My slightly shaky fingers
rest steady on the keys
poised to open my heart
to make room for  
a deep dive into the red fibrous
muscle of the cosmos.

The ****** is part of the body
and I should love even the ******
but I don’t have to love the excrement
that comes from it.

I should not malign *******
for they serve a good and necessary function
but I can reject the stinking slimy crap
that comes from them.  

The challenge for me is to distinguish
between the ******, its product,
and the rest of the body.  

Even though it is difficult for me
I must pray hard for X-ray vision
and the observational ability
to see and hear the heart hidden
inside all of us.

So many hours of each day
I go about doing all the things I want
accumulating long moments
without a thought of you
but when I do stop to notice you
to commune I am again renewed
and filled with your love.

May I take a few long or short moments
with you each day
for refills.

You are sky and sea
beyond little me
You are inescapable
unable to be locked up
or corralled or expressed in mere words
words limit your being
yet they are what we have
for the time being
but we have music which is beyond mere words
we have light and dark
we have canvas and computers
but computers work with digits
ones and zeroes
in the sky in the ether
in infinite variety.

Infinite variety
that is who you are
always new
ageless angleless
It is what attracts me to you
you in your agelessness
I’ve always been fascinated with the new
that is one reason I’m drawn to you.
You are ever changing
yet religion speaks of your changelessness.
Why is that?

           Humans need patterns and habits,
           customs and values and norms
           to give them a sense of who they are.

          Yet what is fascinating about you is your changeability.
          You got it my boy.
          Thus the limits of religion.

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

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

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

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

I told the wise old man I didn’t like the word, “sin.”
     He said:
          “My son, remember the Greek
          an archery term – to miss the mark -
          no human always hits the bulls-eye
          just practice your aim
          train your muscles and eyes
          so next time you release the arrow of action
          you will come closer.
          Practice practice practice, my son.
          Don’t wallow in shame
          it will bog you down.
          Instead, stand up, pick up arrow
          check its feather
          raise bow and arrow together
          open your eyes and again take aim
          release yourself from darkness of blame
          and again join the human race.”

I am holey,
not holy.
At best an imperfect vessel
bearing light and darkness
sometimes winning
but real good at sinning.

I wonder whether
the best I can do
is hope for a rendezvous
to touch and suffer together
in a place we linger where
we breathe common air
fresh and vital and bracing.
Maybe I’ll always be racing
from the desert
into your arms
to exchange our passion
to abide,
me all holey
and you a mountain stream
flowing with melted snow,
me trying to capture
some of that clear water
that will leak slow
back into the flow.
But there we will be
us in good and bad weather
but in love and together.

The storm came through with fierce winds
a large limb fell off our tree
as I inspected the damage
my neighbor joined me in his bare feet.
We chatted about the dove
perched high in the tree
about the variety of trees in our yard
and other musings
in a long peaceful conversation
as we sat on our neighbor’s retaining wall.

As I write I think about how conversations like this
on cool fall days and in the midst of summer
act as retaining walls
for the social landscape of our town
strengthening the links that bind.

Again I come back to you
head bowed in shame and guilt
like Israel of old who abandoned their love,
the love they could not hold
against the lure of glittery gold
and empty promises of pride
and ego we can barely hide.

I am Rip
awakened from a long sleep
finally my eyes opening
to see a new world.

Say no to arrogance and power
no to being totally devoured
by ego, division and separation
no to hurt and alienation.

I’m grateful to all those who day upon days
in a thousand little ways
say yes and rise from the dark
who strike the stone to make a spark.

I am grateful for the Great Mystery
that fills my personal history
that wakes me in ways surprising
with a thousand moments of rising.

A bank of fog
lays snugly upon the river
like a soft white halo
kissing the morning hello.

There you are through the seasons
quietly standing
in your humble green
not seeking attention or glory
even in spring your little magenta flowers
peak out from your branches too modest
to make a loud fuss.

The scent of your body
transports me
to the place of your birth,
the plains of heaven.

May I take your simple doctrine
of acceptance and humility
to heart and rest silently
unconcerned with appearance
happy to let a soft inner light
be the meek gospel of the universe.

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

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

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

I watched the squirrels chase each other
along the long limbs of the cedar elm
as its leaves fell sporadically
silently whispering
the approach of autumn.

