2013 Poems

January-April

 

 

 

Doctrine Doc         Print this poem only

 

I need not the Roman Curia

or a religious Manchuria

all I need to really rock

is one Divine-Doctrine-Doc.


Written 3-19-13

 

 

 

 

Dreampresent         Print this poem only

I hear people on the talent shows

speak ardently of living out their dreams

as if their dreams are some projected future.

 

I cannot know their minds,

but in my dreams I am always in the now

on a ship at sea,

hiding from an approaching menace,

lying next to my lover,

flying above the lumber yard

and cyclone fences

cannon storming my senses

pedestrians in intersections.

I am lost with no connections

desperately seeing directions.

 

Or visiting donut shops

and buying apple fritters

sprinkly chocolate covereds,

things I cannot taste

in my waking life.

 

My nightmares

of growing old and frail

not being able to get out of bed to pee

of arguments with policemen

fleeing tax men clutching forms

slogging through surging surf

unable to make progress

towards the shore.

 

In all of this however

I am in the pressing present of my dreams

not in the future.

The future only germinal

under the cloudy ground

 

of the dreampresent.

 

Written 3-16-13

 

 

 

 

 

Embarrassment        Print this poem only

The red face and squishy insides

of embarrassment

tumble through the hole in my house

my house so solid with bricks

and well-nailed wood.

I've worked it well

hammered every waking moment

troweled and fitted a veneer

so acceptable and kind

it would make Frank Lloyd Wright proud.

But even the coat of paint

applied only last year is pealing ,

aged by wind and rain

and incessant heat.

 

My apparel, so well-suited

for a glowing impression

is tight with my excess

a shade lighter

from agitation in the detergent

of my conscience.

 

I praise the pain of embarrassment

for its lesson:

That the me I knew I knew

is never really there

always weathered

within and without.

 

I praise this lesson

in emptiness

that makes me a little less full

 

of my self.

 

Written-2-12-13

 

Godsmile    :*)        Print this poem only

 

Look up in the sky

it is a bird, it is a plane

it is the sweet fresh rain

it is the clouds that fly.

 

Look down at the ground

it is a caterpillar, it is an ant

it is a green springing plant

and creepy crawlies all around.

 

Look inside of you

it is enthusiasm and hope

it is the broader deeper scope

the rousing breakthrough.

 

It is a : an * and an arc

It is a Godsmile with a spark :*)

 
Written 3-19-13

 
 

 

 

 

Hal Strikes Out        Print this poem only

 

When Hal was twelve years old

wanting to become a man brave and bold

he went to play baseball in the field

but when there it was revealed

as hard as he tried he couldn't hit that ball

and right there in public he began to bawl.

 

When he told his daddy, sternly Dad said

Hal  was a sissy and sent him to bed

where Hal sobbed and sobbed in shame

cursing that horrible baseball game

and determined then and there

he'd find something he'd do with flair.

 

And from that moment on

he worked hard until he had won

a speech-making contest.

He was finally the best

at something he could do well

and rose from that shameful baseball hell.

 

But he'd never lose that inner doubt

and knew deep down he'd finally strike out

and would never meet the measure

or give his daddy the pleasure

of being proud of his son

and what he'd done.

Written1-7-13

 

 

 

 

Spare us asparagus           Print this poem only

 

They say this poetic prompt is dumb

to write about a vegetable or fruit

but just think about the little plum

it's not bright but it's sort of cute.

 

Or the carrot so orange and slender -

for the eyes it has vitamin A

for the body's cells it's a mender

and it'll make you regular they say.

 

Celery is the one I really don't like

for its flavor makes me frown

and want to take a hike

on the nearest road out of town.

 

Cauliflower stinks to high heaven

when I smell it I leave the room

hold my breath for a count of seven

not to take in that horrible fume.

 

Spinach was taboo to me as a kid

till I saw Popeye get real strong

watched all the heroics he did

and learned that sailor man song.

 

I haven't mentioned pears  or lemons

bananas, mangoes, grapes or peaches

broccoli, green beans, persimmons

or coconuts from tropical beaches.

 

So don't think it is a curse

to write about oranges and greens

or say there is no verse

in citrus or apples or beans.

 

Author's note: Recently one of the poets who posts here told me that I would never get anyone to respond to a poetic prompt on my former website: Write a poem about a fruit and/or vegetable. So I took up her challenge and the above little ditty is the result.

 

Written 1-13-13

 

 

 

The Maids         Print this poem only

 

One of us will be here

to open the door

for those lovely ladies

let them swoosh in

to do their magic

of dust and grime removal

all the while with a smile

pleasant giggly conversation with each other

as they remove sheets of nightmares past

and replace them with the linens of dreams

yet to form in our heads,

heads soon to rest on pillows

fluffed and arranged by quick quiet hands

of women who at end of day

will return home

to cook and create a space that is

 

their

home.

 

Written 2-4-13

 

 

 

 

The Slipup         Print this poem only

 

I slip up into your arms

and ask you to cradle me there

and you say,

"I have had you here all along,

you just wouldn't let me have you."

 

I slip up into your arms.

Now you have me, Papa.

Take me with you.

Help me stay here in your care.

Help me let go each moment

and feel your Power within me

the power of pure Love.

Be my power source -

not solar power, or wind power, or coal power, or nuclear power -

just pure clean Papapower. 

 

I slip up into your arms

away from my illusory world of control.

