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Don't you wish that Christmas
Was a Currier and Ives scene
Where the snow was falling softly
In the woods of evergreen
Where horses pulled the sleighs
Through the village and the fields
Where the children played at snowballs
With just scarves to act as shields
A time of innocence gone by
Where Christmas was serene
Where the world was fairly limited
And not shown on a screen
A time where people had some class
And Christmas was a day
For families to just spend some time
Not compare how much they paid
A painting showing everyone
Out skating on the lake
While carol singers sang their songs
To see  the joy that they could make
I would love to have a Christmas
Like an old time Christmas card
But today, it would be difficult
It could be done, but would be hard
A Child's Christmas in Wales we'd read
And we'd follow it with more
We'd sing songs to our hearts delight
And we'd open up the door
for Christmas is for sharing
Not for self fulfilling greed
A Currier and Ives type Christmas
Might be just the thing we need
This year, I'll watch no movies
About Christmas elves and such
I'll make each treat we eat at home
And by the fire, stand a crutch
I'll volunteer and feed the poor
And I'll go to church as well
Wait....who am I kidding
Well, it was a nice thought....What The Hell!!

Merry Christmas
Path Humble Jul 2018
Poems on a Mirror

~for Glenn Currier~

you don’t know me
I don’t know you;
poems on a mirror I ken
truly well

poems on the mirror saved, and then,
comme the seasoning of leave-falling,
poems dropping and drained...the post-it glue loosened by
the daily heat of watery tears,
making a space for
this one, for you...

there are poems and they arrive with fresh arrogance,
each an arrow demanding your all as a target regardless  
of what the shooter really thinks or wants, other than
obedient acknowledgment and their self-loving flattery

but some render where no rendering should be allowed

those are the ones affixed - ones you chose to join the chosen,
slapped onto mirrors - so many that they almost
cover complete your image from presentation

almost only because these poems are yours, you,
they’re the truly accurate reflection even if not your words,
indeed especially because they’re not yours

but they start your day as a poem should
and in doing so,
become you

What a Hall of Fame, to be a poem on Glenn’s Hall of Mirrors

go pick the plums...
“Glenn Currier  to Valerie Burroughs

“So true. So beautifully put. This is one I will add to Poems on my Mirror. Literally. I am going to copy and paste it or just write it on a post-it note and put on my mirror as a reminder of what poetry should be. Thank you.”
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
A bridge is a curious thing to cover.
mile after mile of naked road -
then a wooden box over stream or ravine.

Why not cover the road instead
leaving the bridge unclothed?
But where's the charm in that, you say?  

So perhaps it was fashioned for Currier and Ives
or to embellish the music
of iron shod hooves on oaken planks.

Or maybe was built as a kiosk
for fading feed and carnival posters
and jackknife glyphs of amorous initials.

No, all our covered bridges, imagined or real,
guide our passage over deadly waters -
holding us fast on the road
and safe from drowning.  

*March,  2007
Included in Unity Tree - Collected poems
pub. CreateSpace - Amazon.com
MITCHELL Jul 2013
I sleep in pitch black rooms and wait
for candles to light themselves
Thoughts the same shade of dark.
Counting sheep as they hop into  slaughter houses of gluttonous, avaricious men who trade their humanity for pocket change.
While satans minions work with circumspectivness to reap what their slave-like bourgeois  have sewn living with a motto of
Yesterday is history tomorrow is a mystery
In the Meantime fribble prodigal sons of the privileged ponder their inheritance
While the daughter of a currier burns her fathers letters because something's are best left unknown
and the candles remain unlit.
But beauteous animals still roam free in the wild,
little kids still smile.
There's hope in the heart of each child.
Sitting in seclusion and coming to Ambiguous conclusions is always productive
So When did the key to success become failure?
*when wasn't it?
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2023
~inspired by Lar Lubovitch,
gifted to Glenn Currier  
who made my eyes water-dance this
morning ~
<>

