Glenn Currier

A Spicy Plea            Print this poem only

The sage bush

waves in the wind

spreading its subtle scent

like incense for the Earth

a plea to passers-by

to pause and breathe

in peace. 

Written 1-15-21

Arrivals and Departures            Print this poem only

I am grateful for all the arrivals

at campgrounds in mountains

retreats and desert revivals

landings in marshes and lowlands

casinos, theaters, and even dirty dins

where I learned the distance yet ahead.

To see me now I look settled

yet my father’s son is always on the run

riding the winds

confessing sins

finding sages in pages

searching decades

for worthy crusades

seeking fellow travelers

steeped in joy

upon encountering

beautiful souls.

All the miles searched, and books read,

all the places and races fled

led to the simple truth

the answer was right here all the time

deeper found pausing inside

the vaulted skies

of the divine.

Author’s Note: Written upon finishing The Seven Storey Mountain by Thomas Merton.

​

Written 1-16-21

A Letter in Time            Print this poem only

Every letter I type is a drop of me

eyes so full of life

they drop a tear

and in that bead

that pearl rolling down my cheek

is sadness, joy, care or grief

the sweat of my heart.

Written 1-15-21

Thirsty Evenings            Print this poem only

Missing our talks made a yearning in me

like morning longs for light at midnight.

Our shared visions and sorrows

rest in my memory

dust upon sacred volumes aching to be read.

My heart has been thirsty for Christ

who lives on Thursday evenings

when we search and celebrate Scripture

and the thoughts and writings of saints.

The small spark you get in your eyes

when you are joyfully professing

your earnest faith

is incense permeating the room,

incense gathered from icy climes of Russia

low mountains and plains of Oklahoma

lead mines and flat rivers of Missouri

and the splendid peaks and streams of Colorado.

Christ our precious Lord

created these moments of grace.

His cross and rising

reverberate in the play of our words,

the play of our thirsty evenings.

Author’s Note: Written for my good friend, Brother, and Pastor Kevin. We gather regularly on Thursday evenings to study the Bible and other books, but due to circumstances were unable to meet for a while. And especially during the COVID pandemic, these conversations were real important to each of us.

Written on 1-13-21

Gift of Time            Print this poem  only

I sink into this sweet moment

not of lightning and hail

but soft unveiled convection warmth

of the south

in early afternoon

of winter.

I find my center

here in time

more precious than rubies or sparkling of diamonds

what a crime

presumption

I will persist

in it

this gift

this present

time.

Written 1-9-21

Have your way with me            Print this poem only

I cannot resist your wriggle

your movement wrestles me awake

from my routine slumbering lumbering day

your breath

your wind are my oxygen

telling me I’m alive

you move from heart to fingers

and dance on the floor

of this keyboard

with your partner

pen on the smooth flat surface of paper.

It is more vital to write my heart

to write write write as I MUST

than to obey some poetry manual

or imitate Longfellow, Rumi, or Frost

or any other.

Writing your movement is like breathing

I cannot go long without it

you impel me to this place

this oasis

this pure land

these tropics

where I let you speak

and have your way with me,

you my magnificent muse.

​

Written 1-8-21

Momentum Took Us            Print this poem only

We were both feeling a small joy

at some long-awaited good news

our conversation crept in a soft light

but then you drifted

into your dark valley of anger and angst,

life circumstance

overtaking you like a black cloud

full of rain and lightning.

The momentum of this moment

thrust me into your pain

but how could I leave you now

and still say I love you?

Author’s Note: I bow to Frances Raeburn and her poem, Ten, for the inspiration for this poem.  

​

Written 1-24-21

Link to “Ten” by Frances Raeburn: https://hellopoetry.com/Frannieraeburn1/poems/

Virtue of Winter Grass            Print this poem only

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.

Written 1-24-21

Sustain the Weary            Print this poem only

The wizened old man told me -
sustain the weary with a word

for many a one has none

to bring love and light

into the blight of their dreary days.

I asked which word

and through a wan smile

he said - you figure it out.

​

Written 2-8-21

A Strong and Tender Heart            Print this poem only

Precious Jesus here and now

tell me, teach me your heart

I know my will but I know not how

to stay tucked inside you not apart.

You walked the dusty rocky roads

you sweated in afternoon heat

trapped by a crowd on sandy shores

you had no place to retreat.

Jesus make your way into me

through my arteries and veins

make this vessel what it will be

when you are all that remains.

Release me from bondage of pride

take this dense, protean clay,  

and fashion it to keep you firmly inside.

For your strong and tender heart I pray.

