper into convoluted passages
of darkness to pull life from it.

I want to become a heart surgeon
transplanting energizing mitochondria
into babies’ dying hearts
to revive and save damaged cells.
Oh to receive from the gods of creativity
an infusion of fresh energy
into this old body
and renew flagging cells
with a flowering fragrance
as sweet and unique as Plumeria!

May this diving deeper
be as fruitful now as it has been
in the decisive moments
I was able to conquer pride and self
to reach out to others
whose spirits had frowns
whose life energy was down.

I know: thinking, reading and writing
are not quite enough to reach and taste
the fruits of angels.
Like the classic tension
between “faith and works”
“deeper” means a marriage
of information and application
to get transformation.

And so these moments of writing poems
and diving deeper, rising higher
for the creative spirit
are not divorced
from kindness and reaching out
in friendship, intimacy, and love,
from taking time and spending energy
beyond these meditative walls
embracing life where it calls.

I am a diver and a surgeon
a spark striker, a flame keeper
always desiring
to move
deeper, deeper, deeper.

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.

Sometimes diplomas are deleterious to a degree
it seems the cap, gown, and certificate holder
buys a telescope and starts using it to see
loses the ability to write freely and bolder
becomes particularly adept at speaking in snark -
so much easier than personally and intimately connecting -
preferring critique to finding and being a creative spark
becoming expert not so much from practice as from correcting.

I knew a man who used to be my friend
until he acquired his PhD
then he began to depart and ascend
too high for him to see little ole me
I knew a few too who were doctors and buddies
whose degrees didn’t pedestal them
who didn’t let their higher studies
erase their humor, make their hearts go dim.

Across the burnt field
I carry my load
I pierce the smoky expanse
my energy flags
I yearn for rest
but the burden gets heavier
I am alone
and slog for both of us.

I converse with my mind:
“Please, a small spell
to float this flood
to higher ground.
Find an ounce of push,
then I can unravel.”

A midnight exhaustion overtakes me
I lay depleted
at wits end
I pray
a surrender
concede
abandon
my self
gaunt, frail, devoid.

Before sleep an appeal
to a power greater than me
deliver me from these ashes.

Early morning when I get up
I am in a fight with the dark forces
that inhabit my bones
and haunt my mind.

And I have a choice:
heaven and life or the devil and death.

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.