Poem List: 2015 September thru December

 

 

 

Into the River        Print this poem only

 

About a fortnight ago I cut the chains

thought I’d risen, thought I’d changed

but then I shot me full of shame

filled the black holes with blame

just too many old habits to fight

I need to hold on to the light.

 

I stepped into the river with you

sunk my head out of view

said here I am Lord here am I

bid my rusty old wagon goodbye

out of my darkness out of my night

I need to hold on to the light.

 

A little more than two weeks ago

I sparkled and  smiled and said hello

out of the water dripping with grace

they said my youth shined in my face

and here I am nigh filled with fright

I need to hold on to the light.

 

But salvation now seems over priced

where oh where are you Jesus Christ?

 

Don’t be distracted or confused my son

you are crawling now don’t try to run

keep it simple and you’ll be alright

don’t forget to hold on to the light.

 

Don’t fall into the mine of fire

make me your heart’s desire

fall into my waiting embrace

ignore ego’s devil face

and when you’re baffled by your plight

remember to hold on to the Light.

Written 9-9-15

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Elegant Dragon Fly           Print this poem only

By Helen and Glenn Currier

 

Special creatures are we dragonflies

in our swift flight we sink or rise

back and forth left and right

no insect prey escapes our sight.

In a life-rich pond my life began

then I traveled onto land

but my true joy is in the winds

I do not bite or sting my friends

and some remark on my agile display

you humans say it’s a lively ballet

you see in my iridescence

happiness and purity of essence

you say I live life without regrets

and see life’s meaning in its depths

but in the millions of years on earth

each flight I take is an airy rebirth

so when you need to leave the noise

come watch my elegant wings - their power and poise.

 

“The Elegant Dragon Fly,” Copyright 2015 by Glenn and Helen Currier

Written 9-12-15

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Orange Spotted Bump           Print this poem only

 

His right hand was in his left

looking up from his thumb

his footsteps swiftly deft

we stepped back to let him come

we opened the restaurant door with concern

for the man looked sort of intense

did he have a cut or burn?

We were all in suspense.

 

Then I saw the small orange bump

the crawly bump moving slightly

I thought I saw the bump jump

but the man was stepping sprightly,

a smile arising on his face.

And as he saw the light outside

he quickened his steady pace

his eyes were gaping wide.

 

Now he was almost at a run

his hands held higher and higher

the man reached for the sun

the orange bump became a flyer

its spotted wings unfurled

now the orange bump flew with glee

back to its beautiful natural world

and the lady bug was gone, it was free.

 

Written 9-12-15

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tears of Moses          Print this poem only

 

By now I should be used to it,

again being caught

right there in front of everybody

in my ego moment

an obvious failing

a klutsy unveiling.

 

How easily and swiftly I descend

into self-loathing

and withdrawal

even privately recalling

deficiency or fault.

 

No, no one knows of my sinking.

I can feign strength

bravery and good humor.

I am an excellent liar.

 

But here I am

in the desert

kneeling with Moses,

broken, disheartened, desperate.

I am bent over with him.

He is weak and weighed down

with the burden of his people.

I - just weak

faint of heart

inadequate

ashamed.

 

I am no Moses
leading a people
through the desert

toward the promised land

but I touch his cheek

feel the warmth of his tears

and they are mine.

 

On the other hand

think of the glow stick:

it glows only when broken

and kneeling here

fractured and fragile

I glow

I glow

with the bright fluid of your grace.

 

Numbers 11: 13-18

Written 9-13-15

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This book no longer in print         Print this poem only

 

The truck delivered it

ordered on the web “used”

printed long ago.

 

Yellowed pages are fragile

no longer supple

spine cracked

by decades of openings

of being a harbor

for well-traveled vessels

who moored there

anchored in its wisdom.

 

This book no longer in print.

Oh what a pity

for others who search

for depth,

its old pages still fresh

with meaning

to be fathomed.

 

Its author in the grave

but still alive here

with provocation and comfort.

 

I love this book

and cherish its author

who rises up each evening

at my bedside

when I open it

and drink its freshness

both quenching my thirst

and sharpening it.

 

I am an old book.

I hope I’ll never be out of print

this side of the grave.

 

Author’s note: Tribute to Louis Evely and his inspired and wonderful volume, That Man Is You.

Written 10-1-15

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Visionary State            Print this poem only

 

In a trance I had a vision1

I was walking a golden path

it was bright with words of light

and songs and music full and strong

but I saw dark trees astride

the narrowing path

and suddenly felt alone

as if I did not belong.

 

But then before me an open field

with daisies and dandelions

butterflies and birds

free again and in the cooling air

inhaling freshness everywhere

singing joy as a prayer.

 

I am an open field

my spirit soars with wonder

I embrace the scattered

the fringy and the weird

for I so yearn to learn

find God in all his incarnations

in every corner of his creation.

