Poem List: 2015 September thru December
​
​
​
​
​
Into the River Print this poem only
About a fortnight ago I cut the chains
thought I’d risen, thought I’d changed
but then I shot me full of shame
filled the black holes with blame
just too many old habits to fight
I need to hold on to the light.
I stepped into the river with you
sunk my head out of view
said here I am Lord here am I
bid my rusty old wagon goodbye
out of my darkness out of my night
I need to hold on to the light.
A little more than two weeks ago
I sparkled and smiled and said hello
out of the water dripping with grace
they said my youth shined in my face
and here I am nigh filled with fright
I need to hold on to the light.
But salvation now seems over priced
where oh where are you Jesus Christ?
Don’t be distracted or confused my son
you are crawling now don’t try to run
keep it simple and you’ll be alright
don’t forget to hold on to the light.
Don’t fall into the mine of fire
make me your heart’s desire
fall into my waiting embrace
ignore ego’s devil face
and when you’re baffled by your plight
remember to hold on to the Light.
​
Written 9-9-15
The Elegant Dragon Fly Print this poem only
By Helen and Glenn Currier
Special creatures are we dragonflies
in our swift flight we sink or rise
back and forth left and right
no insect prey escapes our sight.
In a life-rich pond my life began
then I traveled onto land
but my true joy is in the winds
I do not bite or sting my friends
and some remark on my agile display
you humans say it’s a lively ballet
you see in my iridescence
happiness and purity of essence
you say I live life without regrets
and see life’s meaning in its depths
but in the millions of years on earth
each flight I take is an airy rebirth
so when you need to leave the noise
come watch my elegant wings - their power and poise.
“The Elegant Dragon Fly,” Copyright 2015 by Glenn and Helen Currier
Written 9-12-15
Orange Spotted Bump Print this poem only
His right hand was in his left
looking up from his thumb
his footsteps swiftly deft
we stepped back to let him come
we opened the restaurant door with concern
for the man looked sort of intense
did he have a cut or burn?
We were all in suspense.
Then I saw the small orange bump
the crawly bump moving slightly
I thought I saw the bump jump
but the man was stepping sprightly,
a smile arising on his face.
And as he saw the light outside
he quickened his steady pace
his eyes were gaping wide.
Now he was almost at a run
his hands held higher and higher
the man reached for the sun
the orange bump became a flyer
its spotted wings unfurled
now the orange bump flew with glee
back to its beautiful natural world
and the lady bug was gone, it was free.
Written 9-12-15
Tears of Moses Print this poem only
By now I should be used to it,
again being caught
right there in front of everybody
in my ego moment
an obvious failing
a klutsy unveiling.
How easily and swiftly I descend
into self-loathing
and withdrawal
even privately recalling
deficiency or fault.
No, no one knows of my sinking.
I can feign strength
bravery and good humor.
I am an excellent liar.
But here I am
in the desert
kneeling with Moses,
broken, disheartened, desperate.
I am bent over with him.
He is weak and weighed down
with the burden of his people.
I - just weak
faint of heart
inadequate
ashamed.
I am no Moses
leading a people
through the desert
toward the promised land
but I touch his cheek
feel the warmth of his tears
and they are mine.
On the other hand
think of the glow stick:
it glows only when broken
and kneeling here
fractured and fragile
I glow
I glow
with the bright fluid of your grace.
Numbers 11: 13-18
​
Written 9-13-15
This book no longer in print Print this poem only
The truck delivered it
ordered on the web “used”
printed long ago.
Yellowed pages are fragile
no longer supple
spine cracked
by decades of openings
of being a harbor
for well-traveled vessels
who moored there
anchored in its wisdom.
This book no longer in print.
Oh what a pity
for others who search
for depth,
its old pages still fresh
with meaning
to be fathomed.
Its author in the grave
but still alive here
with provocation and comfort.
I love this book
and cherish its author
who rises up each evening
at my bedside
when I open it
and drink its freshness
both quenching my thirst
and sharpening it.
I am an old book.
I hope I’ll never be out of print
this side of the grave.
Author’s note: Tribute to Louis Evely and his inspired and wonderful volume, That Man Is You.
​
Written 10-1-15
A Visionary State Print this poem only
In a trance I had a vision1
I was walking a golden path
it was bright with words of light
and songs and music full and strong
but I saw dark trees astride
the narrowing path
and suddenly felt alone
as if I did not belong.
