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Garden Room
by Glenn CurrierIt is a place
where my senses
like unseen apparel
or tattered scouts
hang on me,
waiting, crouching, ready
to spring through the glass
to touch the humid heat
and fetch it
to bake my doughy brain
into a loaf of poetry.
My eyes sneak through
the hard transparency,
gather St. Augustine
and succulent greens
at the feet of the elm
and shepherd them back
through iris gates
scattering seeds of light
into fields of hungry neurons.
This room could be no more sacred to me
with the rose windows of Reims or Rouen
or a Cistine ceiling
or a Dali wall.
It is the place I transcend
time and space
to find my soul. 08/07/2004 Posted on 08/08/2004
Copyright © 2025 Glenn Currier
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Charles E Minshall on 08/08/04 at 05:21 AM Sigh, it sounds like a great place to meditate...Charlie |
| Posted by Max Bouillet on 08/08/04 at 06:07 AM It seems as though you have found your temple and shrine. A natural place of spirituality that kisses the soul and brings you closer with the universal spirit. I am jealous of you my friend. Exquisite verse. |
| Posted by Thomas K. Hunt on 08/14/04 at 11:49 PM AHHhhhhh! I need a place like that, thanks for the images...beautiful piece |
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