You make it easy when I let go of the puppet strings connected to my separated self.

I encounter my preciousness in your arms,

my innocence,

my true self,

my deeper self

the self that is always changing

always in the wind,

always in the atmosphere beyond my breath.

 

I slip up into your arms.

I do not have to keep my balance in your presence.

You hold me up when I lean to the wrong side.

You gently push me upright. 

It is easy to be upright

when I feel your hands on my shoulders.

Upright in your sight,

you see me at every moment. 

I am in your sight.

And there, everything is alright.     

 

My prayer is that when I start to falter

this day, this day only

you will tear me from my delusion

rip me up out of it

and hold me in your arms. 

I know that all I have to do

is just for a moment-  that moment of weakness -

smile and fall into your arms -

no - slip up into your arms.

 

This is the kind of slip up I can dig.

 
March 6, 2013

 

 

 

 

Tumbleweed         Print this poem only

 

Fooled by the honor of gray 

gathered in the trenches

and settled in your hair,

some were surprised 

by the twinkling light

in your rugged aspect.

 

Wafted from the plains of your pain

crossing open range,

on the floor of our desert

you wrote in sand-script 

and happily we caught your words 

language gathered from laughter and listening.

 

You fellow traveler,

you furnace of wisdom,

the twists of your intellect,

as sure as a divine lantern,

lead us past our fear and comfort

to a new adventure.

 

The wispy lightness

of your humor gusted

across our blue gravity

leaving our sadness 

whirling in the summer breeze.

You inventor,

your poems were made to tumble

with the winds of Mars.

They roam distant planets

in search of more words 

and new ears.

 

Ignoring the barbed wire

we strung across our lives,

you snagged and churned our minds

you challenged and changed us

transformed our inertia.

 

Sometimes we wondered

how you got here.

What route or path

led you to plant yourself

in the convolutions

and walls of our worlds?

 

What Spirit inhabited 

the cells of this unlikely brush,

this tumbleweed

that scratched into the grain of our days?

 

We remain curious and full of questions, 

about this unlikely mortal,

but smiling, humble, and grateful,

we now bow to your tenacious soul.

 

Dedicated to Charlie Morgan, poet, novelist, writer, humorist, thinker, husband, father, and friend.  Charlie passed away April 2, 2013 at the age of 67.

 

Author's Note:  The original of this poem was written and posted  on http://www.pathetic.org 02/16/2005  It is still in my “Friends and Loves” folder in original form.

 

Revised 4-2-13  Original written 2-16-05

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two Feet, One Heart         Print this poem only

 

We weep and moan

and remember the day -
in your fine linen tunic and sandals -

you turned away from him,

his face as desolate as desert.

You took us far away

into dens of destruction

dissipating your money and mind

ending up a hog slop

starving for even a morsel of their food.

 

After you woke up you decided to return.

And now down the road from your father’s house,

there he is

arms open wide.

You yearn to run to him

but cannot -

sandals half gone ,

bruised and bloody

we can barely walk.

All we feel is hurt.

 

You think your presumptions

and profligate consumption

have left you bereft,

but there he is

waiting for you

tears of joy streaming down his weathered face

for his son

who was dead

is alive again.

 

And now here you are,

two feet, one heart,

kneeling before him

his hands pulling you to his chest.

You sob and quake

with remorse and joy

and fall

into the abyss of love

for the first time.

Author's Note:  The image is "The Return of the Prodigal Son" painted by Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn which is housed in The State Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg, Russia.

 

Written 4-1-13

 

 

 

 

Weeping Quietly          Print this poem only

 

As I turn the corner and look into the room

there before a great sun-filled  window

he is seated on the floor

his figure clothed in white

made spare

by his fetal posture.

He weeps quietly.

 

Empty of things

the room is white and bright

no shadows but the one cast by the small mound

of his quaking body.

He weeps quietly.

 

He has lost something precious

and irreplaceable

But even in his grief

he is wrapped in gentleness

with a knowing

as peaceful as a windless lake

that mirrors the heavens

He weeps quietly.

 

I enter the room

breathe the shallow breath

of an untroubled heart.

My lungs expand softly

with the air of compassion

and then release the remnants of shadow

from the tiny tears

in my soul.

 

I weep quietly

in peace.

Author's Note:  This is from a dream.  As I woke up I had a feeling of sadness for the weeping figure and then realized he was at peace and that peaceful place is where I went, misty-eyed. 

 

Written 3-23-13

 

 

 

 

 

When kids played marbles          Print this poem only

 

I look into Sweetpea's eyes

as we languish sleepy  in bed

she purrs

I stroke her soft coat

think about cats eyes marbles.

 

You have to be a certain age

to know about marbles

how to knuckle down

and flip your thumb just right

on the small glass globe or steely

to hit the marblemade X

in the middle of the circle

scratched in the dirt.

 

I don't know if kids can find dirt any more.

Everything's St. Augustine, Burmuda,  or concrete

or table tops or laps

with electronic gismos

interacting with a screen.

 

Oh!  how I loved playing in the dirt

making roads and tunnels

in the pile of sandy loam

behind Buddy's house.

That was heaven.

Even now I breathe a peaceful sigh

thinking about those afternoons constructing cities together

laying in the dirt looking up

spotting rabbits and buffalo in the clouds .

 

What a joy

being

outside.

 

Written 1-7-13

 
2020 Copyright by Glenn Currier