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September -


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
its name.  

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
enjoyable activity.

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 family

to principle

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


and love.


I look forward to visiting

and lingering

and being

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.


Written 9-22-10


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 madness.

Written 6-2-10


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

awaken 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

like me.


They, they, they.

The mote in their eyes

the plank in mine.


What toil

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.   


Written 9-8-10


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
for something
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
to focus
and practice

On game day
schizophrenic me
braves the traffic
to sit with Shakyamuni
searching for compassion
having lost
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.   


Written 12-5-10

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