Thinking of him flings me from these plains
to the nearest body
of water whose mist smells of salt and life
the unrestrained passion
and ****** of sea.

The book, Odes to Common Things,
a gift of a dear friend
who knew not the arousal,
the seed of near sensual desire
it would plant in me
like the buttery aroma of a woman’s hair
or the taste of her moist lips.

Even a thought of Neruda
takes me to the stormy stirrings
wrought from the ***** of the Pacific.
and sounding on the shores of Chile.

How could the writing of a man
a continent away
foment in my chest
a fervor akin
to a spiritual awakening?

I read him in English
but feel the thump
of his Latin heart
in my body.

Driving home from the airport
from High Ridge Road we peered at downtown.
I told our visitor
this is the view tourists like
looking at the city from afar
or driving past its monuments.
But if you really want to see the city
you have to smell the streets the morning after
or visit Aunt Stella in her trailer.

That night we did just that
laughing with the folks
sitting on her old stuffed couch
and on rickety folding chairs
she’d fetched from the bedroom closet.

We listened to Fred
leaning over his old guitar
playing it as if it were a woman.
His voice was gravel
but when he sang falsetto
I could see him in his mother’s arms.

Stella quietly left for the kitchen
and brought back beers
and saltines and sharp cheddar cheese,
Fred still crooning softly.
We were completely mesmerized by him
and his humble country charm.

As I sat there with our visitor
I was again a boy at home with Mama
and Daddy who’d just got in from the plant
in his khaki pants and shirt  
smudges of oil on his sleeves
smelling of the day’s sweat.

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 pick you up in morning or at noon
you lively volume, you aching heart
your edges worn by probing fingers and thumb
my mind reaches for your inner parts.

I love the word and the wisdom you shine
packed into every corner, every cell
so true to my soul if not in each deemed line
good for my redemption to make me well.

You and your beautiful body are true
you expand the resting ions within
and I rise up to the beyond of you
to see anew the hills and valleys I’ve been.

Between each cosmos we are
we make music with our inner strings
climb through clouds to stars
and on the way make mockingbirds sing.

Your words anchor me and make me fly
ease my sadness and abate my pain
spark a smile or bring tears to eyes
relieve my drought with living rain.

“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.”   - Mark Rothko

To have the guts like Sinatra’s to declare
through regrets, tears and despair
“I got through it all and did it my way”
Oh, to trust the power in me and stay
always authentic and true
to my point of view
no matter how out of sync
or what proper poets think

The Rothko chapel with its paintings of black
took me completely aback
they seemed non-paintings to me
but I sat in the changing light and could see
the artistry in that quiet urban place
I could feel his gentle grace
he forced me to see his world
in his hues and strokes and curls

A Rothko or Sinatra I am not
but if in my lines are caught
the sweet or dark breath of my muse
if I speak in my voice with its hues
maybe a whiff of spirit there
will cast a piece of my soul and snare
someone’s musing causing them to write
and fling out their world in their light.

The music of the day
plays silently in my psyche
and without realizing it -
on my better days I bring it alive -
a bright piccolo of a smile or kindness.
On my shadow days
it is the bass fiddle in a minor key
begun from depths of pride
played in the lower register,
the bow slowly sliding hubris
across the thick strings.

I come here
to this island rich in growth
clear warm fluid
to catch its currents
and swim its nurturing depths
where I can breathe underwater
and leave traces of my darkness
to float like drops of ink
in a glass bowl.

These tropics
reside on the map of my heart
for me to locate
when covered
by layers of sand
in the desert
on gray slate days
barren days of lost inspiration
when I am turned in on me
and my tottering self
the me I see
on my pockmarked well-traveled and aged face
each morning in the mirror.

I arrive here
each time with a glimmer
a hope I can find
within me a point of light
some soft and pure place
a source a force
where I can rise again.

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.

The paint is flaking and falling off
splotched edges
discoloration
stormy days
weathered years
creaking and leaking
cracking from heating
the physics of aging
and seasons of raging
the terrible toll
they are taking
makes you think this old house
needs replacing.

