CurranPoem

Wisdom is not words It’s something in the eyes… Something in experience Something that was hurt And was wounded and healed And tucked away in the heart The healed heart talks to the eyes Quietly saying “See differently” “See quietly” The world that hurt you Is not forever. Words will talk And say wise things But the words are a mask Of the heart--who knows That what the eyes see Are mealy waves on a Very deep ocean

The Shared Values of Spiritual/Political Independents     Respect for the spark of life in every human being.     Respect for the Earth and all living things.     Respect for all cultures, races, genders and religions.     The validity of science, philosophy and spirituality in our search for truth.     Justice and compassion in all human affairs

I lie on my back on a grassy hill At night alone with the moon and stars And the breath of cool night air Thoughts try to think me And I stop them—they are yesterday And tomorrow—not tonight Where the stillness of this moment Lets me pass into s specialness Of quietness uncomplicated By thinking

I watch the dance in the torn world Torn between body and soul The body is animal—The soul is so very human The body is flesh—willing to fight for self The soul is something new on earth Emerging out of Earth into uncharted realms Where caring replaces the self And knowing replaces instinct And the soul discovers love—unknown To the animal but he is fascinated Love and lust become mixed  In the new human brain and.... The confusion is immense— Often beautiful—often violent—often both Then they die—but the soul has left its mark In beauty, in words, in images, in things, in love

Sometimes I am stopped dead in my tracks by beauty by something that doesn’t come from within me but something outside of me. Sometimes a sunrise.    I wake before dawn and make coffee and walk out on my back porch.   The sun rises with golden rose touches on the clouds.   I watch.   The sun says “don’t think, just watch” and the sun rises over the ocean, over the mountains and the sleeping city.   I drink my coffee in silence. The sun would rise with or without me. Sometimes a simple blooming lily in the garden next to the building where I live.   Age has slowed me down and I notice things that younger, I would have sped right by.   Its blossom is small but glorious and I pause and bow to beauty surrounded by traffic and horns and people catching the bus. Knowing this flower would bloom with or without me…with or without the people catching the bus. I know it won’t make any difference in their life or mine but sometimes A simple...

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.