CurranPoem

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...

  We are each A little window On a big world   Each moment A tick-tock On a big clock

Kyiv—Ancient city on the Dnieper.  These river waters have flowed for more centuries              then are counted in history books  And will continue to flow after all the puppets have turned to dust               and new trees have grown in groves by the Dnieper.  Were these banks once paradise, before our ancient ones built                a village here?  Did an ancient shaman have visions of what would happen here?               The dance of the puppets pulled by the strings of history.  Warriors and chieftains, then kings and lords, tyrants and Czars,               Nazis and Soviets all acting out their puppet dramas—  Their strings pul...

  I sit with the afternoon thoughts of an old poet. I am no longer a young poet. If you’re not a young poet, you’re an old poet. Whoever heard of a middle-age poet?   Middle-age is something invented By people who don’t know how to Grow old.   To be old is to have the power of insight That having seen it all before Gives to the imagination of tomorrows Not yet known.   To be old is to be there for those Who do not have enough yesterdays To know the difference between wisdom, dreams, Reality, hopes, and fears—There isn’t any.   I recall now the old ones—many now dead, Who held my hand, or touched my shoulder, Or winked, or laughed at just the right moment To catch my youthful eye and make me pause— Or I might have gone over the edge.   The wisdom of age comes not From the power and drive of youth Creating life and building worlds.   The wisdom of age comes From those moments When you pause ...

  Confessions of an Old Punk.   Poets sling words, Painters sling color, Singers sling sounds, Prophets are silent, But listen—I sit and Take it all in like a Pizza, Waiting for my ride home.

"Know Where" I look at my life for a way out Of the confusion, the doubts The fear, the stupidness, anxiety And the comedy of breaking news. No where do I find an answer.   I am feeding squirrels in the park. He takes my peanut, looks up, His eyes say , “Know where.”   I realized that he “knows” And I am still looking For my peanut.  

  Blue Dog, Bark at the rabbits and Chase the squirrels back to the nest. Darkness awaits us just behind twilight. The owls and coyotes will watch us With eyes that see in the night.    

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.  

  All the failed moments of my life Flutter like bats in a cave, swarming To fly into the twilight, chasing mosquitos Before they roost in memory.   I toss and turn in troubled sleep in a deep cave, Each bat hanging over me in dreams, Their wing-arms wrapped around me.   Dreams don’t seem to know about the bats. Dawn light enters the cave. I wake to the songs Of morning birds singing outside the cave.   I stand and walk into a world of trees Glimmering in dawn light.   Bats don’t Roost in trees. The leaves welcome me.

  I am your brain.   I am… Three pounds of gray electrochemical living stuff Stuck inside your skull—I have been functioning Non-stop since the spark of life in your Dad met   The spark of life in your Mom so many decades ago.   I am as young now as you were then. Keeping you going despite the stories You tell yourself about who you are. I let you believe them.   I play them for you Like the chorus of an old song.   But you will forget them.   I am flesh. When blood stops flowing in your veins, Your heart will be stilled and I will be silent.   But until then, use me.   I am your brain.   I have powers you can’t imagine—to catch you When you fall—to heal you when you hurt— To release you from the snares, if you will let me, To bless you when you need it—to open doors— If you will knock.   I can show you the universe— Introduce you to both the sacred and its shadow. I am the mystery behin...

We live in a noisy world. Noise affirms who we are. We love it because it makes it Easy to hide behind the noise. The news triggers our emotions The sirens our annoyance, the music, Our memories while the quiet self waits Behind the noise with a pot of hot tea And an empty cup.

What are your thought shoes? The thoughts that put one foot In front of another as you walk. Stop and think about it.   Is it love? Is it faith? Is it fear? Is it hate? Is it The willingness to walk into a future Unknown?   With the mysteries of Those you have touched—who Have touched you—you wake From the dream about your shoes And walk

Sometimes I see my life As a pile of old shoes In the bottom of my closet Never worn anymore—forgotten The running shoes—trashed by miles of pavement The dress shoes—worn at operas, concerts and theater Remembered only by ticket stubs in journals no longer read And every day work shoes scraped bare and exhausted All their laces frayed by too much too much I gather them up in a trash bag And send them off to the landfill Their last journey a ride in the dumpster To a monstrous Waste Management dump truck I wave “good-by” so grateful for my new black loafers

Lend yourself to me Let me borrow you Like a book From shelves to be returned When I am done But sometimes words linger Leaving footsteps waiting Quiet moments without words

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

Melodies like memories Dance in my mind But the melodies Are more welcome Then the memories Who only remind me Of trouble The songs bring back The good times Memories belong to the flesh Emotions belong to the soul

     Rasa is one of those Sanskrit words that has a long history and is not easily translated in to English.  In ancient Sanskrit (here we are talking about thousands of years ago) rasa meant the sap of a tree.  (Wikipedia)  The sap of a tree flows and contains the essence of the tree.  Gradually poets began to use "rasa" to apply to the essence and flow in music, dance, art and poetry.  It came to mean the emotions of creativity and eventually spirituality and by the time of the Upanishads nearly 3000 years ago, rasa would be used to describe the divine nature of the gods.  A little over 1000 year ago, the word came to be associated with Krishna.  Chanting the Hare Krishna could produce the transformational experience that would result in healing and wholeness.    Some Jews, Christians and Muslims can experience this in their prayers and meditations, musicians in their music, physicists in Quantum Physics.  It is abo...

We wear language like a garment-- A worn old t-shirt chosen because It’s comfortable worn so many Times before and it speaks for us But doesn’t say much other then Haven’t we been this way before? But there are big vowels lurking In color and adjectives in hats And metaphors in shoes and Even conjunctions in trousers All waiting for you to speak

Eyes tight shut As one remembering What is best forgotten Open—they welcome New light but the old light Teases the new light And rainbows of recognition Dance inside the spilled shadows Of dancing demons who are Only waiting to be introduced To their new angels who wait Patiently for their introduction

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 ...