CurranPoem

  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