raise the arms in preparation
for an articulated genteel waving
to keyboard,
an elegant slow descent,
fingers extending, splaying,
but in fine coordinated curvature

for they are 24 carat gold filled fingertips,
word & dance-art~infused
i king and expelling sounds of dancing words,
all over my body

some body part of me,
grasps that the cylinder of ink,
becomes a baton,
single instrument director,
an attaché,
an additive~lubricant,
for all my orifices,
firing rocket-in-the-air bomb bursts
while body in its entirety
motions,
shuckin’ and jivin’
in the prayer~poem first position,
a rock n’ roll motion,
back and forth,
to fro,
holy mesmerized

words run down my arms,
letters drop encased in salt drop capsules,
from the intuition in my eyes,
we see them forming words,
pooling,
without volition,
upon,

all my surfaces, but they
a mere conveyance,
bringing these expulsive explosive verbs
in an ordered fashion,
to your eyes,

intuitively,
asking you
to dance with me,
begging you
to envision me,
hearing the piano maintaining rhythm,
while a violin crys out in a overly long held notes,
concertinas  bellowing,
all together quavering,
oscillating, emoting,

and you!
you are reading me perfectly

so we dance in unity
cheek to cheek,
to the song of
our poem,
our words, our tongues,
our entire entities,
rogue kissing
Glenn Currier May 2017
I have always had a place to sleep nights
with a roof over my head and my own bed
but my homeless state was out of sight
it was at a lonely space in my mind instead.

I cannot count the years I wandered
on rocky winding roads in dark
nor measure the grace and light I squandered
losing myself in distraction and work.  

I can’t remember not having a job
nor count the hours I’ve wasted,
nor the love and care I’ve robbed
nor the bread of life not tasted.

You won’t see me holding my cup
on the sidewalk in the city
my pride’s too great to give up
I won’t ask you for your pity.

Yes, I have often been hungry
I’ve been empty of inspiration
yearned for peace in my country
hoped for the source of creation.

But recently I’ve awakened
from the darkness I had roamed
found the road I wish I’d taken
to a deeper fuller higher home.

“Homeless,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
The above poem was written in response to a poetic challenge on PoetryInProgress.net - which invited poets to write a poem inspired by this photo:  http://poetryinprogress.net/Images-PIP/Challenges/homeless-man-400w.jpg
Glenn Currier Jul 2017
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
Glenn Currier May 2017
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
We had a perfect life
  in our snow globe. Every
  imperfection was erased
  how we chose our lives
  snow blinded us encased
  inside Currier and Ives.
Glenn Currier Aug 2017
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
I'm not sure this is a poem.  But I woke up way too early this morning after a dream and I knew I had to write something.  No rhymes, no meter... just me before dawn this Sunday morning.  Thanks for reading.
Glenn Currier Aug 2017
[Ambiance: the atmosphere of an environment; a surrounding influence]

The smoke drifts over the audience,
the piano, the throaty singer and the sax
permeate the room with a jazzy ambiance.
My nerves vanish in the vibe, and I relax.

I enter the parlor to a flower-scent rush
there’s solemn gloom in the room for the viewing
I hear sniffles and mourners speak in a hush,
the ambiance here shaded with blueing.

The senses soak up the atmosphere.
Smells, sounds, touches, and sights
on the outside penetrate like a spear
take us down or ****** us to the heights.

Every day every inch of the way
is a new journey.  I can choose my stance,
embrace the unexpected and pray
for openness and grace in my internal ambiance.

“Internal Ambiance,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
Glenn Currier May 2017
Why is it my mind gets wrapped
around my heart and squeezes it
seizes it and sends it into isolation
until it is languishing in its cell
to the point of desolation?

It's not that my mind is blind
going everywhere without care.
Fondness is in there -
a word my mind knows -
but it is consumed and subsumed
by the focus, fascination
and interest of the moment.

