Light rain falls into my day
darkened skies hang low
inside dry suffused dismay
and a small nagging unease
reminds me a clear sunny day
is a gift in the murky malaise
to make this persistent haunt
bearable
until again light reigns.

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 once tried to write a limerick
and it all but made me sick
but I recovered quite soon
once I ate juice of prunes
no longer stopped up that did the trick

I went to my friend
almost afraid to expose the need
I found as I read the book,
not knowing if he would be deaf to it.
As I spoke of my father
who was not there
to show his boy how to be a man
I recounted my losses
and the load of grief I felt.

My sadness clung to me
a heavy suit of chainmail on a dark knight.
I could feel my face
drooping in lamentation
unable to be the smiling grinning buddy
I normally brought to the room.

Seemingly unable to enter into my pain,
my friend, a man of great intellect, character and conviction,
responded only with a litany of his own.
I tried to listen but my burden
made it a mighty climb.

Now I know my pal is only human
and I am wrestling
with my self
sweating MY
deafness.

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

“Don’t fall in love with lonely because you’ll end up that way.”  -  Bruce Springsteen

The day is cloudy
I’m overcast and lost
in my little world
trapped by shrinking horizons.
I hear a cardinal singing
look around for his red glory
wonder where he has flown
he in his freedom to roam.
I envy his winged flight
the whole land in his sight
his mate and sparrows and jays
up there with him beyond the haze
of these sad and lonely days.

This long month
lingers
unwilling to loose its deadly grip.

Or is it because there is still a flower to bloom
its magenta glory
to wash away
or dilute
the sadness
of this month’s decaying days?

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

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

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

Why do I not take time like now
when my muse has awakened
tingling, pinging, bubbling in my chest
like helium in a translucent balloon
loosed from its mooring
flying in the wind?

Your love for me despite the nicks and flaws
lifts me from the pits and the claws of darkness
heaves me over hurtles to the fledgling light

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!

I see you from the third floor
you there with white blossoms in your hair.
I envy the birds who fly freely
And rest in your shiny green glory.
I wish I could smell your sweet scent
Hold your soft pedals to my cheek
to heal all the blemishes
make smooth the rough spots
witness the fragrance of my serenity.

Perched on the plank seat
of the old wagon
the dusty man gently jiggles the reins
of his reliable old steeds,
they as resolved as he
to reach Archer City
to get booked up.

Larry was there with his white hair
whittling his latest creation,
an overweight manuscript
sure to cause a sensation
no matter its heft.

They sat together talking
til the fireflies flew,
shared stories of books
loves, and good bass hooks,
reaching down to fetch a fresh brew
when they got parched
which was frequent
as they spoke at length
of men like Woodrow and Gus,
how they cussed,
poked, and stretched yarn after yarn.

Larry’s gone to the barn
but the guy who pulled up
in that old wagon
still is reading
and yet yearns
to revisit Texas lakes
to fish bass,
visit the local café,
and eat a passel of pancakes
or a big, tasty chicken fried steak.

The maple makes its glory complete
with such elegance and grace
halo shadow of crimson and gold at its feet
wet fall day a shimmering sacred space.

She stands at the wall reflecting
on those who were lost at sea
names and poems and words connecting
her to those poor souls and to me.
Beyond those memorial walls
the mighty Columbia into the Pacific spills
whose depth and wealth have called
so many to sail from Oregon's green hills.
From the safety of their home
they left for the great unknown
where writers and poets travel
every time they pen their spirit in word
to explore what God and life has unraveled
what pain, sorrow and joy have stirred.

Her kindness and her reflection move me to write
my poems of wandering from a safe and tidy home
to regions of imagination’s heights
shadows, sorrows, or oceans’ foam.
She reads and lives life’s poetry
knows its canyons and desert sands
she yearns only to be free
of the noise and anger of badlands
to smell the freshness of a cool and gentle breeze
feel the air brushing her arms
to look up and see the greenness of trees
to be free from crushing and brutal harm.

