If I were to describe my day
narrate my movements
write a poem about the bluebird on the fence,
call out my dead brother’s name,
decide to cook supper tonight,
or speak my feelings of jealousy,
who would listen?

And if before finishing my narrative
I decide it is not worth
anyone pausing to spend
the time or energy
to read or listen,
then how far would I get in my effort
to even write a word,
speak a phrase,
think deeper than a layer of dust,
or feel anything beyond the weight of shame
prompting my doubts?

But if I think
someone MIGHT read or listen,
then  it might be worth the effort.

If I think there is definitely
an audience of One
who cares to stop and really pay attention
then yes
I'll write it.
I'll speak it.

In the first light of dawn
fog shrouds the trees
and gentilizes the landscape
softens hard edges
unifies everything.
What is the fog telling me?

Subtract the number of details
that consume attention and energy.
Unify the landscape of life
into something more simple.

Maybe I should listen to the wisdom of the fog.

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.

Through the dullness of my senses
I pause and wait a moment
for you to rise up
and pierce my soul
with your  love

... still waiting...

I’m tired
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.

Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?

I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.

Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?

I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.

Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.

Slender and humble in its youth
the oak grew in moist earth near the bayou.
Roots pierced the dark land
ate the rich gumbo
silently morphed facets of soil
into a heart
with unexposed power and poise.

Across the bayou
on a screened porch
a young girl watched the new rain
make puffs of dust in the dirt
she daydreamed in the drifts of clouds
and wondered where they were born.

A young man and his friend
off the beaten path of their travels
found the town pool.
Swimming, he saw the beautiful girl
perched above the deep end
and across longitudes and latitudes
of loving, laughing, and weeping
they birthed and raised a family.

The bark’s ridges and gaps reveal
centuries of storms and floods
the oak’s long limbs laden
with life, wisdom, and altered environments.

These two entwined lives enriched
by learning and prodigious practice
their wine a vintage
of passionate enchantment
imbibed by thirsty learners
across decades beyond ordinary borders.

But she like the oak
with open arms
her strength born in good soil.
Hers is a rare power of gentle love
hers a courage born
of some cosmic connection
at the heart of her beautiful humanity.

Dedicated to my cousin Melanie on her eightieth birthday. Both of us born in the Durand line in southern Louisiana not too far from the Evangeline Oak near Bayou Teche. Our lives were seemingly divergent but somehow parallel and ultimately connected, I think, by a power greater than ourselves. If you are interested in more, please see: https://www.currierpoems.net/teche-series

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

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.

I like wakes.
Seeing her body
revealed her latter-day unsettled life
and her female beauty.
It was a final goodbye to this woman
whom we had not seen in decades.

But the wonder of that gathering
was the friends of a previous season,
the smiles, hugs, and  laughter,
together recalling memories seared -
some by pain and others by joy.
Meeting husbands, wives, and children
of people we had last seen in their youth
in just a moment told the sum
of their maturing.

Praying together,
hearing the minister lead the rituals
with humility and gentleness,
reminding us of her life and love,
brought healing
of hurts long heaped up with the church.

This gathering of souls
mystically bound -
in an instant -
pierced layers of scars
wiped away
with the balm of forgiveness,
waking our spirits.

Maybe that is why it is called
a wake.

I feel a little joy
to see the new growth on the sage bush
it survived the deep freeze of winter.
I join this subtle green creature
in this moment, in this piece of now
maybe I too will get through this season
with a small burst
of creative energy
enter the gates
and rejoin Life.

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.

Lightning and thunder
herald the strong arm of nature
awaken me to Earth.
Rains soak soil
and now I walk in the garden
green, pink, and magenta life surrounds me
its aroma suffuses my lungs
my beath makes us one -
this magnificent living orb and I.

I don't know why I allow myself
to be charmed by you,
your bright face and dulcet tones
promising me rich rewards
for my investment
if I give in just one more time
and return to you.