This sharpness of attention
dulls the part of me
that can get lost
in the sweet aroma,
white softness and brilliance
of a magnolia bloom.

But oh this moment of writing
and gazing on that bloom
expands the room of my heart
warms, softens, and awakens
the rush, the transfusion
the perfusion of grace.

In this writing,
this moment of pausing
I have again found
my heart
the ***** of my ground.
I hear the deeper sound
of violas and cellos
feel the embracing warmth
the ineffable touch
of emotion
I forgot to pack
for my trip
into the ineluctable grip
of technology.

“Technology’s Grip,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
Not so sure about the title of this piece, but the poem reflects my experience the past two weeks trying to get a new computer and set it up with apps, etc.  It was quite a hassle and frustrating, but I am hoping it will ultimately be worth it.  If nothing else, the whole "living life" thing was beneficial in that it ended up with my writing this poem this morning.
Glenn Currier Jun 2017
Thirty-two cents is all you need
just concentrate
put everything you have into it
and you’ll get there.

     Yes, but what do you miss
     from the whole cloth
     from which those few cents
     are cut?

I see the cloth
I’m poking through it
cutting from it
holding it in my hands.

     Did you feel and see the fabric’s weave
     the imperfections and texture
     making it unique, interesting
     and beautiful in its landscape?

I got what I needed
from that poor piece of cloth
to put in the bank
to buy the factory.

     The future stretches before you
     in your race to the finish line
     don’t let that ever-changing line
     shrink the wealth of the present.

“The Sense of Fabric,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
I woke up from a dream with the words: "thirty two cents" in my mind along with a memory of a dream.  I thought it might be interesting to write a poem with those thoughts in mind.  So I started typing that first line and the rest came to me as I continued to type.  The title seemed appropriate as a play on words with that first line.
Glenn Currier Jul 2017
The dark oaks’ gentle rhythm
caresses the faltering twilight
and a dim sadness creeps
into the receding day -
a pendulous cloud upon me lay.

In the hotel room
a hazy hint of doom
my limbs are weary
my mind made bleary
by the thickness of the day.

Mind you, this is but one moment in a journey,
but the glories of last week are swiftly fading
the darkness, a stealthy force invading.
I even wonder if death
might actually relieve
or even lift this aging me.

In my early sleep
images gently pass before me.

The greenness of Oregon,
its forests of fir sublime snow-capped mountains to climb beaches and surf
flung from the Pacific’s
awesome depths. Images and memories
of this emerald State,
and its coastal cottages
breach my fatigue and float me
into comfort and the peace
of deep blessed sleep.

I awaken from these restful wanderings
wondering about the passages of this journey.

Yes, we traveled the outside:
through babbling bubbling Portland
up and down Eugene’s hills
Salem’s capitol, shops, bars and grills
we drank craft beers, ate fish and chips,
spoke of the coming solar eclipse
storied ourselves to the sea
saw gulls and kids play in sandy glee.
All of these you could see, snap and post.
But the hidden passages strike me most.

As this journey ends
I reflect, I feel, I soar
through the opened doors
and windows - I see inside
what we’ve tried to deflect or hide.

Behind my tears she saw the pain and gain
heard my weakness when I’m drained
saw the joy in my little boy
finding gifts and a big man’s toy.

I watched her speaking with her hands
walking gently as if to caress the sands
not sparing self-critical comparing
telling stories of movies and hikes
and trips across America on bikes
I saw her in her sparkle-eyed girl
heard a woman who been IN
but not OF the world.

Maybe leaving this body behind
is not so horrible and baleful
not so very unimaginable
as when I was young
for now there are fewer songs unsung.

As I began this ballad
I was down and pallid.
And it’s true - the surprises of my life
are no longer popping or rife
with excitement and the new
of audition, graduation and debut.
Instead, now I’m alive and wild
with journeys of faith and love
hearts made of gold
and serene searches of soul.

