Glenn Currier

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A story in those eyes            Print this poem only

 

At the bar I drank a few cold beers

and saw him in the mirror on the wall

I caught his gaze and raised my mug with cheers

he forced a smile that had no cheer at all

I wondered if he’d also been through hell

I knew myself the times that I’d been bleak

and saw a story in those eyes to tell,

so I turned to him -- and he began to speak.

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In nineteen ninety-two he went to war

a war he fought by day and lost at night

on streets of gold he buzzed from eight to four

he worked and won a fortune to excite.

But when the sun went down the fortune flew

it went to every tavern in the town

it drained away with every mug of brew.

The gains he made by day - by night came down.

 

In January of that fateful year

the woman he loved left him lost

she died a death that drained his every tear

and every hope for love was lost:

every hope for baseball with a boy

for rooms that echoed screams of little girls

for Sundays out to church to sing with joy

for trips in summers all round the world.

 

He said he wondered if he’d even live

and how he missed her softness and her touch

he wept and said how much she had to give

and  how he hated liquor for his crutch.

We talked for hours into early morn

I listened closely to the pain he shed

and to the grief and sadness that he’d borne.

I recognized the crooked path he tread.

 

And finally the bartend said to leave.

We packed our woes and left that sotted place.

We called a group that promised a reprieve,

we swore to try this gathering space

and meet on Wednesday night the thirty first.

We found St. Ann’s a room where others told

the stories of their weakness and their thirst

and learned to help each other be whole.

 

Written 7-3-16

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Sunset, Sunrise            Print this poem only

 

The sun is trying to set on Dallas

but two days later it won’t settle nicely

its coral-amber swath is wild,

clouds swirl raw and confused

a brooding purple looming sorrow.

 

From a distance the cityscape

silhouettes its jagged dark towers

and sadness haunts this homecoming,

thoughts of the dead and wounded

weigh on me and push out in tears.

 

For years there at Main and Lamar

I heard the angst and strong voices

of those who knew the darkness

of our racial past and stretched to recast

themselves to save that village.

 

I saw bright and plucky leaders

who stood and held fast to the fight

to collect the people and remake a city

fit for the children who could lead us 

to respect, to listen, to speak kindness.

 

Those once stormy youth and their elders

nurtured families who began to live in hope

and became new determined leaders

and followers who would not give up

on this city, our city - unfinished, still growing.

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Author’s Note: On my way back from east Texas on I-20 Saturday evening, having heard and seen the news Thursday night July 7, in the distance I could see the striking sunset and the silhouette of the Dallas skyline.  I taught at El Centro College for 35 years stood on that very corner countless times.  I knew African American and Hispanic students and their parents, some of whom were  leaders and served their community with love and dedication.  I am inspired by people like Chief Brown, city councilman Adam McGough who took my place at El Centro, and the young people in that march. The Dallas Morning News July 10, 2016 front page editorial was the finest and most sensitive writing I’ve ever read in that paper and I congratulate the editors and Michael Hogue the staff artist of that amazing illustration.

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Written 7-7-16

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