I took a deep breath of cool air
thinking thanks
for mother earth
her gentle breeze stirred the trees
leaves slow dancing with the sun.

I sit comfortably pleased by the pleasance
of this bright day
and the final flowering of sage.

Samarian Effect
By Glenn Currier

There are some who sparkle and glitter
so full of thought and creative power
they’re like human transmitters
their minds and eyes seem to flower
and being close to them seems to bring
you zest and vigor, to a peppy place
wanting to search for the next thing,
to discover a quiet thoughtful space
within to water and cultivate
the seed of your own creative force
that something in you that’s great,
so you too will be a fruitful source.

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.

The last time I was sick
throwing up pints of ick
not once did I think of love
or anything above
that porcelain refuge
the object of my deluge.

Being sick focuses the brain
on the body’s strain
chains freedom to pity
makes one feel so bitty
all you can see is the floor to the ***
hoping you’ll be in time to squat.

Next morning when I hope it’s passed
questions arise in me to ask
what if this pause in my health
is no pause but a demise of the wealth
I’ve so long taken for granted
and I’ll be forever stuck and disenchanted.

Scarcity focuses the brain
like drought makes you ache for rain
or poverty narrows your sight
to the very next meal or bite
what you don’t have in hand
makes you do anything you can

makes you shout and sing
for that longed-for thing
you look hither and yon
for what seems so far gone.
Then you must work on relearning
to let go of sick yearning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here I am in the middle of your days
before the summer has said goodbye
and the brown beauty of fall has arrived.
It is easy to forget to notice your
persistent pink exuberance of crepe myrtle
to escape the warmth of your winds
for the coolness of the den.

There is still time to grow
before autumn ushers in the first snow.
Being in your midst makes me mellow
slows me and gives me time to re-member
those I’ve loved in the midst of you, September,
time to listen to you in the songs of birds
hear the wisdom of your words
on the peaceful cusp of Libra and Virgo.

Speak to me September
blow your breath upon the ember
of this era in my journey
let not the sparks still remaining
be lost in the cross fires
and anxiety of these days.
In your haste to bid farewell to summer
forget not my moments of wonder
let me hear your thunder
and please before you leave me
speak to me in your deep warm voice
and resurrect me from the wasteland
of this languorous slumber.

Here in the high weeds of violins and flutes
is where I find you
when I pause
and breathe
and listen.

In the marshes
where plant life
saves coastal cities
we who think we are stuck
with nowhere to go
should take root in these shallow waters
of the great ocean.
It is there where
we live most of our lives after all.

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

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

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

And what was in that shiny box?

The orbit of my days
is degrading
this pervading darkness
a gravity
that’s shrinking the life out of us

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

I feel you easing into me
occupying thin layer
upon thin layer of my soul
and I occasionally notice
a smidgen of joy rising
as if first light was dawning.

But this is not first light
for it has been accruing
like silt in the river delta
depositing fertile soil
for an emergent growth.

I could hear the sky’s unsteady dripping,
comforting as I slept in the cool fall morning
the Navaho-patterned quilt
warmed my body
resting quiet in the blind pull of gravity.
How sweet life is sometimes
age dripping gripping me.
But for now I am without a care.

Slave?
By Glenn Currier

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

I need to plug into your symphony
listen for the strains of your heart
pull myself apart from my tense doing
slow down, dive deeper, below the surface,
then ride the ripples to the distant shore
of your gentle, loving soul.

My erratic heart
won’t allow
a warm, steamy, delicious cup of coffee
nor a refreshing potion of gin
the sensuous dissolving of a bite of cheesecake
in my mouth seems a distant memory
all these minor losses
accrue into a long slow goodbye.

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

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

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

Here in this room growing green
where life leans in every direction
in the morning
in this oxygen rich space
I chase my dreams into the day
without shame and with great affection
I convene with the universe
at my fingertips
and touch even the darkest real
my mind whirls my heart feels
on these lines where the soul
is made whole with the magic of words
in a vigil of grace
here in this small paradise.

The life of parents is gauged in teaspoons
of sweat, vinegar, blood and tears
in early mornings and tire of late afternoons
all collected in a cup of salvation for years.