“Oregon Passages,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
I wrote and posted here earlier my first try at this poem entitled "Oregon Journey."  I posted it before taking time to really read and let it settle in me.  After reading it yesterday, I decidedly disliked it.  Therefore today in two or three sittings I rewrote it.  I feel a whole lot better about this one which I gave a different name..
Glenn Currier Jun 2017
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
Glenn Currier Jan 2018
The sun is already warming
the first arousal of morning
but my lover is traveling the hills
and valleys of her dreams still.

Sweetpea knows the sounds
of my awakening and abounds
onto the bed’s corner place
where I read my first daily stirring of grace.

She knows of all the places she could land
it is here she gets the glide of my left hand
my hand across her soft brown coat she is well-versed
for she knows this time of day she is first.

“Feline First,” Copyright © 2018 by Glenn Currier
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
Over the river
And through Grant Woods
Through Hallmark scenes we go.
Through colors of white
That are not quite right
Not even for ******-on snow.

If Currier and Ives
Tends to give you the hives
You really might not want to go.
By now we have cars
And thank your stars
No shoes for the horse to throw.

Old men in jeans
In bucolic scenes
From a hundred years ago.
Don’t be in a rush
As driving through slush
Can cause accidents, you know.

Turkey and dressing
And Parker rolls
May suit the day just fine,
But a warning here
I’ll make it clear
You might not like mulled wine.

When you have eaten
While women work
The men can go off and drink.
The men getting *******
A seasonal disgrace,
The gals keep their minds on the sink.

Later while driving back ,
The men passed out,
The women behind the wheel.
They women all try
To figure out why
They go through this yearly ordeal.
(Yes, folks. This is yet another one of my infamous Iconoclastic Christmas Carols.)
Glenn Currier Mar 2017
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've had a six week bout with "health issues."  I'm ready to emerge from this cloud.  Aside from that, over a lifetime, like everyone, I've been through regions of darkness.  I just woke up this morning with this term, daylight saving time and thought it might be an interesting theme for a poem.
By: Manuel Hutchinson and Glenn Currier



Politics on a Facebook page

Replied with such rage

I sat in shock

for we’d held her at baptism

kept her overnight tucked her in

like good godparents do

all the tender moments we knew

but now a pinch in my soul

my heart’s racing pace

felt like a flight from grace.


I didn’t expect the monster to rise.

The taste of bell flowers is so sweet,

Even the devil smiled at me.

He caught my soul asleep,

As he picked up the double edge sword.

I should have never turned my back that day,
I made a commit to walk on heaven’s grace.
But chains on my feet prevented me to walk towards faith.

I’m living with my eyes closed,
Is this what happens when you embrace the pain?!


Rolling along
Singing a song

it felt so good to be high in joy

not since I was a little boy

was the air so free

but then the email dripping with sarcasm

cut me deep with its slice of sad

like dad used to do when he was mad.

I thought I’d forgiven the cuts

but now I’m in their clutch

the cape of this demon covers me

I’m bound in anger without a key



I got the whole wide world, in his hands


I got the whole wide world, in his hands.


I got his tears weeping in my hands.


I finally understood


Vengeance doesn't make you a man.


Now I reaped what I sow,


Loved how he burned my soul.


He said is it to late to confess my sins?


"God let me be free! I'll never meet Lucifer again"


The truth is unfortunate,


Because only the creatures of my past life answered him.


sins of a little boy


clipping the wings of toys was the joy


watched angels descend


they never knew
I was the one who poured that bleach at her baptism.

this is only one monster under my bed.

All my life, I never chose to open my eyes


When I did, I saw the devil


As he came for his


Revenge.
All rights reserved.
©Glenn Currier ©Manuel Hutchinson

First collaboration poem! All thanks to Glenn with his amazing skills and mind. Feedback would definitely appreciated, thank you for reading!
Glenn Currier Apr 2017
The sun rose again at dawn
lilies opened blasting praise
I found a road to walk on
to face my fear and malaise.