Why do I believe it will be different this time
when I have come back
time after time
submitting myself to your allure
only to see my efforts crumble
into a thousand pieces
like a clump of litter
from the cat box.

Maybe next time I will remember
the odor of those crumbles
and not allow my imagination
to fool me into returning.

But I doubt it.

In this quiet lake
floating on a fugue and the Clair de Lune
the softness of your touch
soothes me smooths and sands away
rough edges.

How sweet this pianissimo movement
before the bombast trumpeting of work and muscle.
These times make a life of worth and dignity
give now its power
and hint of eternity.

The foam of ocean waves
the cries of a newborn babe
the profusion of pedals in a daisy-dotted field
clouds nudging each other
a kiss a sloppy seal
a song that thrills
all these words owned me
took me for a moment this morning.

my psyche is stretched
thin without depth
in humanity’s waning
straining staring into the abyss
of loss

I still remember him
his skin a shade of black
eyes off kilter
his red and white stick
propped between his knees.
But here we were in the same group
so I had to look at him
listen to part of his life.
He had the beginnings of a smile
but an overall sense of sadness
as if part of him was in rebellion
against his blindness.
If I had passed him on a sidewalk
I would have wanted to look away
to avoid dealing with his reality
and my own.

Not wanting
or unable to notice
the hole in someone’s life or vision
seems so normal.
After all, we can only take in so much
from moment to moment.
But it’s so easy for me to escape
knowing the pervasiveness
of my own blindness.

I thought she was on her way out
at an age cats usually die.
But still she jumps up on our laps
sleeps there knowing she’s loved,
still finicky, she eats
and when hungry she speaks.
The honeybees and hummingbirds
are out enjoying our sage blossoms.
Life all around defying expectations
of fall’s slow drying on the way to winter's dying.

What a day to see light and its colors
catch the human heart
in its glorious song of love.
For just one day may I see and say
joy and peace and signs of creation
signs of life on the dark landscape.

New beginnings that thumb their noses
at my old and aching bones
and every muscle memory of failure
every nodule of shame trying to grow inside.

For just one day let me glow inside
reaching with care everywhere
I dare to believe
there’s someone who deserves it -
or not – I give it anyway.
Stoop to look into sad, bleak eyes
that they might see the light
the passion and kindness
that stirs inside.

Let’s have one day of light.

It is an error
to think that I am my work
my paycheck is my worth
bosses are the ones
who define who I am
based on what I’ve done
or the profit I’ve won.

I’m not be a prince
or a splendid knight
with shield and sword shining bright
in the moneyed corporate kingdom.

But I can use my eyes to see
tell the pulsing heart of a tree
convey the glittery waters of the sea
listen, laugh, and cry with you
hold you when your life seems through
emerge from a hideous mucky dark
still sparkling with a dazzling beguiling
human spark.

When someone fears not my freedom
opens their grip and surrenders
any hold on me
the blessed result is a kind of peace -

maybe a pause before I approach the cliff
but in that small moment a glimmer of grace
enough to save me

a space to crawl a few layers deeper
to find what lies beneath,
a slender root, a fertile bit of soil

a mystery on the desert plain
that nurtures a tender shoot
to take me into a hazy future

Freedom to die
to the hell within me
to the surface me
that pretends control
to the hidden pain that gobbles my light

These little deaths free me
to embrace the little boy within
the creative self
the beautiful alive soul
the pure core
that sustains us all.  

When Some One, anyone, fears not my freedom
opens their grip and surrenders…

Alb blowing casually dancing
enveloping feet glad he ignited
joyous kind loving musical noise
overthrowing Puritanical quagmires
ravaging searchers trying undertaking
valuable xercises yielding zeal.

My father said,
My dear son I love you very much.

I wept,
surprised by his affection
in the midst of my daily afflictions.
This outpouring
overflowed into my heart
and spilled out with tears.

