2010 Poems September - December
The idea for a poetry group (prose)
One morning in July I sat eating breakfast in the Whataburger.
I sometimes write poetry there as I look out at the bushes, trees, and
birds. I watched and listened to the cars rush by and began to wonder
about the name of the road, Pleasant Run. It seemed so loud and busy as I wondered
and sometimes not very pleasant, but there I sat quietly in this little
oasis across from the Texaco station and near the Civic Center. I have
always liked the name of this, one of the main drags of our city.
In my visits to the restaurant I have seen many older people as well as a
diverse mix of folks from many walks of life. I wondered if any of these
older citizens knew how the road got its name. I let my imagination
wander and started writing a poem about how this road might have gotten
I started thinking about how many of our citizens and visitors do
business, travel, and are connected to each other by Pleasant Run Road.
Wouldn't it be interesting to have people write poetry about their
experiences, impressions, imaginings, and thoughts about "pleasant run?"
This idea rattled around in my brain for a few weeks until I finally
decided to take action. I had also been interested in possibly starting
a poetry society in DeSoto, Texas where poets could read their poems and have
them listened to by other poets.
I went to the DeSoto Public Library and had a conversation with the
Director, Lucile Dade in which I shared with her my idea about a
community poetry project around the words, "pleasant run," that might
attract a variety citizens of all ages. We were both excited about the
possibility of bringing our citizens together around such a creative and
After two more meetings with Director Dade, librarian Marq Runnels,
a part time staff member, Elizabeth Hobbs, and my wife, Helen Currier,
we conceived and initiated the Pleasant Run Poetry Write.
We had other meetings, prepared fliers to distribute at local businesses.
Citizens brought their poems and contact information to the library
and eventually we had a gathering of the poets which we called "The Pleasant Run
Poetry Night." Lucile made up nice certificates and the library provided refreshments.
It was a grand evening. We told those gathered that we wanted to begin a poetry
society and decided on a date the next month. That meeting and others evolved
into the group, Poetry in Progress. We met on the first Monday of each month for four
years, celebrating the groups inception and anniversary each year at a local
Mexican restaurant. The group eventually produced a book Poetry in Progress
which was published.
"The idea for a poetry group" Copyright 2010 by Glenn Currier
Written 9-22-10 updated 3-12-20
A Founder's Run Print this poem only
Waiting at the light assaulted
by the noise of a garbage truck
a teenager thumping so loud it hurt my ears
a fire truck racing to a rescue
I looked up, noticed the street sign
and smiled at the irony.
Who and what intersected here
to drive the naming of this road?
One evening, another bad crop loomed.
Full of dread he'd lose his daddy's land
the dying farmer's son stripped to the waist
ran with abandon flailing his arms
shouting his angst to the darkness.
Spent of his fear
he loped the dirt path
breathing in the sweet scent of cedar
lifted his eyes to see the moon
and heard its silver beamed strains.
He looked down at the moonlit rutted path
a soft note of hope stirring within
he visioned his neighbors running with him
and knew then - together - they would make a life
connected along that Pleasant Run.
Author’s Note: This poem was written and delivered at the Pleasant Run Poetry Night.
Written October 22, 2010
Sandy Leads Me Print this poem only
My friend Sandy has left us.
I see her arising
moving across the plains
striding easily and joyfully
touching her fingers to golden wheat
swaying in the breeze of freedom
her eyes focused on the bright Now ahead of her.
Her smile tells me she has left
the dark swamp of suffering,
her determined spirit
heading victorious into the Light.
I could occupy myself
with what my friend Sandy has left us
but as I watch her moving beyond
I find myself thinking about where she leads me.
She leads me to loyalty
to practical wisdom
to toughness in the face of adversity
and a soft inner core
of kindness and gentleness.
Sandy leads me into a protected cove
leafy green with character
I look forward to visiting
in all those places
Sandy leads me.
Author's Note: Dedicated to Sandra Richardson (October 1, 1951- September 21, 2010), her husband Jan, and her family.
soft sweet darkness Print this poem only
It's too early to get up
but I can't stop my thinking
long enough to fall headlong
into the soft sweet darkness of sleep.
I try counting my breaths
saying the Serenity Prayer
none of my old standbys are working
I try my left side then my right
to no avail.
Now I am waiting for first light
dreading what awaits me
on the other side of the fog
where I am desperately trying to lose myself.
Now on my back
giving my sides a rest
I think about the bliss of the amoeba
unperturbed by perception
in its sublime simple sense of the planet.
I yearn for a tear in the fabric of bad news
some little spot where the threads are pulled apart
enough to allow a trickle of peace
an ant or two to crawl through
The Outsiders Print this poem only
Blurry bodies on the fringes
of my determined path
sometimes they move from
the grog of my parietal regions
and bump into me
from my quotidian drowse.
Then I see them.
They are old, sad, uninspired.
They have stopped growing.
They inhabit the dark regions
of orthodoxy I abhor.
They are content to fossilize
sit and watch the world go by.
They are waiting in their pews
for the arrival of the grim reaper.
They are not enlightened
They, they, they.
The mote in their eyes
the plank in mine.
to view clearly
the narrow vision
the long deep ruts of my path
my highly enlightened orthodoxy.
What piece of patience
can I find for my fellow sufferers?
What blinds me to their beauty
their common humanity?
Here I sit in the throes of reflection
trying to liberate and ready myself
to join them.
Two Temples Print this poem only
It's Sunday morning
fall football fading.
Great yawning cathedrals
devouring people, cash, and taxes
soon will close their doors
turnstiles ticking hope
will be locked.
Where will people worship
when the annual ritual bloodletting
fades into the record books?
In Arlington two temples
within a mile of each other
feed the faithful
who come astral searching
to fill the void.
At one, people park free
leave their foot gear in the foyer.
At the other,
fans pay up to 75
just to put the gear in park.
On game day
in one temple
the cheering for offense
and shouting for defense
infuse hotdogs and beer
and within earshot
in the other temple
that noise yields a chance
On game day
braves the traffic
to sit with Shakyamuni
searching for compassion
my patience and serenity
Saturday with the Longhorns.
Author's Note: The Kadampa Meditation Center of Texas is just three blocks from the Cowboy Stadium in Arlington, Texas. After writing this poem I opened the Dallas Morning News and found a magazine insert about the coming Superbowl in Cowboy Stadium and in it was an article beginning with an image showing a stained glass window and football stadium or football symbols of various kinds. The newspaper would not allow me to use the image on my website.