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

Being cast in Your image,
We thought ourselves gods.

White wall of flame
Do you see it?
***** fingernails and coal eyes
Do you see it?
Gluttural groans and mouthes fixated in 'Oh'
Skin that lies while butterflies dance on their skin
Do you see it?
Dollies in a line with the red kisses upon their heads
Their wings opening around them and hanging
Displaying the glory
The power
While weak eyes tremble with awe
Do you see it?
While the King and Queen argue
The rook slithers
Taking pawns and two Knights
Scaled to something magnificent
Alluring and burning alive
Do you see it?
The weasel has no Will
The weasel will not be reborn
No
He will be ash under my feet
While I pick my teeth of his flesh
And when you see me disappear
My failed consummation a dying echo
I will come
You will hear me roar
And you will know I breathe again
Do you see
me

Ancient gods beat endless tender minds,
Simple empty sleeping.

Human touch *******
Save dark heart,
                   Power burning stars forgot skin

How do we know of god?
By word, visible presence or internally-constructed belief?
Can we read a book and know
That these are a god's words
Or sense that an ambitious man
-great or malevolent-
Created them for temporary gain,
To impress others, or for power.
Is god a grandiose representation
Of either gender, and why should that be?

The myriad flowers scattered around,
wind-blown, gale tossed
are but our planet's codes
Tree and toad
are equal products of earth and time.

Why ask for another kind of being
in a world replete
with every grim and wonderful sort,
in another realm surrounded by
other winged and chubby divinities?
Why believe that old books,
written in time and place,
are products of gods?

Do gods really write so badly?

I want to reach down your skirt and bring
                             The souvenir of the gods

I want to ****** your voice
                                With a silent kiss
Let me bring you joy and slip my hands through
                                Your bleeding fingers of working too much.

I will run my fingertips down your back
And feed you my touching love,
                      I want to touch your sweaty soul again.