2012 Poems
January - April
2012 Poems January thru April
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The Clearing Print this poem only
I stumbled out into the clearing
exhausted from days of dodging
spiral vines, barbed bushes.
Snakes hanging down to bite.
Their slimy bodies coiled
around branches of dark trees.
I stumbled out into the clearing
numb from the drum
the ceaseless crunch
and throaty buzz
of the mundane.
I stumbled out into the clearing
desperate for vitaminlight.
Something deep and clear and simple.
A crystal lyric
a melody that would slow
the rhythm of my heart.
I stumbled into the clearing
where I found you
and a few
who would listen
and be
with me
and guide my thirsty spirit
back to the oasis,
that fresh place
right between my eyes.
That meadow hidden underneath
my studied will
and persistent ego.
Who or where
is your clearing?
Dedicated to my friend Ed Stofko on his 60th birthday. It took 60 years to become the wise, spiritual man you are, and I for one, am glad you are this old, grateful for all those days and hours and minutes you have used so well.
Written January 12, 2012
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Mornings Print this poem only
When I awaken
in these later-year mornings
I feel sleepy and unmoved
my feet heavy, mired
in a dim and languid place
and if I want to pull myself
from this too familiar, usual land
I must find
somewhere in the crazy cosmos within
some particle of incandescence
to penetrate my gloom
and make me pregnant
with the seed of possibility
in this day.
It is up to me.
Written 7-2-12
My Flower
Print this poem only
But who needs flowers
when you can pass the hours
in your heart's garden where grows
a woman lovely as a rose?
But who needs a daffodil
when any moment you can fill
your eyes with her lovely flesh
or touch it and feel all fresh?
Who needs flowers in the air
when the scent of her womanly hair
pulls you in on its earthy string
makes your heart flutter and sing?
The aroma of our love, my sweet,
makes me want to repeat
Helen, oh Helen you sexy thing
you are my flower and my spring.
Love,
Glenn
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Written 3-13-12
Notebook Print this poem only
These lines are mine shafts
I dig with my pen
in an unseen light.
Each letter and word
hunched between the layers
crevasses and cracks
reveal a sapphire or ruby,
rusty ore
or decaying matter.
But even the decay
turns to fuel
if I cherish and caress it
with the tip and dip
of my pen
if I refine it
in the pauses...
that now and then
become moments of splendor.
It is a mystery to me
why I do not come here more often
to explore
and discover
these heights and depths.
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Written 2-6-12
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Open Heart
Her heart is open.
It slices into ours.
The decades of her care
infuse us with beauty
as water lives in a lily.
Her heart is open.
She has spooned and mixed
the flowers of her love
in the rising bread of our lives.
We are warm. We are human
with her blood.
Her heart is open
spreading the fluid of her mercy.
A flood running
down the roads of the many
into yards and living rooms.
She kneels with us
and prays her faith
into the beads of our memory.
Her heart is open,
pulsing like music
with laughter and listening.
Her eyes glistening
and dancing
with our stories.
Her face lined with compassion
strikes a chord
somewhere in the sacred parts
of our being.
Her heart is open
and we dive into it
hoping that somehow
we can touch her
as she touched us.
Dedicated to Ernestine Currier whose heart has blessed us with so many riches.
Written 11-4-12
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Pioneer Days Print this poem only
Waiting for the green light
to my left the new median plantings in sight
I recalled the two lane, bumpy Pleasant Run
back when our new house was done.
Still waiting for the light to turn
my mind began to churn
I imagined those early scouts slowing their horses,
scanning the terrain picturing a farm with rows of green,
the most beautiful home and family ever seen.
Then the light turned and I had to go.
On Hampton bridge I saw the flow
of Ten Mile Creek meandered east.
I wondered how they forged this gorge
with wagons loaded with nails and boards
and dreams of kids, and crops, and hopes restored.
In my reverie I saw the ghost of a farmer
and was turned on Mantlebrook by the young charmer.
Winding my way west,
a lovely white farm house blessed
with crape myrtle, oak and elm.
on the porch, overseeing his realm
the farmer rocked a small child
his love pouring out in his smile.
I pulled up below the ancient, rusting windmill.
The ghost called to me, still in my trance,
"Hi neighbor, I'm Otway Nance."
A blue jay squawked and I awakened
I couldn't see the man, "I must be mistaken."
How many unseen farmers in this ground
their souls in this soil but unbound
fruit of their pain and sweat all around?
I stood at the fence and in my scan
a red barn, brick homes, and the street,
dirt roads now gray with concrete.
Ten thousand drives through this town
to work and back, up and down,
from spring's sweet green to autumn brown,
but unaware of the women and men
who planned and fought about where and when
to build and how this city would begin.
I asked myself who were all the pioneers
into this unknown, making frontiers,
clearing land, making a stand,
finding the grit to brave storms and cold
and drought, to make something to behold.
How are you a pioneer, my friend,
what doubts and fears do you transcend?
What discoveries do you make
in your day and your night what risk do you take?
And who do you touch when life's too much?
Is our frontier the trails we blaze
or how we'll make these our pioneer days?