I see her standing and watch her reflection there
with seafarers, poets and lovers at peace
where God’s creative breath stirs air
and torments, terrors, and quarrels cease.

Author’s Note:  My sister Genie who lives in a large urban area visited Astoria, Oregon where the Columbia river ends in the Pacific Ocean and local citizens have erected a memorial park with several walls of polished black granite that display the names of mariners lost at sea.  There are also sentiments and poems about those lost souls one of which Genie photographed and sent to me.  As I examined the photo I could see her reflection on the wall as kind of a background for the poem.  That photo and my sister who loves nature and trees inspired this writing.  I wish I could post the pic here for you to see why and how it inspired me.  

Below is the untitled poem on the memorial wall photographed by my sister.

Weep not for me that I go to sea.
I shan’t be lonely, though vastness surround me.
The brotherhood of the sea shall be my family.
The kinship of the deep my company.

Weep not for me, nor worry over harm.
My heart stays with you, still and warm.
In sunrise and starlight my hearth and home
I carry you with me wherever I roam.

Weep not for me, whether bad luck or good.
Tossed about in a shell of steel and wood.
An ancient salt sea sails within my blood –
I but follow its tide through ebb and flood.

Weep not for me that I go to sea:
in the limitless ocean I am free.

I am advanced in years
but living many years
does not make me either wise or mature
does not make me advanced
as a person, as a man.

I have known some old fools
and in some ways
(I hate to say it)
sometimes I am one.

I would rather escape
(and I can think of so many ways to do so)
than to live in pain
(my own or someone else’s)
but that is what life is.
Yes, it is true:

Life IS difficult.

Accepting that is one of the hardest things to do.
But it is what real maturity is.
Being down from hurt, pain, and wounds
and just standing up and walking anyway.

I see bumper stickers and signs that say:
“Wounded warrior”
The people who I know
who are the walking wounded
are the beautiful people.
They carry their pain with a crooked, sad smile
as if to say:
"Yes, life is a *****,
but here I am walking through it.
Not so much getting over it
as getting through it.
And Baby, here I am, I am getting through it.
I’m still standing.
I might be limping,
but by God, I’m walking.
I’m walking into today and tomorrow.
And that’s something."

I’ve heard it said:
“Faith is simply to trust the real
and to trust that God is found within it.”
When I have this kind of faith
I’m being mature.
I’d rather be advanced in that way
than to simply be advanced in years.

“Maturity,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

The pickups across the alley seem asleep. No lights, exhaust fumes, man at the wheel ready to wheel into another work day.
Winter-denuded trees blend into his roof like dark rivulets from its peak. No lights in this dawning Saturday, all still asleep.
Except the birds feasting in the newly seeded bird feeder. In the softness of this new dawn their flights are silent.

The fog shrouded morning suffuses softness to hard edges.  Clapboard storage unit rests quietly on the edge of the lawn.
Rakes, mowers, hoes still asleep, no work tension in their bodies. Fallen browned leaves lay on still-green lawn gently carpeting “the back.”
Cold black fingers of tiny limbs indistinguishable as individuals, smudged and blending instead. No limber bending till months-away spring.

Trees in the distance surrender their stark names to clouded sky not yet brightened by the distant weakened sun. The fog has laid upon this place
a muted harmony.  No dissonant horns or voices heard in this diffused snooze of now.  The only movement: from the winged creatures
greeting the day just yards away reminding: life still pulses. I fall into this peace.

The fog of sleep
a hallway moment away
where my self is mellowed
and lost beneath the sheets.

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

Sometimes I awaken from my dreams
from that soft mindless drifting that is sleep
and I get snagged
on the subtle undercurrent of worry
a swirling feeling of fragility
the antonym of youth
when I was the captain of my soul
steering with assurance
buoyed by faith in my muscle and wit.

In the slowing pace of my days
I get snagged on remembering:
the steady increase of forgetting
the ache in my knees upon standing
the declining elasticity
of my skin and my will.
All of these hiccups  
twist me toward the scratchy edge
the bleak and chancy fog
of anxiety.