How have you risen today?

A son forgave his errant dad
A father forgave his son’s sin
from their chains they got unclad
and found a way to begin again.

How have you risen today?

My wife and friend came with me
to church and sang and listened
were open and willing to see
the light and my eyes glistened.

How have you risen today?

Confused and lost I’d gone astray
and thought I was dying inside
gave up on finding the way
learned I could still come alive.

How have you risen this day?

Today I found a new truth
that if you are really inside
I’ll always be in my youth
and when I die I too will arise.

That’s a few other ways you’ve risen today.

“How have you risen today?” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
This poem was written Easter Sunday .  Easter is about THE resurrection.  I get that, but I like to ask about my own resurrection or rising - how am I rising out of the mire of my life?  And how does God play a part in it.  This poem is addressed to multiple "Yous."
Glenn Currier Jun 2017
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
In Waldport, Oregon’s Edgewater Cottages waking up after a good night’s sleep - feeling God’s presence - hearing the surf of the Pacific.
Glenn Currier Feb 2018
Last night sitting on the edge of my bed
a bed that seemed more like a ledge
there with a burden in my head:
Should I look up or just feel the dread?

I sat longer and I think I prayed.
I knew he was a God who cared,
but lately on the verge of afraid,
my faith seemed weak and impaired.

I wondered if they were right
that the short blast of rays
won’t hurt and will **** the blight
the doctors say is in its early phase.

But why pray to a God who seemed unable
to help my aunt who died
from a disease so unstable,
so good at finding places to hide?

So here I was, teetering between trust
and its evil opposite, doubt
doubt he can alter life’s ******.
Does he have any real clout?

In this dark of mind
I came to see I really don’t know!
So why let my inner skeptic always lurking behind
reign and empower its verdict of no?

Instead I choose to lift my head
from that lonely fretting place
and embrace a Father not gone and dead -
but here, now to create and renew me with grace.

“Teetering,” Copyright © 2018 by Glenn Currier
I recently got a diagnosis that I am not obsessing about but I find it is somehow sneaking into my subconscious as fear and has caused me to reflect on my relationship with God.
February 28th, 1968 marked the date
Boyce Brandon Harris
(my octogenarian widower father)
purchased a small tract of land
  
constituting shadowed sliver
once hailing, hallmarking, harkening,
glorious vast "Glen Elm" estate,
which circa 1910 encompassed

a hundred plus acres of woodland
Pooh would Winnie
(including a pond frequented
by migrating Canadian Geese)
eventually zoned for commercial,
  
industrial, and residential development
(all in the name of productive land use)
particularly put into motion
courtesy Donald J. Neilson,

who transformed expansive woodland
rivaling shutterfly
sprouting like mushrooms towed stools
booming explosively

after ample precipitation
little houses on the hillside
little houses made of  ticky tacky...
popped up overnight

transforming landscape
displacing flora and fauna with vinyl city
(minus spit of property papa bought)
manicured bumped uglies with wild wisp

reduced pristine niche leftover jot haven
squawking disoriented geese instincts
thwarted, where drained wetlands
a Arcadian past suburbanization

overlaying (palimpsest like) rural setting
trademark bucolic print Currier And Ives  
stock in trade signature prints
landscape sparse human population
  
country aire sprinkled with family farms
fresh dairy, produce, vegetables
butchered animals free ranging
without synthetic injections

nostalgia faintly recreated here
Highland Manor Apartments
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
a slip of country revered

against a Paul Ling urbanization
nothing appears familiar
retracing roadways now major highways
frequent moments breeds alienation
familiar ground confusing, frightening, and perplexing.
Glenn Currier Jun 2017
The setting sun with its orange brilliance
carries me beyond these confines
to an unbeleaguered space
where wings lift me
and angels swiftly
whisper the truth
and the real
is revealed
absent of
any stain
or strain
or me.