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Author's Note: Dedicated to Marikay Dewberry whose tireless efforts have helped to make
the Nance Farm Restoration happen and whose dedication to the DeSoto Historical
Foundation and to our community have made DeSoto, Texas a better, more interesting
place to live.
"Pioneer Days," Copyright © 2012 by Glenn Currier
Written 4-2-12
Poets' Cadence Print this poem only
Well I don't know but I've been told
poets are made of coal and gold.
Some of us swing a big bold hammer
some of us crawl and speak with a stammer.
I know poets who are quite refined
and those who bark and spit and grind.
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Leader: Sound off-
Group: One, Two.
Leader: Sound off-
Group: Three, Four.
Leader: Count 'em down -
Group: One, two, three, four
One, two, (pause) three, four!
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They come from mountains bright and high
from muddy swamps and deserts dry.
Some poets think and talk in rhyme
some sow their stanzas out of time.
Many are spiritual and religious
some are skeptics with wounds prodigious.
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Leader: Sound off-
Group: One, Two.
Leader: Sound off-
Group: Three, Four.
Leader: Count 'em down -
Group: One, two, three, four
One, two, (pause) three, four!
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They are romantic and filled with love
but they are prone to push and shove.
I know poets who are noble and prophetic
and those who are funny, depressed or pathetic.
We're sure that heaven's for the brave
and wonder what looms beyond the grave.
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Leader: Sound off-
Group: One, Two.
Leader: Sound off-
Group: Three, Four.
Leader: Count 'em down -
Group: One, two, three, four
One, two, (pause) three, four!
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Poets are full of vision and conviction
fear and loathing and contradiction.
When will this poet's cadence end?
Now... but listen.. we're in the wind.
[Author's Note: Dedicated to Amanda I. Clay and inspired by her poem "A Soldier's Soul"]
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Written 7-14-12
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NOTE: When this poem was read in public in the local poetry group, copies were given to those assembled and they sang out loud the indented cadence.
Practice Print this poem only
When I am tempted
to allow the dark shroud
of discouragement
to cover me
I open my bone-handled pocket knife
and practice
sticking holes in it.
And through those holes
I see light,
traces of hope
on the ground before me.
Ground familiar
but not identical
to the desert of my heavy past.
I hear the songs
of wise men -
men battered but not beaten
by their perilous passage
into that wasteland.
Their lyrics left me:
Progress not perfection.
This too shall pass.
Notice the stained glass
not just the stains.
Don't forget the gains,
the small victories are rebar
for a new high way.
Practice
recalling that light,
they say.
It is all about practice,
they say.
Whisper this
when that old shroud threatens.
Leave the burden of your errors
where it belongs -
on the crumbling pages
of your past.
When you are temped
to rest on your success
or think yourself better than the rest
you can recall your stumblings
on those crumbling pages
replete with your pride.
The next time I feel lost
and alone
in the labyrinth
I will return to those lyrics
and repeat the melody
practice
practice
practice.
​​Written 4-6-12
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Prose or poetry? Print this poem only
The stormy night
has turned a hot August day
into a cool clear morning
while above the eastern horizon
a thin layer of gray clouds
protests the sun's rising,
and Laverne across the street,
her shades already open,
observes the western quadrant
of my yard as I wonder
if she can see me here
laying in bed feeling squeamish
from too much wine last night
trying not to regret
the celebration of a delicious evening
reading poetry with friends.
Written 8-28-12
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Savor Print this poem only
My cousin Gary is dying.
We played kick-the-can in the park
he showed me how to make bamboo pop guns
on my summer visits
to the Reeds in New Iberia.
His mama, my Aunt Madeline, loved me
with the same love that woke her early
a thousand mornings
to fix him and the family eggs and bacon and cafe au lait.
Then she died of cancer
leaving us before I was old enough
to cherish time.
I can still feel the wind in my hair
running with Gary
sweating that little boy sweat.
How we ran
and learned to be cousins
in the grip of joy.
And now Madeline's son too is dying from cancer.
And there he is
my cousin Gary living
holding the wine glass and his bride
at our last dinner together,
teaching me again.
Savor
and spread around
the precious particles
of your love.
Since I visited him in hospice
I have been waking early
as if time was too rare
to waste sleeping.
The cat's purr under my hand
the smoothness of Helen's skin
the glint in her eyes
the colors of the purslane
seize me
and clutch my attention
my cousin Gary is dying
and I can't wait to live.
Written 5-26-12
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Shield Print this poem only
Oh how we work to cut a channel
across fields blushing with heather
through stony hills riddled with thistle,
but fog covers and infiltrates our sodden shoes
and every labyrinthine tributary and crevasse
crawled by ants and beetles in their tough sheathes.
Through the misty morn
a shimmering weather vane
turned north beckons me
beyond the quotidian plains of my plodding
to the impossible dreams
yet nourished by my spirit.
Love and loyalty play hide and seek
in the brush and hedges
the warren where the animal digs and crawls
around roots, through worms and unexpected voids,
trying to make or find a home...
or is it liberty he seeks,
clean clear air and sunlight
freed from the confines that protect him?
