Time Is A Deep River

Time is a deep river beyond our fragile rafts

That keeps us afloat as we watch the distant

Shore thinking that soon we will be there

Time is a deep river invisible to us and our prayers

To an unseen essence we call spirit that binds the

Universe together into a mystery of which we

Are mere players and also the slayer of dragons

But sometimes the dragons devour us and we suffer

Not knowing that if we but laugh at the demons they

Will mourn and melt before human courage which

They can neither slay nor destroy nor bless nor love

There is a place that does not exist that is the only

Place there is—the river flows into mystery taking

With it our rafts, our joys, our suffering, our angels

And our blessed demons into the depths of a river

That has flowed deep and wide for countless suns

And moons since the angels touched earth with the

Spark of life on which we float our fragile rafts and

All the forgotten generations of creatures before us

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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.

Pick Up Truck

Decades ago riding, in the back of a pick-up truck, My good buddy Rick and I were talking philosophy, Truth and Counter-truth I told him—waddya mean? Life is both real and an illusion--particle-wave duality We are flesh and we are spirit—50 years later, my flesh Has lower back pain and sciatica but the spirit still loves Riding in the back of pick-up trucks—which is now illegal

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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