by Glenn Currier
God picked me up by my edges
like a penny on grimy asphalt.
Do black holes
and collapsing galaxies
know this touch?
Or a singer on a Broadway stage
hoping the ions of his comet
will dazzle and launch his career -
does he know this touch?
Talking about God
is as futile as trying to clutch
the air in the curl of a wave
breaking on Maui.
Yet here I am
a penny tarnished by travel
being picked up and read by you,
the perfect image
of that always elusive Spark.
I cannot resist writing about it
this Breath as powerful
as a feather floating
into the stormy present.
But I know
like the blueberries in a pancake
lie full and juicy
naked to the slice and smear
of all the truth holders' knives.
I am a willow releasing these leaves
in my autumn.
Let them blow and rest
where they will.
Posted on 08/29/2011
Copyright © 2022 Glenn Currier
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 08/29/11 at 03:25 PM|
It's a pretty big universe out there, and this poem reflects that well.
|Posted by Alison McKenzie on 08/29/11 at 07:34 PM|
I love the view from your eyes. (I just might have already said that before to you, but it's still true; and still worth saying)
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 08/30/11 at 09:31 AM|
Loved Stanza 3, and the whole idea of figuring out how to talk about God. Thank you, Glenn.
|Posted by Charlie Morgan on 08/30/11 at 09:55 AM|
...picked a scuffed penny the other day and now, my/and by God, i see it was you; immediately seeing the sheen (from the scruffing) glinting, called me to bend...a penny ruined(sic) by scruffing; my God![again], boy you have extended me life...thanks for the touch. wonderous Glenn Currier write.
|Posted by Joan Serratelli on 08/30/11 at 12:43 PM|
A great write! I've tried talking to G-d- I think he's mad at me. He refuses to answer me...yet I assume the eathquake and the hurricane said it all.
|Posted by Linda Fuller on 08/30/11 at 06:26 PM|
This is lovely, Glenn.
|Posted by Ken Harnisch on 09/01/11 at 06:45 AM|
I know a guy, Glenn, who will pick up every penny he sees in the street, because he swears every one will bring him something good. I'm so glad I stopped to pick this penny up. It made my morning!
|Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 09/07/11 at 07:34 PM|
When we speak of God and His relationship with us there is much mystery but as your vivid poem suggests a certainty of His purpose. By His grace I can say of God, "Abba, Father".