Written 9-13-12
Bluebonnets Print this poem only
Your scent is so heady
I am intoxicated
in the blue Caribbean
of your balmy essence.
Barbed wire
strung on cedar posts
cannot keep me
from falling into your sweet embrace.
I cannot take you.
You take me
eyes first then my nose
your breath caresses my arms.
Who knew that Texas
with its rough and rocky terrain
could give birth
to such gentle exquisite beings?
You are the Mona Lisa
your artful allure
draws onlookers
admirers of your mystery.
We cannot stay away
from your flowering.
Your spring
brings us
to life.
Written 3-30-12
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Bully Print this poem only
Fear is a bully
hiding behind a boulder
made of imaginings -
storm clouds
that become wisps
when faced
in the clear air
of the present moment.
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Written 2-6-12
Craving Print this poem only
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I look you in the face
you are twisted
your body a mirage
you hide from me
in the fog of the past
coward
roach afraid of the light.
I look you in the face
you are the unacceptable
that bites me in the ass.
Unacceptable fear, sadness,
dark streaks and stria.
My poetry embraces
the Hyde of me
the rot
the failed
neighboring in the community
with the joy
the eager
the radiant
and the tender.
It lets me
it makes me
look you in the face.
Written 2-11-12
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Dina Print this poem only
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I met a woman last night,
my curiosity about her
peaked by the glow
in the image of her
spoken by my cousin
in the wide plain
and deep lake
of our conversations.
The woman's skill, astute attention,
and firm instruction
evident in the seemingly miraculous
reversal of the swampy
drippings of aging
normal in an octogenarian.
Do you know those rare first encounters
when you see and touch
the tender roots of an orchid plant?
What a delight to hear and see
in our brief wide exchange
each color soaked petal
reveal the sweet soul
and large heart
of a woman who had discovered
that rare, emerald region
between professionalism
and compassion.
I met a woman last night
who made me proud to be human.
Author's Note: Dedicated to Dina, the occupational therapist who has befriended and guided my dear cousin Marcia from being a near invalid to a walking, functional, determined, healthy model for those of us in danger of being victimized by the aging process.
Written February 22, 2012
Alexandria, Louisiana
Discouragement hangs heavy Print this poem only
Discouragement
hangs on me heavy
like chain mail.
At times it seems my progress
on the spiritual path
is slime trailing a snail.
The landslide:
my moment of pettiness,
cursing myself for knocking the vase,
forgetting that guy's name,
not getting her flowers
BEFORE her thinly veiled hint.
Maybe not so much a landslide
as a desert
so wide, it seems endless.
How can I cross it?
Will my horses pull this old wagon
the distance?
All I can see on the far horizon
is mountains,
high - even from here.
And dragging behind me
on the chain of my memory
a thousand soiled volumes
containing the history
of too much
beer, fried chicken,
naughty and mean imaginings,
and cuckoo condemnations
of those who dared to wrong me.
But discouragement is the enemy
hiding behind
and under
the fiction
of perfection.
Written - April 5, 2012
JEKYLL & HYDE Print this poem only
Collaborated Poem by
Glenn Currier & Elizabeth Hobbs
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
scared me into staying inside
a fiction in film and book
what was the story's hook?
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
very different side by side
One is such a sweet old thang
The other is mean as a hard rain
The hook, there's a bit in me & you
which makes us do the things we do
Even Apostle Paul in all his glory
recites his dilemma and what a story
Romans 7:19 will give you a peek
and maybe answers that we seek
we do the bad we do not wish
instead of veggies the dish delish.
​The Jekyll in us is gentle and kind
the Hyde wants to kick the saint's behind
Now lets decide which be you, which be I
I be sweet Dr. Jekyll, you be that Hyde guy!
Author’s Note: This was read at a meeting of the group, Poetry in Progress,” and on that last line Glenn points to himself on the first five words and then points to Elizabeth on the last five words.
“Jeckyll and Hyde,” Copyright 2012 by Glenn Currier and Elizabeth Hobbs
Written 2-1-12
In the poetry group meeting in the last stanza
Glenn and Elizabeth read together pointing at each other
Lost Horizon Print this poem only
I imagine that my time
is a wide open plain.
the limitless horizon melts into the sky.
I am the captain of the Titanic
my denial a delusion
so deep and wide and hidden
it will surely capsize me.
Unless I wake up.
Written February 6, 2012
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Michael
Print this poem only
Some get degrees to teach,
learn to hurl words in fancy speech,
but the lessons he taught
could never be bought.
From Michael we learned how to live
to simply love and help and give.
He taught us to be family and friend
a neighbor on whom to depend.
With little effort and no guile
he taught us to go the extra mile,
to ignore boundaries of age,
no enemy or stranger on his stage.
He cherished the joys life brings
but he made no god of things
his truck and home a country tune
feed the cows, mow the fields in June.
Early on he fought to stay alive
taught us in that valiant drive
to cherish life and live it well
before our final knell.
We are blessed that his life’s arc
crossed ours in our light and in our dark.
On our souls a gentle mark
the sweet shining life of Michael Clark.
“Michael,” Copyright 2012 by Glenn Currier
Written January 6, 2012
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