But listen to the voices
of laughter and loving
hear echoes of weeping
and promise keeping
poems that were spoken
being whole and broken
see the tears that were shed
the glories in bed
sighs and lies
some of them said
inside the house that was home
these many years.


Inside spirit reigns
with angels unchained
where heart and soul
on a journey bold
through seasons of pain
where demons were slain
new life was greeted
death was cheated
souls were enrolled
in miracle courses
treasures discovered
of higher forces.


This old house of seventy six years
holds joys along with fears.
The structure isn’t new
but inside
there is
youth.

In this small cathedral we meet
I sit here waiting for you
and it is not long before
our joyful reunion.
I weep tears of joy
being wrapped in your arms
feeling your creative energy
flow through my mind
into my fingers and back out
on this small screen.

I have missed this intimacy
that fills me with poems
and lines along which you travel
from me into the universe.
Those lines pierce my heart
and it overflows with life and love
because you have entered.

This is a sacred space
for here I bring all the trials and pain
and lay them out
for your creative plunging being,
plunging past the terror and hate without
into the deepest part of me
a chamber of reunion.

Away on a short but long trip into pain
my absence brought
a keen yearning for our union
so now we touch
I breathe in your aroma
my heart throbs with joy
and gratitude
for this rich vibrant presence.

It cracks me open -
this time with music and muse.
My pen punctures a hole
through a membrane
of routine and lazy habits
into my darkness
stale air escapes.
This writing lets in light and life
it is water on soil
a flowering.

The thorns in my side
I try so hard to hide
with humor, cleverness, even kindness
but after so long they are well-planted
like seeds they’ve taken root.

I am a man full of grace and gratitude
even changes in attitude
I float on great waves
in my wooden dinghy
precarious atop mighty waters
and angels visit
take me into smooth azure lagoons
where I reside in peace
even serenity from time to time.

I weep in great sadness
occasional fits of despair
drowning there
I swim up to gulp for air
leap and glide into the light
breathe mercy in my flight
pray for courage and gumption
but discover
I cannot stay afloat alone
so with abandon I dive
into bright souls whose hands and hearts
reach down to rescue me.
Some of them are thorn people too
battered, broken, and rugged
who’ve found the courage to change
the things they could.

I guess these thorns are there
to ******* up for air
to give me the zephyr of humility
the certainty of a love
that save me.

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.

Here I wait resting on the door jamb
standing betwixt and between
shall I stay here or drop my hand,
move beyond what I’ve known and seen?
What will be out there to my left and right
where will the next step take me from here?
They said danger is there out of my sight -
threats, jinxes, and disease if that step I dare.

But if I move back into the shady cool
I’ll be safe in this cozy inner space.
Being in between without old rules
not knowing the beyond I’ll face
is scary but this is a journey of revelation
even if sacrifice and loss is in this race
I trust I will find peace and inspiration.

This is not just an ordinary day
like yesterday or the day before
this day I’ll open a door
to a garden alive in dark clay
hummingbirds searching for paradise
in a heat wave scorching and dry
honeybees saying goodbye
mothers in a war made of sacrifice

No ordinary day this one
I’ll find a way out of sadness
through an hour of madness
out of moments undone
taking thirty minutes for my lover
where we touch our toes
take a risk to expose
mistakes we were loathe to uncover.

We will create this present day
halfway out of old into something new and bold.

There he sits head bowed in sleep
leaning south on the weathered wooden bench
too tired to take another step.
He dreams of a dark broken-masted ship
wobbling in the water
nowhere to go
yet an amber light from the inner gloom
makes him wonder
if there is hope for a voyage
for another journey.

But beneath the dank scene
is a lingering certainty
he’s stuck here
stranded in this sad moment.

I have written poems about rising.
It’s a good subject for poets.
Isn’t a poem itself a rising?
We spend much time revising
what we write and what we do.

There are so many good words ending in izing.
I could write a whole poem
using words symbolizing
so much of life -
it’s absolutely tantalizing.

I watch and read about all the polarizing.
It is a cool oasis lingering here
synchronizing
my words with my feelings and thoughts
realizing the heart of who I really am
comprising ways of saying my truth
without moralizing.

