2012 Poems

 

 

 

Chaos of Sleep          Print this poem only

 

Am I now ready

and tired enough

to give up the day

its buzz  and disarray

let go and enter the deep

unmeasured anarchy of sleep?

 

Written 9-14-12

 

 

 

 

Daddy Within         Print this poem only

 

Daddy, how alive you still are

in the environs of the slippery amoeba

I call my self.

You are part of its cellular structure.

I cannot escape you.

 

Your hand tools and humor

your determined spirit and eternal optimism

circulate within me

as surely as your denied anger

and wild sexual energy.

 

I cannot escape you 

but I can turn my microscope on you

and remove you from the darkness

into the light

of my awakening mind,

make you and your cellular activity

present to my choice.

 

Written 9-10-12

 

 

 

 

Lucy's Home         Print this poem only

 

When we arrive, sometimes too weary

from long hard days on our roads

carrying our accumulated loads

from jobs, people and tasks too dreary

 

we approach her door

with our bags and containers

we're likely entertainers

with tales of woe and jokes and more

 

for nieces, sisters, nephews and brothers

we're thinking of food preparation

and quirks and aggravation

and memories of fathers and mothers.

 

Juggling boxes and the weight on our arms

we reach for the button to ring

to open the door and unload what we bring.

She enters the code to avoid the alarms

 

and opens the door with a smile

that twinkle dancing in her eyes

and takes our veggies and pies

that'll be gone in a while.

 

We see out back the oasis of blue

where we’ve dipped and glided

slipped and collided

with an arm or thigh or two.

 

We notice the long brown table

where we’ve eaten and fought

and cursed we were caught

with kings and queens in our stable.

 

Christmas and birthday celebrations

bring us to this marvelous place

where we share our sorrows and grace,

and storied scenes of vacations.

 

On the couches in her living room

we've argued and stretched to hear

laughed and shed a tear

and tried not to condemn or assume.

 

 

One of our favorite paths to roam

and leave our dirt on the byways

are the streets and the highways

taking us to our dear loving Lucy's home.

Written 9-4-12

 

 

 

 

The voice in the booth next door        Print this poem only

 

I asked the hotel clerk for local good eateries

She replied with relish, "Is it seafood you desired?"

Yes! And our trip's made us hungry and tired.

Said she, "Next door's the best place in town

where people flock from all around

and the cook is most admired."

 

After waiting several minutes

feeling the ambience of the place

the hostess in a gliding pace

led us to a window site

for the twinkling of the night

in a quiet relaxing space.

 

A deep voice softly sang

in the booth next door

at the U.S.S. Chowder Pot  IV.

His lover's eyes glistened

as she smiled and listened

to every note in his score.

 

As their waitress waited with their check

I asked aloud if the music was free

and the man laughed, "Absolutely."

And as they were leaving I inquired

if he was a pro.  Oh no, I'm just a retired

working stiff who sings without fee.

 

I thanked him for the lovely music,

his rich gentle baritone voice

and the romantic songs of his choice.

He and his love were beaming

and in their eyes a gleaming

as he left with one word: "Rejoice!"

 

Written 10-19-12

 
2020 Copyright by Glenn Currier