CurranPoem

I pick up a small round stone on the beach I hold it in my hand—it is still wet from the Waves that have washed over it or perhaps Washed it up just as I picked it up and I Wonder about it—where has it been all These years before it met me on this beach I think about its sister stones up in the desert Who haven’t seen an ocean in eons--just Soaking up sun without waves—this blessed Stone has both sun and waves—I raise my arm And toss it back into the waters—Perhaps we Will meet again

When you wake in the morning Sing for the dead Your walk to the coffee maker Is a victory march You are alive—last night people died Sing for the for the fires Sing for the hurricanes   And the earthquakes Sing for the violence The floods, the starving Sing for cancer and sing for those Who just said “goodnight” to a world That promised love and took it away In your song the dead will hear And will smile and bless us