At times it is agonizing -
all this analyzing
how I belong and how I don’t
if I’ll join others or if I won’t.

I look at that guy Jesus
and how so many obsess
about his blood and sacrifice
all the while not recognizing
it’s not so much about our sins
and his need to atone as it is
about the good he did
who he sat with and loved,
the seeds he sowed
who he stopped to touch
on the side of the road.

I find obsessions with power
really unappetizing.
I’d rather spend my time rising
from darkness into light
or embracing my sadness, exercising
and emphasizing what is energizing.  
When I do that, it is quite surprising
how creative my muse is helping ME
to also rise.

There is no one to call me dad
maybe there’s someone to comment:
He looks so sad or he’s just mad.
But I never had the courage to father
a real flesh and blood child.
That does takes grit
not just to release that delightful seed...
but to be a real father I mean.  

So on fathers day
it has to suffice
to glory in others’ daddiness
and that’s alright.  
It gives me a small but special joy
to see a father squat down at the child’s height
to look into his eyes and really listen -
be it in an airport or market. What a lovely sight!
It brings tears to my eyes.  I know not why.
But it feels so deep and so right
to see them, to be with them
in that moment of grace.

In this sense I guess its ok
to pause and say
that I was a father today
taking on the small burden of another
with a smile or eyes that listened fully
to her or his pain.
That’s always what I longed for from my daddy.
That would have been a gift
he could have given me
on a fathers day.

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.

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.

I took the train into the tunnel
the car lit with candle glow
there standing just so
my brother with a wan look and a slight grin
I leaned to kiss his forehead, felt the taut skin
Mom across from him,
I placed my cheek against hers
two tears from the deep cavern of her sadness
fell on my constant brow  
Dad faced me with dazzling cheer
eyes full of joy that his son was here.

Awakening from the abyss of night
I arose with a smile inside
grateful for an intimate ride
with that poignant cast
an interlude to abide
and flutter in the sails of family
arrived from a pulsar of the past.

That day visiting with friends
I hugged every one tight
cherished the lush
precious
present
of the living.

His ample graying beard
nearly covers crinkled flesh
his eyes focus on the stars
that surround him
his hat with its spangled band
bent slightly down in front
seems to say: I am traveler of Earth.

I wonder what transcendence
dances behind those eyes
slowly moving like Zorba,
arms out gently waving,
an eagle in flight.

Like the old man
I want to bear witness to the universe
in the wave of my mind
to give flight to words
infiltrate, expand and release them
and maybe figure out my small part
in the great mystery.

A profusion of tributaries pulse within
surge and fall away so swiftly
who I am becomes a question
I can only answer when I throw myself
into the great and powerful now
by tracing them on these pages.

It’s a quiet cool twilight
and through the windows I see
elm and pear standing in elegant silhouette
arms and delicate fingers
calmly reach for the sky.
They know not the years’ end is nigh
they remember spring summer and fall
and now they rest in winter’s arms
theirs the wisdom of passing
season unto season
their roots reach down and deepen.

We two are quiet at twilight
yet reaching for the heavens,
but we do know the years we’ve stayed,
more than eighteen thousand days
in the embrace of our love
season unto season
our roots deepen
and reach into our hearts
finding reason upon reason
to learn and grow and mature
millions of minutes step by step to endure.

And breath by breath
she has said yes upon yes
to this man unworthy of the grace
I have found in her voice and her embrace.
In moments of anger and near despair
we crafted a sculpture of care.

We’ve walked through darkness into light
knelt before each other sad and contrite
for our failures and night upon night
we have laid side by side
and together we’ve stayed
conquered our pride
found the divine in each other and beyond
turned tears and fears into a durable bond.

Still her smile melts me
floats me and bolts me
and her lips still thrill and pull me into her fiery orbit.
Even after this long, this woman I cannot resist
and yes, she persists
in her acceptance of this old guy
who can still bring a sparkle to her eye
a chuckle to her voice and a smile to her face.

Here we are at this twilight time
golden and holdin together
and – still – yes, still we rhyme.

