CurranPoem

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.