This thick arrhythmia
in the music of my day
can tempt me to get stuck
in the stupid stuporous thread of
thinking: the rest of this bad day
is a foregone conclusion
instead of this confident conviction:
It's up to me
to discover the next thing
I can create,
to open the blinds
and the windows
to ***** or stick or trick
my mind,
to wake up
and imagine
or remember how it felt:
to hold an infant
to hit a solid fly ball
to see fireworks light up the dark
to win a big jackpot
to make the perfect shot
to kiss her luscious lips
to see my first eclipse.

One other trick I can do
when I trip and fall into counting my losses
or lamenting my crosses -
is to make a gratitude list.
It always works to lift the fog
and step out of my slog
to rhyme me out of the sadness bog.

I hope I'll remember these solutions
to fear's dark and dangerous pollution
and when I think I'm too **** old
to try a thing or two
I will think of the days of being bold
and live and love me
into the new.

“MindTricking,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
Written 5-6-17

There she stands
cup of coffee on the table
looking around at the flowers and foliage
enjoying this early summer morning in the shade
a wisp of a sad smile
and lines on her face speak a long life.

I wonder where she has been
what waters what deserts or valleys
she has traversed
whose lives she has touched
how many lips she has kissed
whose passing she has grieved.

Now she's gone
but I thank God
for this interlude
with her
as I sit here with my coffee
looking through the window
in the coolness of the condo
writing and listening to guitar
feeling the peace of this morning
and gratitude
for this momentary encounter.

"Momentary Encounter," Copyright 2017 by Glenn Currier

We were both feeling a small joy
at some long-awaited good news
our conversation crept in a soft light
but then you drifted
into your dark valley of anger and angst,
life circumstance
overtaking you like a black cloud
full of rain and lightning.

The momentum of this moment
****** me into your pain
but how could I choose otherwise
and still say I love you?

Floating upon the waters
has been natural for me
on my wavy journey of faith
yet for most of my life I have been moored
to one or another church or spiritual dwelling
and there in the six directions
of the medicine wheel
or in mindful silence and meditation
I found solace and inspiration
and challenges to be a better man.

Born into the Roman church
from a mother whose tie to sanity
was her rosary
each bead a knot
and the chain her bond to the holy.

Novenas, prayers, litanies, and creeds
became the native tongue
taught when we were young
mysteries and sensory symphonies
of the rituals filled us to the brim
spilling dreams and designs
for a special future
ending in the Great Upthere.

But a destiny of storms
awaited me on my journey there
as I fled into a barren night
a zeal and appeal of career my light.

Now in the lateness of life
I am again moored in a church
in love with several humble followers
of Jesus the Christ there
songs and Word and wisdom fill the air.
And back home I have my own medicine woman of a wife
a five decade anchor of faith
a vessel and fiery heart full of love.

So here I am no longer floating
or boating from one port to another
my friends are dying and growing old
my body battered and heart weary
but I am alive, again brimming and often teary
for God has taken hold of me
Jesus who hounded me has tackled this old fool
and the Spirit has chiseled and shaped a jewel
tenderized my heart with his reckless love,
his overwhelming endless push and pull
and with his merciful Light has re-created and made me full.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Mourning
By Glenn Currier

I saw the woman kneeling at his grave
weeping at his premature departure.
Were her tears a liquid bridge
between their love, their passionate past
and a new still aborning present?

My heart ached for her
thinking of the way they gave themselves to each other
and to a greater cause
wondering
and hoping
his life was a small stone
for building something
beautiful.

Songs are threads that reach beyond
mortal matter of the planet’s bond
springing often unexpected  
like diamonds angel-selected.

Sounds from spirit spun in sky
half's and quarters low and high
enter our waiting souls
and linger there to make us whole.

Music soars beyond the flesh
reforms the old into fresh
hearing tones the artist composes
is breathing in a rally of roses.

Listening to music involves,
prepares, changes and evolves
it makes our humanity better
it is a sweet ethereal eternal treasure.

