2020 Poems      September-December


Bright Cocoon           Print this poem only

Tonight a few minutes of soft music and poetry

urge me to stay wrap in the bright cocoon

and linger in this soft glory


Written 9-5-20


Old men will see visions            Print this poem only


I hear the piano playing softly

pulling me from these rutted plains

into a moist green meadow

a vision of a flowing brook down the hill

makes me believe the words of the Prophet:

“Your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.”

yes, I am old, but I see and feel the rising gentle treble notes

lighten my leaded limbs

awaken my spirit

and thrust me into the realms.

It is the touch and glide of the pianist’s fingers

across the ivory skin of the keys

that transports me

in the waning hours of this day.

How sweet it is!


Written 9-5-20

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Poor poor pitiful me            Print this poem only


I am broken

bent and misshapen

sad and lonely

dark side of the moon

not caught in undercurrents

but submerged in a bog

oxygen depleted.


Oh what a pitiful state

I’m embarrassed by myself

not s’pose to be like this

people need me to be upbeat and bright

not in darkness but in light

good for a laugh or a smile

wanna be with me a while

but this mournful me

like a salty dead sea

they’d rather not

I don’t blame them

I don’t even wanna be with me.


It’s dark outside

thunder storm rolling in

just perfect for my mood

I wanna thunder out loud!

Ridiculous huh?


Ha, oh what a putz!

Writing it all down like this

makes me want to laugh

at this oh so pitiful me.


I feel better already.

And here you are reading this

what a pure beautiful soul you are

obliging me by listening.


Now you can laugh!


Have a good day.

Author's Note: This poem demonstrates how writing in general and for me, writing poetry can be very therapeutic. When I started writing (that first stanza) I was just writing down my feelings and sentiments but it became a poem and as I wrote my feelings became transformed and I was able to laugh at myself. Thank God and his Holy Spirit for poetry.


Flickering Green Glass            Print this poem only


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 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.


Written 9-2-20


What would life be if…            Print this poem only


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?


Author’s Note: This poem was inspired by a Garth Hill photo-creation (seen at the right). Garth usually has an inspirational quote below his photos on flickr.com.  This is the quote accompanying  the photo: “What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?” – Van Gogh

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Long Traverse            Print this poem only


My mind is active ever looking searching

to grasp what lies beneath the surface

but my intellect in its hectic quest

is unsatisfied

with the short verse

of its voyage.


I have episodes of wandering

misty passages

labyrinthine paths

with brief sightings -

a dim light cast

in the corner of this room or that

the church lot playing touch football

or singing in my prepubescent tenor voice,

Stokowski conducting,

me shaking his soft hand over cookies at rehearsal

for he, in his mostly stern visage,

loved children.


I open a dusty old book

and smell its yellowed pages

cast back to the university library

searching with eagerness

for evidence of Cortes, Aquinas, Longfellow

or other explorers of humanity and the divine.


I smell incense

and remember my mother kneeling

praying the rosary before Mass

and the candles glowing

gold vessels sparkling

where I heard the call to serve

and with sadness recall leaving the seminary halls

in the middle of the night

to enter the world and all of its allures.


Our fifty year journey together

of loving, laughing, and crying,

our many travels:

west across the Rockies

east to Daddy’s land as a child and young man,

south across the Sabine to the swamps,

crawfish, Zydeco music, mardi gras, cousins,

the Bayou Teche where Mama swam

and the cane fields

in the muddy acres of Inez' French roots

and back and forth to Houston

where I met my bride and her family.


I have passed across many boundaries

for good and evil

gone through stages of life

and it seems I am here

like the Ancient Mariner

with regrets for my sins

and joys for my victories.


I found in Coleridge a verse

to help me navigation what days are left:

“He prayeth best, who loveth best

All things both great and small;

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.”


Written 9-19-20

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Your Splendid Shallows            Print this poem only


You are an ocean of love

I float and drift on your surface

but under your sparkling skin

teems an ineffable life

another world mostly unseen,

selfless, unsung, and undeserved.


But here I am not even skin deep.

Am I afraid

of drowning in your depth

of being overwhelmed

in my modest capacities?


Oh my love

even if I see only what you reveal

to the sighted

I saturate myself in your splendid shallows

and await those precious interludes

of your deeper touch.


Written 9-17-20


Gray Man            Print this poem only


He leans against the old battered lamp post

just as twilight fades away

hands in his pockets

the lamp spills its soft rays on him

as if to assure him there is light left.


His rumpled gray suit

has seen its better days

perhaps in a high rise a few blocks away

it hangs on him like a haunting shadow.


Despair looms in his eyes

a frown droops his pale face

he barely breathes

staring at the drainage grate

just beyond his dusty shoes.

Has his life seeped down into the gutter?


He is bowed by some awful weight.

And across the street


I gaze at him


in my own shadow.

Written 9-21-20

2020 Copyright by Glenn Currier