Dancing at Funerals

The chimney sweepers come to dance

At the funeral of one of them who fell

Now free of the soot and dark labor

Free to dance—free of soot and poisoned

Air free to breathe in paradise while they

Return to chimneys—waiting

The wives and sisters morn he who brought

Food and laughter hugs and love now gone--

Who knows where-- Will the brothers lovers

Fill the gap-- Dread and hope feed the wheel

That keeps turning in this gray dreary world

Where life is a never ending quest

Where the dance at the funeral is

That birth is just a ticket to paradise

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American Tea

The time honored tradition of English tea, So unlike American morning coffee, Always in a mug—to start the day. English tea is in the afternoon— More like the Japanese tea ceremony To give a ritual presence to life. The saucer so important to balance the cup. Americans find the saucer a nuisance. It’s what is in the cup that matters. Even the English drink coffee in the morning, American tea is at lunch—and iced— Ritual presence not forgotten—just ignored Americans drink tea in mugs. Mugs don’t need saucers.

I have heard so much talk about the soul But little evidence. Perhaps there is no Evidence. Evidence, by its very nature, Must exist in this world, in time and space. Perhaps, the soul doesn’t exist in time And space. The ego does. The id does And so does the self. Look at the evidence. Hunger. We eat day and night, if we don’t We starve. We drink soda and booze… And coffee. We work for money. There’s never enough. We spend So much time thinking about sex Which we sometimes call love. It’s Us against the world. We’re right, You’re wrong. Do unto others what Gets done to you. The soul is silent. Not really. The soul is singing—songs Of Joy, Praise, Thankfulness, Love. We can’t hear them because of the noise Of self, the noise of the ego, the noise Of the world to which we cling like A drunken sailor. Sons of A...

Buddha Socks

Buddha Socks Days do not number The miss-steps of my soul’s journey Years and decades of seeking and searching Lost and looking—occasionally knowing Only for a moment with certainty Before the trance of daily life and doing the laundry Overshadow insights that would unlock The mystery of socks tumbling in the dryer Socks don’t know emotions— They just know our feet. They wrap our heels and toes unconditionally Paying no attention to the emotions of the moment The funeral, the wedding, another day at work— The socks are just there for us After a day of being very human We take them off and toss them into the laundry Perhaps socks Are the Buddha (I don’t know the original dates on this. It is actually two separate poems which I found in old journals and merged into one poem I luv it…)

CurranPoem

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