Written 7-23-18

each morning I get up
and swim in the ocean of your love
your salt soaks into my every pore
and awakens me
to what is real

this daily swim strengthens my muscles
especially my heart
and the deeper I dive into you
the stronger I get

the poetry of your being
surrounds me
and this immersion buoys me
to breath in freshness
and make me alive

It doesn’t take much to find excuses
for avoiding the unpleasant,
things for which I can find no uses
at the time - find no reason or rhyme.

Truth is, I don’t tax my mind to think of that reason,
don’t imagine how much good it would do,
don’t think how this is just the right season
to do this thing I don’t want to.

But oh how hard I’ll work to think
of ways to do this thing I love to do
find the recipe for that yummy drink
go to the game, find its venue.

I’m so very skilled and do it with ease
thinking of a good dodge or ruse.
This kind of creative work is a breeze
how skilled I am making an excuse!

My mind is plowed with deep furrows
a thousand canals
through which hapless fantasy
rushes with such ease.
But on occasion
when I least expect it
the realms rain upon that soil
sprout seedlings
that glisten and giggle
turn this way and that
wild and tender
and full of life.

Tomorrow makes its way into the history
of my heart – always a mystery to me
it is full of people, music, feeling, and strain
a morsel of ache and moments of drain
it has taken me
walked and run
from rising to setting sun
from shame to grace
from a lower to a higher place.

This old heart has filled me with tears
of sadness, joy, faith and fears
awe and anger, glorious heights
lowly dark and bruising disgust
love full of passion, pain, and trust.

Touched by victories over incredible odds
moved from darkness to cirrus gods
from squalls and brawls and angry shouting
snatched me from moments of demons and doubting.

Heart to beating heart in warm embraces
football in sandlots and youthful races
fearful greetings and tearful goodbyes
falling in love with her big brown eyes
heart to heart in evenings of sharing
from being apart to coupling and caring.

And so tomorrow I and my heart
go again for another new start
in the hands of healers
and angels from afar
whatever comes from this
if all is well or it goes amiss
I fear not whatever the course
for I have been - and will be - in the hands of the Source.

My hurting
spits and barfs
my ire
making those nearest
into my victims

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

I thought religion was it.
A gnarly piece of wood
always trying to fit,
I ran and ran as far as I could
took the road east then west
to find the one that was best
jumped in with both feet
since daddy always said
do what you do
work and sweat til complete.
My problem was I couldn’t stick
to this branch
whittle til nice and slick
that other branch looked too good
so I took it -
my piece of wood!
But it wasn’t
so I quit
to search again.
I had to seek
and find something new
risky steeper deeper
and true.

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.

Oh how sweet it is to be in your presence
to have our minds intertwined
if only for a few minutes.

This love making refreshes my spirit,
lifts me from the windup mechanics
of my daily waking up moments.

Watching the smoke from the candle’s end
rising, twirling, twisting
in the final gray waltz of its life
was a moment of joy.

I was grateful for its small life,  
for its beautiful final breath
an artist’s farewell leaving
of its finite tapered brilliance
that leaned my soul
to the pulsing sojourn of the universe.

Oh what a journey it took with me
as I reached into the animated depths
of my self
for the short pausing pilgrimage
of this composing.

I stand before the narrow window
and see more clearly more deeply
in this smaller space
than my years with the picture window
and its crowd calling for attention.

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.

Here in the gray light of dawn
I see you, gentle and tender,
approaching us
and I am in wonder
thinking of my ignorant and obstinate species
and curious about why you keep coming back to us
you beautiful being
each morning and twilight.

My deep sleep dreams disturb
confuse and trouble my mind,
but awake here and now I find
the placid lake of your presence
and abide in your uncanny arrival.

How I seem to need
the cleansing of tears lately!

It’s like watching a flower bloom from a bud
or a seed pushing through the soil
moving onward and upward
slowly but surely
toward the sky
to eventually arise
in its fresh green glory
into the light
right before our eyes.