 

His glory knows no bounds

he shines through Trees

on Golden Paths and Muddy Ponds

and speaks in Dancing Breeze.

 

At my best

my truest quest

my finest trait

is just to co-create.

 

1 Acts 11: 5

 

Written 11-23-15

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Growing Away            Print this poem only

 

The last blossoms of the Bougainvillea

reach out to me as I pass

as if to say:
“Good morning

here I am!”

 

Oh burnt orange bloom

your delicate body

slow-waltzing with the breeze

speak to me of earth

sing me a lullaby

not to sleep but to awaken

from the slumber

the numbness

of my doing day.

 

How I segregate myself!

The storm out there

the drought over there

the vanishing ice up there

the ant hills in the yard outside.

 

Me thinking I am I

and you are you

in our separate worlds.

But you are waving saying

 

“Hey brother let’s touch again

like we did when we were kids.

You knew me then

and the grass and the elm

we were in love with each other

breathing the same air

caressing without shame.

Yes, we were shamelessly

one.”

 

This secondhand belief

that I am me alone

is it because I am a man?

I’d like to blame it on that.

I think women are made

to be one with the universe

in a way men can neither know nor grasp.

But when I was a child

I had it too.  And then I grew

up and away

away from earth.

 

What a pity.

 

Hello Brother Bougainvillea

let’s play.

Written 11-16-15

 
Bougainvilla.JPG

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crosses            Print this poem only

 

These people who display crosses

oh what an irritation to me

wearing their hearts

on their necks and fingers

walls and cars.

 

Leave me alone!

I don’t need converting

I’m not defective

besides, you don’t even know me

and there you are flaunting and flashing

this Jesus before me and the world.

Enough already.

I don’t need it.

 

But then there’s this Tutu guy

wearing his cross

insisting on forgiveness

and reconciliation

speaking gentle and firm

to anger and reprisal.

A man who sees across the landscape

walks among the lowly and powerful

inviting them into communion.

 

That ubiquitous cross

almost unseen, ignored there are so many.

 

But then I hit bottom

the end of my ability to solve the problem

the thorn in my side will not subside

until I decide to take that step

to step into the river

and there to find him

waiting on the other side

clapping hugging smiling

for my crossing.

 

I crossed

the hoary boundaries of my doubt

 

I crossed

to listen, really listen,

to take hold of the door knob

turn it and pull it open

and let them in.

 

They then crossed

into my heart

and took him with them

and deposited his ashes and blood

across my path.

 

Then he told me to take up my cross

as he took up his

and I did.

And I abandoned my self

and fell into another river

beyond the high boundaries

of my desert.

 

And here I am

wearing one of those crosses –

not a ritual –

but a piece of my heart.

Written 11-11-15

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Baptism            Print this poem only

 

About a fortnight ago I cut the chains

thought I’d risen, thought I’d changed

but then I shot me full of shame

filled the black holes with blame

just too many old habits to fight

I need to hold on to the light.

 

I stepped into the river with you

sunk my head out of view

said here I am Lord here am I

bid my rusty old wagon goodbye

out of my darkness out of my night

I need to hold on to the light.

 

A little more than two weeks ago

I sparkled and smiled and said hello

out of the water dripping with grace

they said my youth shined in my face

and here I am nigh filled with fright

I need to hold on to the light.

 

But salvation now seems over priced

where oh where are you Jesus Christ?

 

Don’t be distracted or confused my son

you are crawling now don’t try to run

keep it simple and you’ll be alright

don’t forget to hold on to the light.

 

Don’t fall into the mine of fire

make me your heart’s desire

fall into my waiting embrace

ignore ego’s devil face

and when you’re baffled by your plight

remember to hold on to the Light.

 

Written 9-9-15

 
HoldOnToLight.JPG

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finding Robert            Print this poem only

 

I search the halls and they are empty.

 

But I hear echoes from the past

elevator bells, animated talking 

shouts of joy for tests they passed

shoes shuffling and quickly walking.

 

I search the halls and they are empty.

 

I’m looking for friends who were there

for those strong and energetic souls -

wish I could hear Hamm loudly swear

and just once more the stories he sowed.

 

I search the halls and they are empty.

 

No more faculty and students huddled

arguing ideas large and small

he with a student who was troubled

lifting him from another fall.

 

I search the halls and thought them empty.

 

But turned the pages and I found them

celebrating love and life and friends

they were gathered all around him

joking, laughing, crying, and remembering when.

 

Now the hall’s not empty but full of Robert’s strong spirit.

 

Yes, at times I think of Camelot

and those deep and noble days

but I’ve found Robert resting in his Mount Pleasant spot

and now remember his grin, his laugh, and a soul worthy of praise.

 

Author's Note: Dedicated to and written in honor of my friend and former colleague Robert Hamm who passed away December 3, 2015. Robert was a Faculty Counselor and one of the founding fathers (although he would not be happy with that term) of El Centro College and the Dallas County Community College District.