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

Missed a step of the stepping stool
smacked the sidewalk with my face
felt like a blithering fool
what happened to my grace

First parched earth of drought
now we’re so soaked with rain
the birdseed’s begun to sprout
dare I holler or complain

I think I need a change of scene
boredom cries for the next valley over
to smell the new scent of green
hear honey bees buzzing clover

They say hearing voices like yours
can be soothing and cozy
but too much harmony bores
and I think a little stink can be rosy

Living life in extremes
isn’t for me and isn’t sound
maybe it’s about stretching the seams
but not to be unbound

I don’t know if balance is my fate
Yes, equilibrium has its uses
but I like a tune that syncopates
and enough spice to excite the juices.

The simple peasant girl
received some blessed news
that would overturn the world
she grew up in, the life she knew.

Chosen to receive a special gift
she was confused and dismayed
to get this favor she had not wished
for which she had not prayed.

She felt unworthy, confused, and awed
she knew not whether to make this start
on this journey to which she was called
but said yes and opened her heart.

I wonder if I would have the nerve
in spite of feeling so unworthy,
knowing this gift was undeserved,
to be open to such an uncertain journey.

Look at the moon in a telescope
how pristine and awesome it appears
to us here on this spoiled planet
polluted and darkened by fears
of human egos run wild.

The light of the moon brings a smile
Mama used to say: look at the man in the moon
but the moon is without guile
virus updates and bad news.
May some particle of wonder
keep us whole and awaken the muse.

You are a valve I can turn
to open the flow of love
into my day
into my heart.

At the table next to us a Middle Eastern twenty-something
teaches English to a young Asian woman
so attentive and kind is he.

Closer to the entrance in a small open space
in this tightly appointed place
a young man is doing deep knee bends
arms facing forward
the earnest look on his face almost makes me believe
he cares not about the glances at his gym-making exercise.

At another table three Asian youngsters
sit with smart phones in hand
only occasionally sharing their reactions with each other
so relaxed each being in another world in close proximity.

An older disheveled bearded man
rolling his household-packed luggage behind him
resolutely makes for the counter to place his order
of espresso and scone.

A couple obviously enamored
lean forward
their eyes dancing
a tango in French.

My eavesdropping self
wishes I were a polyglot
to travel internationally right here
in this 24 hour friendly school of culture
nestled on a busy corner
in this city of spectacular beauty.

I strum these lines
beat the drum of their rhythms
the dark of their repetitions
are the veins of my redemption.

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.

The sun is wondering
if it should dive into the sea
while two wanderers still play
on the edges of the dark
beckoning it to stay
just a little longer.

For just a short distance away
the bright gold lingers
in the shallows
where they could tiptoe
into the iridescent rippling.

The shimmering surges
on the margins
where the waves have lost their energy
and the tide is a glassy placid.

I am wondering
like the sun
if it is time to set
or if I should wade into the rippling light.

The bald little boy
turned to his father
sad entreating eyes
wordlessly
both hands up
clawing the air
as if squeezing
invisible rubber *****.

Dad reading Newsweek
a distraction from his local terror
saw the silent request
turned routinely
pulled out of a canvas bag
a fuzzy white lobster
handed it to his son
who held it to his chest.

What cynic said
love is not redemptive?

I woke this morning from a dream
left in a brief fog of unease
just on the misty edge of anxiety

then I remembered
I am wrapped in a great mystery
in the heart
of the world and humanity
in a sacred space
and a promise of which I am heir

and now in the first light of dawn
I am caught in the spawn
of life
to be
transformed
into joy
and beauty

The breeze stretches and cools the season
along the country road
variegated light, leaf-filtered
from trees that lean
in rivalry for my eager eyes.

Their foliaged arms dangle, then drop
an amber snowfall all around
as if to awaken me
to the autumn creep
into my bones that click and tick
with each tottery step.

Earth awakens me to the beauty
in this splendorous season
of the gliding swaying passage
of life in alteration
and spiritual invitation
to bathe in the slow current of creation
along this road
and its cool and bright possibilities.

You walk lightly,
said the old wizened man,
As if the floor were too thin
and you, afraid to use all your weight.

I looked at him with a surprised grin
and said
You are perceptive
no one ever said that out loud to me.

He just grinned and winked.

