I Love Getting Old

I love getting old

There are things that are no longer

Young in the world—like sitting at the bus stop

Before it was always about getting to work on time

Now the next stop is death so I am not in a hurry

I just sit and wait, smile and talk and soak in the sunshine

There are so many stories at the bus stop—

Some happy, some very sad

Sometimes I have to stop and let it all go

Knowing I can’t heal their pain but I can bless—

Quietly in my own mind and I wonder

If the universe is listening

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DESCARTES AND THE CRAZY MAN

Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning The world is not what I want it to be But the world is still the magnificent mystery In which I am stuck between Plato’s ideals And Jesus’s Kingdom and Buddha’s Nirvana And the crazy man at the bus stop The world—It is in your face. It won’t let you go. Descartes got it right. Throw it all out. It is all A bundle of thought knots: concepts—illusions Birth and death and memory and hope A dance with realities we don’t understand You Think: The fact that you can doubt your doubts Is a clue. There is a you behind the you you think You are—who loves the ideals, lives in the Kingdom, Dances in Nirvana and gives the crazy man at the bus stop A hug—He stares at you thinking you are crazy.

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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