“What a Sunset Can Do,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
Glenn Currier Jan 2019
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.
Samara are the small winged fruit of the elm, ash, maple and sycamore trees that can be found on the ground or sidewalk, evidence of the tree’s desire to procreate and create more trees and a beautiful fruitful planet. The Samarian Effect is a term I made up to encourage all of us to radiate creativity, life, grace, and love.
Glenn Currier Apr 2017
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
Glenn Currier Mar 2018
In the coolness of a waning winter
spring waiting in the wings
here you are you beauty
in your dark magnificence
you stand quietly without pomp
your silhouette a public secret
unassuming and unnoticed
reaching out to the fading light
as if to say “I belong here
so nice of you to visit.”
I belong here too.

And in this now
I feel a harmony of being
in our moment of silent union.

My eyes and my mind
are drawn upward
as if in a Gothic cathedral
and its pointed arches
but here you are gesturing
in all directions
with your thousand fingers
serene in your eastward lean
a perfect prayer of earth
to the beyond.

“Twilight Tree,” Copyright © 2018 by Glenn Currier
Last evening I went into the back yard to soak in the little bit of nature we have there.  I spend too much time inside, but the outside had been beckoning me and I finally listened.  I'm glad I did.
Glenn Currier Apr 2020
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 bow to Samuya with gratitude for the poem below:
“You can forget the person
but can you forget the feeling?”
https://hellopoetry.com/taumyasomar/  

Maybe the writing of this poem will loosen the grip of that feeling.
Glenn Currier Nov 2020
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.
I recently saw a documentary: “Section 60 – Arlington National Cemetery.” It was beautifully done but it was so painful to watch, these women and men weeping and lingering at the grave sites of their loved ones fallen in the Iraq or Afghanistan wars. I had trouble articulating my feelings and the reason I sat through those painful beautiful scenes until the end of the film. I also wish to thank Sharon Talbot for her poem by the same title and for the idea for this poem. Sharon’s HelloPoetry.com page: https://hellopoetry.com/u697570/poems/
Temporarily revealed, (and muffled
     purported "mulish witch hunt")
     by meticulous Robert Mueller,
     whose punishing investigation
     re: garding Russian
     United States (2016) electioneering,
     a convincing report will weave
storied United States law enforcement

     and counterintelligence,
     a pre Thanksgiving surprise,
     "he" whipped out more'n one
     huge pinwheeling Jeff snow Flake
     from his huge
billowy cloud shaped sleeve,
while "other gods/goddesses
     on Mount Olympus,

     could only stare in
     jaw dropping envy,
     as "Blizzard King" strove
     to recoup lost ground,
     where "sky the limit"
maxim his to retrieve
with intent (and success),
     sans thought him

     "Duh Big Chill guy"
     tubby all bluster, swagger,
and "FAKE" trumpeter, peeve,
hush, (asper cold dead ringer
     of Polar Vortex fame),
     thus truthfully, modestly, and
     gleefully inconveniencing, humbling,
     and disabling large swath

of Mid Atlantic leave
ving coastal inhabitants
     dumbfounded
at literal "snow show," by Jeeve
turning early afternoon
     into somber greatful dead,
     where if one listened
     closely immortal souls

clearly didst unequivocally heave
November 15th, 2018
     to quaint currier and ives
into Adam picturesque Eve
did not deceive
which thick "curtain of white,"
many Earthlings desperately cleave
ving to one another,

     would not believe
meteorological phenomena pulled off
     without a hitch, anything
     but an April
     Fools Joke any mortal
     specifically named Matthew Scott
Harris could achieve.
Couched in the
     concept of a well,
     (which supplied the water
     for faded glory of "Glen Elm),"
     my boyhood abode,
another metaphorical attempt
     at writer's block - aid,
     here attempting to reference