Yesterday I worked,
deliberately moved about
doing the chores of the house
how did I generate that joy inside?
It was as if I were a walking wire
charged with electricity
motivated
moved by my recall of her
washing clothes, cooking,
all the while her body in pain.
Her love inspired mine.
The surging power of Love.
Rejoice: to feel joy again.
What a delight!

I am amazed
        but I know not why (knowing me)
how hurt closes me off
sews me up
amputates my heart
from people I’ve loved.

It seems I cannot get by
the rage she vomited on me
what she called me
her shocking condemnations.

Rage cuts deep
wounds heal slow
if at all.

Then I find out how she felt hurt and betrayed
when I changed and detoured
        because someone betrayed me.

But I am glad for those detours
where I discovered other worlds
and became more than I was.

I am amazed
       but I know not why (knowing me)
how hurt can remake
and occasion my transformation,
how the bad can become the good
        If I am patient enough
        and work hard enough
        to find
        or make
        cracks in that wall.

So many great stories of people leaving home
to find a place home enough
where they could find themselves
become more,
someone extraordinary.

Most of my life has been such a quest.
Like butterflies I emerged from cocoons
after staying a while in a place to grow
into something or someone
I could live with.

I was lucky to find people along the way
strong enough to hear my voice,
people I could trust to stay when I was honest.
Those brave ones became homes for me.

it is a cold day
the heater soaks the space
but how difficult it is
to feel the warmth without words

Even the most devout Christians
accept that Jesus was a guy
guys get ***** as do gals.

Yes, all of us have a creator in us
starlight
life-creating energy
poetry
and prose.

Maybe Jesus didn’t have the kind of darkness in him
that we have
the kind of drag
of pride and self-centeredness
that I have,
but by God!
he was faced with the same choices
between fidelity and desire
between horniness and selfless love.

Yep I fail in ways he did not
but he failed to get rid of lust just like I do
he failed to avoid selfish desires.
Of course, I act on them
and ***** up in ways he did not.
But do you think he didn’t feel ******* up at times?
Of course he did.

All of this humanity
is what makes me like him.
Jesus was a guy.
That he was more
is what makes me love him.

Our plants are looking puny
their leaves are drooping
and yet still they turn to the light
and soak it up
their life inspires me.

I get up out of my comfy chair
out of my observer self
and water them
and in that watering
my blood is circulating
I am breathing in their oxygen
giving back the life they give me.

I need to imitate our plants
soak up the light
and breathe it out.

How will you water today?

I am on the tense edge of fatigue
its gray snare
its numb mute grip
squeeze out  
my vigor.

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.

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

What would we do without our lovers
to prove we can think about
and cherish someone other
than ourselves?

What would we do without autumn
so show us the flow and passionate ebb
of life’s force?

What would we do without birds
to show us the possibility
of flight?

What would we do without suffering
to lead us beyond our painful confines
in search for joy?

I could paint a rainbow on the moon
   Mozart came back to give me a tune
      climb in a conch shell and float its coral sea
         bring my Mom back to laugh with me
            I had a five-year old’s fancy and joy
               I giggled as free as a little boy
                  I could ride a buffalo on the great plains
                     course through Jesus’ veins
                         Chief Joseph advised me on a vision quest
                             I were never ever again depressed
                               Neruda came back to teach me to write
                                  I could take wing with butterflies in flight?

What would you miss the most
if you had to leave this life
the book asked.

I’d miss you
your big brown eyes
your comforting smile
your big heart
your laugh
the tone of your voice
and the way you say, “You know?”
when you’re on an enthusiastic roll
your lively spirit
your yummy omelets with bits of stewed tomatoes
your relationship with the divine
the deepness
of connection we have
our conversations
telling you about my ****** afternoon
and watching you really listen to me
the way you cackle when we watch our favorite comedy
watching you quilt
your touch
your luscious lips
talking to you when we’ve just awakened
and the way your voice is soft and innocent
speaking our gratitude about our lives together
sharing our pain
being able to weep with you
when I am discouraged
or get inspired by something
how your eyes sparkle when I do so
the way you love our cats
caring for you
you caring for me..

Just to list a few