The cloudy mucky morning
portends this winter’s end
whatever dawning light
needs importing from within
to burn away
the showers aborning.
That’s why I’m here with you
so you can hear and I can read
the plot arising.

I’m awaiting
a vessel fit for floating
a song worth singing
a fire to light the candle
to connect the spirit in me
to the flame in you.

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.

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

I watched a movie last night
toward the end saw a couple on a boat
rowing toward the western golden light
then the clear Aegean
floated me into a cove in my brain
where mystery and emerald waters
became plain.

My memory organizes my life
by place.

The brownish sandy beach
where I whittled driftwood with my first Case knife.
The oleanders near the cyclone fence,
climbing the wiry fence tops chasing my friend Vince
who cursed those wires that caught his *******.
The river running through Tamaqua
on a family trip east as a kid
but I can’t see the faces or hear the names
of my New Jersey kin
I do see the wood box where me and my cousins hid.
Gone are the faint glimmers of folks
beyond the red-blooming poisonous bush
the names of aunts back east I wrote juvenile letters to
but I recall their ice cream parlor wall painted bright blue.

Closing my eyes
I see the yellow floor
and the bent aluminum legs of the kitchen table
I wiggled under as fast as I was able
to avoid Daddy’s long brown leather belt
and when he missed I heard his anger melt
when he couldn’t suppress a giggle.

Ah! the joy of my lively geographic memory.

The cards of the 30 year old deck
festooned with Monet´ prints
swoosh so easily pliant in our hands
we unthinking about what the cards must know.

The dealer endures rebuke for bad hands
and pleads randomness and no malice
but still has the cheek to brag of her own good lot.
The cards bear unholy smudges of anger
and oh the tales fingerprints could tell:
loss of cool, onslaught of quiet ire
if not murderous fancies
all shielded by superb acting
and control
of ****** muscles
and the pace of breathing.

This drama plays out
unspoken but with latently lurking
hurts, slights, envy
and long smoldering resentments.

Even patriarchy rears its ugly self-righteous head
and cords of tolerance of the old man are strained
and taut to the breaking point,
Pete now realizing why Kit no longer plays when Dad’s at table.

But then there is the rare event
like when it’s revealed that Liz had the better hand
but folded because she knew Burt needed a win tonight.

The flute played a lullaby in the distance
calling the man and his horse into desert’s blanch
where even tumbleweed had vanished.
He saw the streaked banks of the arroyo
that told a tale of currents
whose power clashed and hurled taut soil west
where the sun was going gold.

His face etched by storms
in many forms
he tried to ignore joint moans
by whistling Cohen’s Halleluia
that wiggled forth a salty mist
in his eyes.

Halleluia for all the years.
He hummed the line
he heard Leonard say:
don’t dwell on what’s passed away
or what is yet to be.

The flute again cast its spell
not a knell but a psalm
of praise to make
and create what he could
be it on paper or carved in wood.

On my way to the car
I glanced at the sage’s leaves laden
on what had been ground dried
by two dreary desiccated months
of a blustery autumn
aching for the  moisture of winter.

This rainy cold night
seemed to be saying don’t go out
but there was something
that beckoned me beyond the warmth.

Wet streets magnify the lights
dancing on the pavement
as if to deny the darkness a victory
******* up the day’s grim mood
into a mass of grass and mud extruded
by the slow mushy pace of my boots.

The changing seasons
have the mysterious mission
of rustling us
out of our fatigue or ennui
hanging mosslike on our battered psyches.

Maybe the seasonal shift was that beckoning
into the rainy night
to transform me by its cavorting light
to come here and write  
on these pages rich
in dreams, imagining, and flight.

I am bowed by the weight of bad news
tentacles of evil
creep in to wrap around me
like a dark cocoon
at mixed intervals each day.

Oh how I need love!
It is the only power greater
than the clouds dripping, pouring upon us.

The burning candle
its flickering flame
in the green glass
speak life to me
life within
beyond the reach
of threats and fear.