     (former Leiper estate re: early
     twentieth century demesne)
     across avast tract, which bestrode
approximately a hundred
     acres enshrined sanctuary,
(yet whittled down
     to about a half dozen acres,
when Boyce Harris made purchase

     circa February 28th 1968),
     sans plethora paradise
     of flora and
     fauna once code
did ecologic niche,
     now...long since transformed
     into ticky tack vinyl city
     servicing twenty first

     century materialistic cushy
     (on *****) sedentary worker
     dog tired to pen a ditty
(butta no mien
     mean manual laborer,
     neither grubby nor gritty)
     propertied class i.e. bourgeoisie),
     whence about a century gone by,

     where wild woods would still
     have been agreeable
     to the ghost of Walter Mitty,
or John James Audubon
(born Jean Rabin;
     April 26, 1785 – January 27, 1851,
     an American ornithologist,
     naturalist, and painter),

     who would pity
fully unleash torrential
     tears, nor witty
countenance supposedly progress
     this eighteenth year
since advent of second millennium
     bench marked based on
     start of common era

     at expense, where
countless animals and plants veer
really didst vanish, ah swell
     as a pond
     attracting Canadian Geese
     (they honked in
     French), now...there
tis nary a trace

     of former Currier
     and Ives bucolic
     scene, aye swear
     not e'en a sparse copse pier
reed (and exclamation
     point) argh near
re: zero vestige of vanished
     rural expanse mere

lee cookie cutter
     (look alike)
     family dwellings brave
lee evicting, jack
     knifing, and crave
vin lee over
     laying pastoral
     enclave iniquitous

(courtesy of Neilson, and flave
er flave Gambone
     Brothers), rendered grave
bounty viz Anne
     Xing Mother Nature's
     brethren and cistern did pave
a successful accomplishment
     measured by (Ole) standard

in parlance and accorded rave,
ving reviews, asper
     a job welled (weld) done,
     where only legally tendered
     bucks fate didst save!
easy to conjure this idyllic June 8th, 2020

Envision bucolic Currier
and Ives rendered landscape,
or canvas painted
courtesy gifted late Thomas Kinkade
(or substitute favorite creative soul)
how aforementioned illustrious artists drape
mesmerized amateur and/or

art appreciation connoisseur
admiring realistic enchanting
imaginary vista heavenly made
entices observer set foot
into picture frame to escape
night gallery twilight zone

outer limits of insanity
madding crowd, urban sprawl
Schwenksville vinyl city haint no substitute
for country scenes to trade,
nevertheless industrialization
indiscriminately didst ****

flora and fauna loot
and pillage terra firma
free for all entire raid
obliterated any vestige
repurposing topographical shape
into accommodations bespeaking

civilization trademark manmade
ever so transient
ephemeral fleeting testimonials,
fast forward near future doomsday
subsequently abandoned pockmarked
terrestrial firmament tract devoid,

where vital ecology left to scrimp and scrape
defrauded token simians top doggone primate,
who angrily jabber and jape,
how **** sapiens temporarily
foolhardy wrested and arrested development
similarly displayed by

supersmart ecocentric beings,
now inhabiting other planets, solar systems
thunderous guffawing Earthlings
laughable price paid
regarding masquerade, facade, charade,
who sowed their own demise,

cuz eventually mother nature
reasserted herself challenging
denizens outfitting (sub)urban square cityscape
Gaia tried her darndest
to reverse subsequent development
after groundbreaking *****

nsync with backhoes and bulldozers
gouged out and erected *******
quixotic, systemic, totemic,
and universalistic symbols
donning barren accouterments
trumpeting outsize egos

housing early humans settlements
more soberly, accurately
setting future stage
archeological alien moonscape
dumbstruck otherworldly explorers
imagining ignoble beasts afraid

to cultivate peace and harmony on Earth
goodwill toward all men/women
perhaps impossible mission
impulse to grab scruffy nape
of countless scraggly long haired
pencil necked geeks

remnants of bajillion
multicultural peopled tribe
occupying all four corners of globe
far long overdue
corrective measure delayed,
though incremental progressive

fits and starts overt
vis a vis protesters of late
think two hundred and
thirty third month into 22nd century.
Saturday, December 21 Military Time 2319

(According to website:
https://earthsky.org/astronomy-
essentials/everything-you-need-
to-know-december-solstice.)

