Daydreams

Daydreams is a collection of fifty-one poems from the new school of eclectic poetry. It contains a broad mix of verse about the author's life experience and observations. The poems are delivered in a range of disciplines including metric rhyme and free verse syllabic.

Mr. Currie has further differentiated the book from modern poetry dogma by including color photos with each poem. These pictures and brief comments relate to the poems in a variety of direct and subtle ways.

As described in Rebecca Rule's syndicated column, Bookmarks, the book contains "poems you can understand-and care about."

Mr. Currie has blended the ingredients of humor, thoughtful observations, introspection and an artist's careful eye into a collection that uniquely connects to the reader.

This book is a new, refreshing and different presence in the world of modern poetry.

Poems

The Road

Through old mill towns,
Married to rivers
That have lost their purpose.
Facades staring out,
With long memories,
And short futures.
Leaning toward the water,
Like divorcees
Who can’t let go.
 
Past dairy farms
That once prospered,
Now fighting for survival.
Faded red barns,
Framed by rocky meadows,
Rusting mowers,
And homes too big.
Waiting hopelessly,
For reinforcements.
 
Weaving through valleys
Huddled in shadow.
Mountains made tall
By their hulking proximity.
Stealing the sunlight.
Bullies ruling
A small world.
Forcing travelers
To go around.

Ending at the highway.
The intersection
Of fast food and fast cars.
Public restrooms
And self-serve gas.
Where everyone knows
Where they are going,
And can’t remember,
Where they have been.

Heroes

When did cowboys stop righting wrongs,
Doing good deeds and singing songs?
Did it exist that simpler time,
When hearts were pure and people kind?

We take such joy in crushing dreams,
In making things not what they seem,
Why can’t we let children pursue,
The innocence that we once knew?

Rules to live by have changed a lot,
Since Arthur lived in Camelot.
Knights don’t quest for the Holy Grail,
People try to make others fail.

It’s strange to me what’s on TV,
Everyone’s watching tragedy.
Shows with hope are considered lame,
Crime and sex the names of the game.

Our heroes now convey their views,
Appearing on the evening news.
Guys taking drugs, fresh from divorce,
Setting our children’s future course.

Have we really come out ahead,
Worshipping rappers, eyes so dead?
Perhaps cowboys doing good deeds,
Is still something the country needs.

The Backyard

Grapes sweating in the early shade,
Hanging heavy on arbor spars,
Soon to be crushed, strained in cheese cloth,
Sweetened and stored in Mason jars.

Beds of violets, soft and free,
Running to the edge of the hill,
Peering down at thorns and brush,
Rebel seeds, growing where they will.

Basement marks show an old porch gone,
That once in grandeur had looked down,
Over the vines and purple beds,
Across the valley, to the town.

This childhood house, no longer home,
One final look, for memories,
The arbor gone to rebel seeds,
The backyard view now blocked by trees.

But as I passed the basement wall,
A faint glimmer broke through the mar,
Buried near where violets grew,
A tiny piece of Mason jar.