They are taking that old house
into their hands and hearts
removing dust and accumulations
of two full and splendid lives
molding from the clay of the past
moving through the soil of a present
full of challenge and struggle
into a new, alive
unpredictable
future
together.

This new growth
fashioned from precious artifacts
and art of these two mature siblings
is not a shell which is a house
but a new flowering
which is a home.

What a delight to observe from afar
this new creation
taking shape
knowing
that their roots and ours
are emmeshed
and inseparable.

Watching these two
bright, precocious ones
so precious, priceless and cherished by us
is as delicious
and delightful
as sharing a meal
prepared in the ovens,
homes and hearts
of our mothers.

In this dynamic present
we are grateful
for parents who taught us what it means
to make and keep a home
to love and be loved by the children
of generations.

All these children
are present in the creators
and observers
of this new home
taking shape
being painting
into a landscape
that will one day
sparkle
with joy.

I'm old.
But I am new too
a freshly-arrived-today
unopened package
with a mystery inside.

Each morning you unwrap the day
with your light
and here I am with this present
this mystery before me.
What poem will I find hidden here?
What new creation?
Because it is all new.
I am not my past
but a package full of you
and here I am
ready to unwrap it.

The first day of the new year
silently edged its way inside
skulking around the wrapping paper

And the empty bottle of champagne,
not making a sound as if waiting
in ambush for the unsuspecting,
or the young, dulled by too much bubbly.

Here in the darkness
it waits patiently
to see what the inhabitants
have cooked up for it.

Before midnight and all the days
accumulated in the old year,
have the sleeping prepared new resolves
for what went undone… if they remember?

Will they remember to write 25 instead of 24
on the first check they write
or did they stop writing checks all together
in the old year or the old old year?

How many will forget the word new
for the twenty-fifth year of the twenties
because they hope nothing new
will disturb their well constructed lives.

How much energy will they expend
to ensure that 25 will be the same as 24?
Or how much energy to protect the 25th year’s
plans from the  upstarts and the different?

Will this first day hear songs of praise
for all we have done
or with the songs hark the herald
of creativity, innovation, and new life?

“New Year?” Copyright 2025 by Glenn Currier
Written 1-1-25

I’m wrapped in a netherworld
between fear and urgent turmoil
a shady region of late twilight
on the edge of dreadful night
what to do with the light.

Like the nightingale whose song
brings pausing, sadness, and hope,
blinking in a landscape of plains and *****
sadness of a creative life’s ending
a blending of sand and the hand of God.

My gut clinched in a tempest
rowing unknowing for shining sky.

Writing poetry is an exercise
in making myself rise
from ordinary preoccupation
to enter the realm of creation.

When I share it I am revealing
thoughts, doings, and feeling,
so I need not hesitate to share
or bore those who care.

A poem might not be art
but it is a letter from my heart
more than a quick posting
or social media boasting.

So if you do not receive a sealed letter
from me in the mail, a poem is better.
It is a moment of being bold
of sharing a small slice of my soul.

Getting a poem from a poet or friend
is an honor for me and I will attend
and count it a privilege worth prizing
a noble moment of the creator’s rising.

Worldwide they sing of joy
at the birth of that baby boy
but I have to say that this day
I feel as empty as a holey vase
from which all the water has leaked
dry, unable to feel,
lifeless as a brown fallen leaf.

I wish I could feel his life inside
this empty vessel
feel his tiny beating heart and collide
with angels hovering around
hear their celestial sound
but on this day - of all days
again I feel a sadness
as silent as the night
he breathed his last breath
empty as a cave of death.

But a small crack on the side
lets a beam of light
in this night
so maybe a particle of hope will abide.
Let it be enough
to help me rise
to make another start
and give some life
to this dry heart.

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

I am neither all sinner or all saint
I am a break in the fence
easing the flow through boundaries.

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

[Senryu]

My prayer is
to go deeper
so I can go wider
in the middle
of now

This place is an oasis
in the midst of loneliness.
How could I be so lonely
while wrapped in your embrace?