 

December 7, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fishermen’s Consolation            Print this poem only

Stayed up late into the night

drinking beer and gin and Sprite

slept fast and dreamed of being kings

but too early the alarm bell rings

so we gather our rods and reels

not exactly kicking up our heels

but dragging ourselves to the lake

just before first light breaks.

 

The water is calm and glassy today

below dark waters and sky of gray

we hope the hungry fish won’t wait

too long before gobbling our bait

meanwhile we chit and chatter

about things that don’t truly matter

and other things we’d never tell

the preacher or he’d damn us to hell.

 

Today the fish aren’t hungry but we are

so two hours later we head for the car

store our tackle and without delay

we make our way to Pat’s cafe

where we’ll wait as long as it takes

for eggs bacon and piping hot cakes

lots of coffee and conversation

these bites being our only consolation.

 

Author’s Note: Dedicated to my fishing and camping buddy Joe David – remembering our many camping and fishing trips to Lake Whitney and to Pat’s Cafe.

 

Written 11-21-15 

 
pancakes-eggs.JPG

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Instead to Give            Print this poem only

 

They say that you were man but also God

but when you’re hanging there upon the cross

if God - it seems to me completely odd

that you would freely pay so high a cost

without a sword or lightning bold to kill

those men of worldly power and domain,

that you would not assert a forceful will

escape that hill avoid that ghastly pain.

 

They say you resurrected from the grave

they saw you walk and eat and speak with them

I think you rose the moment that you gave

your life and did not kill the soldiers then,

the day you asked your Dad to let you live -

in your humanity you thought he’d left -

but showed us how to choose instead to give,

those times we feel so selfish and bereft.

 

I think the Spirit of your Father comes

when every fiber of our being screams

when all we hear are pain’s repeating drums

we’re sure we know we’ll not fulfill our dreams

but then we choose to sacrifice our will

to die a little to our heart’s desire

to rise to find our God atop our hill

and pierce our darkness with your Sword of fire.

 

Written 10-6-15

Christ-stJohnOfTheCross.JPG
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Late Blooms            Print this poem only

 

Like seeds in a package

we waited

aching for fertile soil

the spark of Life within.

But then we caught the wind

traveled the decades a thousand miles

before we met.

 

And here we are

now flowering side by side

in the same garden

in our seventies –

lovely late bloomers.

 

All this new growth –

this improbable rebirth –

if someone wrote a story

it would seem a fiction,

but this is real.

 

Still we learn lessons

in this adventurous landscape.

He believes,

he knows

his creation goes on

we still need training.

He is here, ever here

teaching us:

he won’t be bound

or confined

by the mere conventions

of time.

 

Dedicated to Sarah Murphy and Helen Currier, my precious fellow travelers in the wind.

 

Written 10-5-15

 
seeds.JPG

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing Beyond            Print this poem only

 

I can see you

just over the hill

my heart is shackled

to this sacred land

my vision suited

to communion with you

I can see you

just over the hill.

 

Written 12-13-15

 
Hill.JPG

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Field            Print this poem only

 

The field is broad and deep

crops gone

just weeds

oh, the weeds

survivors

of drought

and  clever but useless schemes

to kill their teeming.

 

Across the timeless field

children run and dance with abandon

and chase the wind

sparkling with dragon flies

and flying florets

of dandelions.

 

Trudging its crumbling clods

are battered beings

bowed

from travails

and travels

in the bowels

of rusty oily ships

conviction squeezed

and beaten out of them

in the shadows  hanging

on their backs.

 

Just over the horizon

a stream

gleaming with promise

and hope

and light

and life.

 

There on its banks are children

and those beings –

now standing

in daisies and daffodils,

standing beside willows, and reeds

among those tenacious weeds.

 

And there among this throng

am I

standing

renewed

by Light and Word

joy undeterred

hoping the ship of faith

will carry me

into eternity.

 

Monday, October 12, 2015

 
field-abstract-painting.JPG

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Be Whole Again            Print this poem only

 

There was a blockage in my friend

the doctors had to cut on him

they pushed and pulled and clipped and tied

to redirect his pipes inside.

 

The doctors said he must behave

for months and months he skimped and saved

on calories and carbs and fats

his wife with patience cooked with class.

 

His insides had to rest a spell

the docs they said if all went well

they’d put things back the way they’d been

and he’d freely eat and play again.

 

And now our humpty dumpty’s back

it won’t be long he’ll be on track

he’ll write a poem and joke and grin

we’ll laugh and wonder where he’s been.

 

I too have had some blocks inside

did things that caused a great divide

I had to go and get some aid

and work to fix mistakes I’d made.

 

My friend has been a valiant man

his grit has showed me I too can

arise from brokenness inside

be whole and strong where grace abides.

 

Dedicated to my friend Roland Ruiz.  Be whole, Rolo!

Written 11-18-15

 
2020 Copyright by Glenn Currier