I bow to the light.

Love
love and its green flame
capture my attention
I adore it
and throw off the cloak of darkness.

Here I stand
now free
and open
in love.

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.

I roam the roads of this land
hop the hills, read the script,
listen to the sounds of logic and consequence
feel the wind on my skin
smell the flowers and grass
in this familiar landscape.

But I yearn for another place
an unexplored, exotic, even eerie space
I approach and tiptoe into a foggy
twilight border devoid of signs
nobody, no memory, no lines
I try to surrender to the fog.

But soon I’m back in the charted
remembered current waters
picking up the day’s packets bracelets and bobbles
but my legs soon start to wobble
in this state of awake
and again I search for a crossing

through the foggy realm
into the sweet lost land
of sleep.

Breathing full
along the brown tree line
next to the silent teal pond
birds still singing winter.
I feel my chest tingle
like when I was twenty five
discovering scotch
a woman’s breath on my neck
still believing somehow God was in that host
the priest raised.
All was ahead of me
and, as now
unknown.

Lost in labyrinthine passages
flitting from one bright dangly thing to another
following the lead of my cravings
which was no lead at all
somehow roads were paved
in your direction
and I found my way
into the chambers of your heart.

In this twilight
after the day’s rich brew
of joy and error
your cup is always ready
to receive my concoction
no matter how stout.

And I can rely on you
to sip and savor it
treat it with the respect
of a connoisseur
and keep it
entre nous.

“…how close we are
     to being
     nothing
     most of the time

     and
     for some of us
     nothing all of the time…  - Bukowski: “Meeting Them”


Reading his poem freed me
but bound me to a budding desire
to write
and explore
its roots in a reality
I fear.

How close to being nothing
are we
and is it for eternity
or just a moment?

But just asking the question is liberating
as if I looked death in the face
and just smiled.

So few times this month
have I wandered into your soul.
I know you are waiting for me.
I know your heart yearns for my arrival
but I am too lost
in this world
until I come to this quiet place
and sit peacefully here
and wait for your still small voice.
Only then do I discover  
the grand canyon
where your great soul echoes and humbly abides
waiting patiently for me inside.

Oh how I miss these moments in you
the times I come here far too few.
When I’m out and about drifting
as if it mattered,
my mind off-target and scattered
lights here and there in nothing
in smoke and dust
randomly finding a sprig of life
spotting in shadows a beam of light
and if I am lucky
that faint spark wakes
and reminds me I was made for you
you – a glint inside my breast
a piece of the universe compressed
an atom ready to be split
ready to explode
to expand
and soar.

The drab day is clothed in gray
yellowed grass
lays silently soaking up rain
patiently awaiting a distant spring
not yet ready to sing its lively green.
Hoping for inspiration
I almost overlooked your present virtue -
patience.

I looked up the origin of the word:
from Greek “possessed by God,” it said
although enthusiasm is small in me these days –
a tiny flickering flame in a glass of red –  
still it burns hope
to be wholly possessed
beyond the earthy bed.

I am above ground
looking down
I behold
a canyon or sink hole
where people are gathered around
a shiny Rolls Royce deposited on the ground
by some unknown force.
Somehow I make it to the floor of the hollow
but soon I fear being caught there doomed
and look for a way out of the gloom.
I see a pathlike outcropping on the southern wall
a few others follow as I walk to it to make the crawl.
One old foot at a time
I carefully climb
but eventually I must stop
the outcropping severely narrows near the top,
grass and dirt within sight,
but too far for a safe berth
I cannot pull myself up to flat earth.
I look down the steep side
the fall would be two hundred feet if I slide
I feel dizzy and scared, a void in my groin.
So close to success, near safety and normality
yet now discouraged
wrapped in doubt and fear
where to go from here?
It seems nowhere but in the abyss
all my difficult progress amiss.

