There is no church.....

There is no church, no synagogue, no mosque, no temple

Big enough to hold my faith—I love the solemn spaces—

The stained glass windows of the churches, the golden light

Of Buddhist temples, the sacredness of synagogues and the

Prayerfulness of the mosque but it is the light of the sun which

Lights the windows, the voice of the sutras which greets

The Buddha, the prayers of devotion in the mosque that I hear

Light and voice and spirit and faith are my sacred space

In which I worship and the world will try to take it away from you

At the bus stop, in traffic, in politics, in the evening news,

In failed friendships but the sun shines on all of us and

Gravity keeps us all in our place while we work it out

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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…)

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.

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.

CurranPoem

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