​

Written 2-8-21

The gates of life are everywhere            Print this poem only

I feel a little joy

to see the new growth on the sage bush

it survived the deep freeze of winter.

I join this subtle green creature

in this moment, in this piece of now

maybe I too will get through this season

with a small burst

of creative energy

enter the gates

and rejoin Life.

Swampy Yearnings            Print this poem only

My heart keeps floating east

to the place of my birth

along the brown rushing waters

of the awesome Mississippi

the vast Atchafalaya basin

where the boys 

of fishermen and hunters

become men.

Oaks drip with moss

cypress trees grow out of swamps

and exude a mystic charm

that pierces your mood

and captures your fancy.

La Nouvelle-Orleans

born in centuries past

gateway to a new life

for my forefathers

who crossed oceans from France

made families for the generations

and planted their culture

amidst the rich foliage

and damp environs

of this magnificent mysterious place.

Yes, I yearn to cross the Sabine

make my way to Breaux Bridge

and other Evangeline towns

eat crawfish etoufee

by the Bayou Teche

speak my Texanized accent

to my Cajun cousins

who tell their stories

with a hint of French

and laugh in a universal language.

Soon I hope to make the trek

to quinch the yearning of my heart

hug my cousins

breathe the poem of my life

and the moist fragrant Louisiana air.

Written 4-5-21

The Puppy            Print this poem only

I got to wondering today

if I am an old dog

who can’t be taught new tricks

if that windmill going round and round

catching the wind between the blades

is really who I am,

if the universe surges

into the spaces still left in me,

if it is trying to wake the music

yet alive inside

in the curves of my heart,

if the blood pulsing there refuses to go down

in one grave path

and insists on a symphony of swerve

an inclination in a new direction.

If that breeze is really grace

then maybe I am being reborn

a puppy full of life

eager to be all the dog it can be.

​

Written 4-11-12

The Jim I Knew

Looking at him with that long gray beard

and unruly hair, and listening to him speak

you would not know from the way he appeared

that he had books written in Hebrew, and Greek

or that he was a biblical scholar of sorts,

read theology and volumes of biblical meaning

and in those books went to many lands, embarked from many ports.

His mind brimmed with ideas and was inclined to dreaming.

His voice echoed Arkansas hills and streams

his eyes sparkled with humor and wonder,

his stories, full of drama and dreams,

of storms ringing with lightning and thunder.

He was a machinist, expert with a lathe

tamed metal into a rifle sure and true

he aimed for God with a heart full of faith

reborn in Christ’s Spirit that brought him through.

I’ve known few men whose heart poured tears

when he suffered fierce remorse for his sins,

when he told his mistakes in various spheres

he was sad for too many losses and too few wins.

How wrong can a body be about someone

who appears a mere lean country boy

but has a soul deep as the sea and bright as the sun.

Yes, I’m sad at his loss, but thinking of him brings me joy.

​

Author's Note: This poem was written and delivered at the funeral of my friend Jim Stacy who passed away April 7, 2021 he was 87 years old. James Oliver Stacy Jr. was born July 9, 1933 in Fort Smith, Arkansas to Burnus and James Oliver Stacy, Sr. 

Sigh            Print this poem only

Being here in this creative moment

shows me the power

residing inside of me

if I but pause in silence or with soft music

and abide in this space

for just a little while.

Sigh!

​

Written 4-21-21

Justice, justice                        Print this poem only

Justice, justice

You lay sweetly upon our souls

this morning

after the turmoil.

I wish you were not so rare a visitor.

Written 4-21-21

Rendezvous            Print this poem only

I am holey,

not holy.

At best an imperfect vessel

bearing light and darkness

sometimes winning

but real good at sinning.

I wonder whether

the best I can do

is hope for a rendezvous

to touch and suffer together

in a place we linger where

we breathe common air

fresh and vital and bracing.

Maybe I’ll always be racing

from the desert

into your arms

to exchange our passion

to abide,

me all holey

and you a mountain stream

flowing with melted snow,

me trying to capture

some of that clear water

that will leak slow

back into the flow.

But there we will be

us in good and bad weather

but in love and together.

I am always wrapped in grace

yearning for our embrace.

Written 4-22-21

Saturated            Print this poem only

Here we are again

in the presence of green

Life all around us

You saturate everything

It is good to be here with you

alive on Earth

I cannot leave you

even if I wanted to

But who would want to?

Those who live in pain

who wake up again and again

in darkness

who cannot see

who - try as they might -

cannot be awake

and alive in you.

I ache for them

and I can enter their darkness

only because I am saturated

with you

still

alive.

Written 4-26-21