Two souls wrapped together
in seasons and all kinds of weather
here we are these precious three
you me and one we can’t see.

Making our path, finding our road,
through our hearts a river flowed
a torrent of love and wild romance.
We tripped, but we danced our dance.

Your big brown eyes held my gaze
we talked and tried in a thousand ways
to merge as we fought and sought a third one
we drifted and flew from planet to comet to sun.

Where we were going we did not know
we ran fast at first but now… we walk slow
our speed or height mattered less to us
than building together a bond of trust.

So we’ve yet another adventure ahead.
All those years ago when we wed
we didn’t know the privilege we’d share
from solid earth to now in mid air.

We’ve smelled frangipani and cactus flower
sung sadness and joy and hymns of power.
From three threads together we’ve spun
a beautiful, sturdy cord of one.

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.

My heart keeps floating east
to the place of my birth
along the brown rushing waters
of the awesome Mississippi
the vast Atchafalaya basin
where the boys  
of fishermen and hunters
become men.
Oaks drip with moss
cypress trees grow out of swamps
and exude a mystic charm
that pierces your mood
and captures your fancy.
La Nouvelle-Orleans
born in centuries past
gateway to a new life
for my forefathers
who crossed oceans from France
made families for the generations
and planted their culture
amidst the rich foliage
and damp environs
of this magnificent mysterious place.
Yes, I yearn to cross the Sabine
make my way to Breaux Bridge
and other Evangeline towns
eat crawfish etoufee
by the Bayou Teche
speak my Texanized accent
to my Cajun cousins
who tell their stories
with a hint of French
and laugh in a universal language.
Soon I hope to make the trek
to quinch the yearning of my heart
hug my cousins
breathe the poem of my life
and the moist fragrant Louisiana air.

It is cold outside
as winter overtakes fall
the room has a chill
but then sipping my coffee
the rich brown liquid takes hold of me
and the fields of a foreign land
gather in my mouth
I hear the shouts and laughter
of the workers harvesting the beans
I poke my finger into the soil
and Earth fills me with gratitude
for its fruits
and its glorious life.

Ah! Nothing like hot coffee in the morning.
I sigh. I smile. Life is good here now.

the cloud was gathering
and i could tell that it was filling up
getting saturated
with enough grace
to rain on and erode
self-will and hubris
the dark, jagged, and silly monolith
which is ego and pride
so wide in our species.

as the cloud completely filled and spread across the expanse
a feeling of serenity and strength
spread out within me.

after awakening
it occurred to me
that the membrane between imagination and soul
is so thin they burst out on one another
on occasion
and when they do
something marvelous happens.
i think it happens more often
in artists, mystics, seekers, believers,
poets and children.

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

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.

Slow and easy the old cells flake off
unnoticed as my body replaces itself
over time
not bound by one tiny galaxy
or even millennia
your pace is in my every step
shake of my hand
or moment
when one eyelash meets then leaves the other.
You are in the silent pop of synapses
emergent in an idea
in my chest swelling and tingling
with a notion learned between the lines of a novel
in the words of a wise old nun
in the feel of my body in my lover
the scent of her hair
the shake of  my chest
laughing at her hilarious joke
but especially when I shut my mouth
bear with the silence for a while
and listen to the peaceful
voice that speaks only in quiet
only when I can empty the chatter
and effervescence in my mind.

Vines and their tributaries
climb the wall overtake
and name of our neighborhood:
hidden canyon.

Four decades ago
we explored the woods
and found the rocky canyon
etched into the landscape by ten mile creek.
Our limbs were limber
muscles young and strong
adventure coursed in our veins.

But now no woods
just houses and streets
our jaunts into the wild
with woodsy small creatures and critters
are gone.

The mystery we found there
now supplanted by novels, poems and stories
of children, young explorers and writers
and I traverse the thicket
of my small universe
searching the hidden canyons of
mystics, dreamers and poets,
combing a terrain deeply inscribed
by the hand of the divine.