CurranPoem

  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