Small sufferings and moments of pain
become sacrifice for a child’s little sins
so the youth won’t suffer the blame,
cost of loss, but the joy of life’s wins.

All these payments made without wrath
may never be repaid to them in their time
but lessons taught will etch a path
for a child to grow up into its prime.

Anyone who loves the unkind
or selfish or one who has spurned
virtue or left goodness behind
pays debts the errant don’t earn.

Awakened by a nightmare
       lost my wallet and belongings
fear in the darkness
my prayer empty
dominated by fright
here I am writing
on this lit screen
trying to find peace
and security.

Is it a malady of our species
this fear in darkness
always looking for light?
If not a malady,
the human condition.

In my awakeness I know
sanity is learning to live in smear,
the swirling mixture
of darkness and light
for now.

This dark soil
teems with potency
of light and life
the sun stirs the soul
hidden in wait
for the creative juices
to flow and saturate
its seeds to spring.

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

If you have something to live for
the transition between this life and the next
(if there is a next)
will be painted in hues of joy.

Down from the gray mountains
you caress the emerald foothills
bejeweled with low lupine and lilies.
Storming across the plains
and fields of lively grain
you rain your glory on red winter wheat.
Barley and corn
spring up from ancient soil
eager to be young again.

By the time you ruffle the hair on my arms
you have inhaled gold
vital essence
spread it lavishly on the land
and so you arrive inside me
and sow your quiet liberty
and wisdom in my soul,
you my lovely magnificent muse.

Welcome back.

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

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

I open the big glossy book
full of beautiful illustrations
galaxies, nebulae, moons and stars
cross into my view
as I travel its pages
I’m awe-struck.

In the black background
clusters of color and light
this page-turning cosmic flight
humbles me
a tiny speck
in the expanding universe.

Dark matter
dark energy
dot this inner space
wasted moments
in scattered remnants
undetectable by astronomy
or particle physics
in this collapsing sun.

Thank God for the stars
in my universe
who need no telescope
or cosmic observatory
to enter the inner space
to trace and find the heart
and grace
in this still expanding speck.

When I spend time with you
the investment pays dividends
deposited in my soul
and like a big bowl of cereal in late morning
satisfies my hunger and thirst.

Your listening, whispers
sparkling eyes
arrest my heart
and take it prisoner.

I am yours.

I heard you singing
oh what a melody
awakening me
to cool clearness
to a fresh nearness
and peaceful resonance
with the preciousness
of Earth.

Contrast the days of anger
creeping and seeping into me
in such stupid little things
as an unscrewable top
a ***** fork dropped
a page that wouldn't turn
a candle I couldn't burn
talking barking heads
fomenting darkness
and dread.

Last night I saw your sympathy and sadness
as I poured out my madness
into the bowl of your heart
threads in me torn apart
dangling jangling my nerves
and knotting my stomach
but there you sat calmly listening
your eyes glistening
full of understanding and love

oh what grace
what a delicate lace
woven of affection  
through you
from above
to cure my affliction
to settle me
into my soul
into that sacred soil
where heaven is sprouting
right there below my doubting.

And so this morning
from the tendrils of my sleeping
I heard singing
the larks and love
God and Earth are bringing
and dancing behind my eyes

until they opened
and beheld
an ever burgeoning
ever startling
spring.

I hear the wind
whipping through the freshly-leafed elm
its long sonorous undulating chord
is as light as sunbeams
as alive as the spring saps
rushing wildly up the redbud and pear
eager to burst out of their limbs
into green glory.

Tonight after an isolating illness,
propelled beyond my darkness,
I walked into a universe of light
where stars are swallowed
into black holes
spreading their energy and light
into and beyond the shame or blight
dragged along by each
stumbling with the baggage of their histories,
then recovering
his balance.

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.

Who have you known
whose life was a steady blaze of light?

There are many in my memory
with striking moments
of blaze
revealed in little decisions to love
despite pain and suffering.

My cousin Gary
had a persistent neck pain
so bad he had a constant bow
but gladly answered my calls for help
with my stubborn computer.
His wife wouldn’t tell
but I’m sure like all of us
he was selfish and ego driven
from time to time.
That pain: a cancerous tumor
that finally took him and his cheer from us.

I’ve had flashes and flickers
but a steady blaze?

Is there one person you know
with the steadiness
of that light?

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