Poem: "Final Harvest"

Final Harvest
By Glenn Currier

The church,
tucked away
from the passing caravan,
clean and straight
as a piece of furniture
the town has forgotten

stands unchanged by winds
of eager pollen blown away.
The doors were opened
in past seasons,
green berries grew
and sang
and played
and plucked strains of hope.

The windows gleamed
brightness of sun
color of parrots flew
in lush tropics.

But now a thin gray patina
covers the calloused pews
made straight and orderly
by icebergs
that have sucked out the warmth.

In the back, a stooped figure,
half kneeling, hunched over,
clutches a rosary
of fossils strung together
by her sorrows.

Is she dried up
praying for death?
Have her progeny left her
like sailboats skimming across the mirage
in the distance?

Is she lonely and afraid
or at peace with her maker
who is soon to pluck her soul
for a final harvest?

I hear echoes:
cries of infants,
children’s feet
running the aisles,
exuberance
joyful noise
earnest questions
amber awakenings
tearful healings
eager planting.

New life
pulses
all around.

I hear echoes
but they are faint.

- June 25, 2011

Poem: "Frequency"

My computer crashed recently (woe is me) and I have no way to publish my poems on my website: http://www.PoetryInProgress.net , therefore I have come back to my blog which I haven't visited or edited in quite a while.

Two poems I have written recently express some spiritual issues that are, as this blog suggests, "below the surface." Poetry is the best way for me to express this stuff. It tends to keep me from being pedagogical or preachy... hopefully.

Frequency
By Glenn Currier

A million departures

into the web
into the evening
in which NCIS, and Idol
are no Masterpiece,
the bad news -
tornadoes ripping

onto the streets
crawling with anger
dotted with wreckage
of a day packed with urgency.

My writing sponged from the blood
of ruptured intentions
reeks of rubble
washed ashore
from God knows where.

What delusion
snares me into thinking
I find you here?

You say:
"Come back to me
I did not abandon you
in your dogged run.
Don’t try
to outrun me.
You think your escape
in all directions
has no direction.
Stop and listen.
Hear my strains
in the pitch of plumeria
in the sweating of elm
the small silences of summer.

All you need
is to tune
to my frequency."