CurranPoem

Father Sun—Sister Moon Dancing in the beauty bright Turning round in beams of light That defy the dark of night Music of the blessed spheres Melodies for those who hear Poetry does what prose tries to do but never quite succeeds because it is always going somewhere.  Prose is about from here to there.  Poetry forces the mind to stop and look at what is right in front of you.  It is not about from here to there but from here to here. Prose runs.  Poetry walks.

Pragmatism—I use to think of myself as a liberal but as I got older I found myself realizing that people who call themselves liberal could be just as self-righteous and obnoxious as people who call themselves conservatives.   It was all about the “I am right—you are wrong”   game which is one of the worst games human beings can play.   If you carry it to the extreme, it is OK to kill the people you don’t like. I don’t want to play that game.   So what does that make me?   A moderate?   A centrist?   Someone sitting on the fence?   So I started to call myself a progressive.   That worked for a while but soon I realized that many progressives had not thought through how their ideas would work.   So I called myself a practical progressive…too many syllables.   I have come to think of myself as a spiritual and political “independent.”   My faith and politics are based on values, not creeds or ideologies.   I support c...

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

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