Hark the herald angels sing
yea, only one hundred ten days,
I started counting until spring
as proclaimed courtesy
yours truly, a fellow Earthling.
Mine tolerance to endure
brutally cold weather quite plain

decreases in direct proportion
as orbitz around El Sol increase,
hence subsequent heft to weather
old man winter doth wane,
no matter majority mein kampf birthdays
lived hashtagged Southeastern
Montgomery, Pennsylvanian.

Climate change slated
to ratchet up temperatures,
thus quaint Currier
and Ives existence dated,
whereby relics portraying
old man winter curated
within (ironically enough)
climate controlled and heavily gated
surveilled environment freighted

replete with trappings created,
back in the day when bomb cyclones
nsync with polar vortex precipitated,
where global warming naysayers skated
on thin ice ignoring strong voice dictated

by diminutive Swedish
activist Greta Thunberg severely castigated
passive grownups, said
slip o' lass generated
cult like following despite

her petite, yet enervated
larger than life presence, especially venerated
by young people cohort, who felt infuriated
unheeded apocalyptic warnings
inadvertently kickstarted,
motivated, and promulgated
green revolution proudly designated
government, née said youth
zealously, vociferously, righteously,

opportunistically arrogated
take charge attitude
(think) wartime economy escalated
forcing drastic paradigm shift
diminishing nightmare demise calculated
to reign death and destruction,
nonetheless untolled cruelty
permanently and wantonly eradicated
multitudinous swaths of life forms.
Though anyone who saw
and/or watched local news would be more wise
the brief flurry of crystalline precipitation
came as a complete surprise,
cuz yours truly prefers
getting strangled courtesy neckties
versus being given spoiler alert
subsequently forced to give reciprocal highfives.

I generally skirt tracking the weather,
nevertheless the missus would pantomime,
née blurts out with glee
meteorological conditions occurring here
out the skies above second Street
within Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.

No rhyme nor reason prevails
necessitating yours truly to hear and/or see
what mother nature doth hold in store
concerning (Delaware, Chester,
and Montgomery) tri county locale
sometimes loosely referred to
as comprising Delaware Valley

a geographical area coterminous with
metropolitan statistical area (MSA)
and broader combined statistical area (CSA),
and composed of counties located in
Southeastern Pennsylvania, South Jersey,
Delaware, and the Eastern Shore of Maryland.

As a lifetime resident - 19473 zip code
regarding aforementioned place name,
I can ofttimes intimate
how the forecast will bode
especially if adequate hours spent outdoors,

more so when yours truly
lived at 3224 Level Road
which less likely as ole man winter
huffs and puffs with braggadocio
rarely ripping, riffing, and riding
piggyback with nor'easter.

Interestingly enough global warming
affected dramatic climate change
during course of mine lifetime,
where Currier and Ives rural
linkedin with good n plenti grange,
where agrarian lifestyle might seem strange
to urban outfitters constituting population.

Truth be told, I fondly remember those days of yore
when countless unbroken acres of greenery
whereat in Arcola a cider mill vestige
of American/British Revolutionary War
perhaps e'en centuries before frequented by troubadour
named Shakespeare, quite sad

to narrate hundreds of years postwar
(meaning that brouhaha incorporating
Declaration of Independence)
long since derelict and sold
possibly by family with surname Knorr,
(methinks his first name Ignoramus nickname Ig)
who strongly exhibited demeanor of Eeyore.
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

— The End —