But then before me an open field
with daisies and dandelions
butterflies and birds
free again and in the cooling air
inhaling freshness everywhere
singing joy as a prayer.
I am an open field
my spirit soars with wonder
I embrace the scattered
the fringy and the weird
for I so yearn to learn
find God in all his incarnations
in every corner of his creation.
His glory knows no bounds
he shines through Trees
on Golden Paths and Muddy Ponds
and speaks in Dancing Breeze.
At my best
my truest quest
my finest trait
is just to co-create.
1 Acts 11: 5
Written 11-23-15
Growing Away Print this poem only
The last blossoms of the Bougainvillea
reach out to me as I pass
as if to say:
“Good morning
here I am!”
Oh burnt orange bloom
your delicate body
slow-waltzing with the breeze
speak to me of earth
sing me a lullaby
not to sleep but to awaken
from the slumber
the numbness
of my doing day.
How I segregate myself!
The storm out there
the drought over there
the vanishing ice up there
the ant hills in the yard outside.
Me thinking I am I
and you are you
in our separate worlds.
But you are waving saying
“Hey brother let’s touch again
like we did when we were kids.
You knew me then
and the grass and the elm
we were in love with each other
breathing the same air
caressing without shame.
Yes, we were shamelessly
one.”
This secondhand belief
that I am me alone
is it because I am a man?
I’d like to blame it on that.
I think women are made
to be one with the universe
in a way men can neither know nor grasp.
But when I was a child
I had it too. And then I grew
up and away
away from earth.
What a pity.
Hello Brother Bougainvillea
let’s play.
​
Written 11-16-15
Crosses Print this poem only
These people who display crosses
oh what an irritation to me
wearing their hearts
on their necks and fingers
walls and cars.
Leave me alone!
I don’t need converting
I’m not defective
besides, you don’t even know me
and there you are flaunting and flashing
this Jesus before me and the world.
Enough already.
I don’t need it.
But then there’s this Tutu guy
wearing his cross
insisting on forgiveness
and reconciliation
speaking gentle and firm
to anger and reprisal.
A man who sees across the landscape
walks among the lowly and powerful
inviting them into communion.
That ubiquitous cross
almost unseen, ignored there are so many.
But then I hit bottom
the end of my ability to solve the problem
the thorn in my side will not subside
until I decide to take that step
to step into the river
and there to find him
waiting on the other side
clapping hugging smiling
for my crossing.
I crossed
the hoary boundaries of my doubt
I crossed
to listen, really listen,
to take hold of the door knob
turn it and pull it open
and let them in.
They then crossed
into my heart
and took him with them
and deposited his ashes and blood
across my path.
Then he told me to take up my cross
as he took up his
and I did.
And I abandoned my self
and fell into another river
beyond the high boundaries
of my desert.
And here I am
wearing one of those crosses –
not a ritual –
but a piece of my heart.
​
Written 11-11-15
After Baptism Print this poem only
About a fortnight ago I cut the chains
thought I’d risen, thought I’d changed
but then I shot me full of shame
filled the black holes with blame
just too many old habits to fight
I need to hold on to the light.
I stepped into the river with you
sunk my head out of view
said here I am Lord here am I
bid my rusty old wagon goodbye
out of my darkness out of my night
I need to hold on to the light.
A little more than two weeks ago
I sparkled and smiled and said hello
out of the water dripping with grace
they said my youth shined in my face
and here I am nigh filled with fright
I need to hold on to the light.
But salvation now seems over priced
where oh where are you Jesus Christ?
Don’t be distracted or confused my son
you are crawling now don’t try to run
keep it simple and you’ll be alright
don’t forget to hold on to the light.
Don’t fall into the mine of fire
make me your heart’s desire
fall into my waiting embrace
ignore ego’s devil face
and when you’re baffled by your plight
remember to hold on to the Light.
Written 9-9-15
​
Finding Robert Print this poem only
I search the halls and they are empty.
But I hear echoes from the past
elevator bells, animated talking
shouts of joy for tests they passed
shoes shuffling and quickly walking.
I search the halls and they are empty.
I’m looking for friends who were there
for those strong and energetic souls -
wish I could hear Hamm loudly swear
and just once more the stories he sowed.
I search the halls and they are empty.
No more faculty and students huddled
arguing ideas large and small
he with a student who was troubled
lifting him from another fall.
I search the halls and thought them empty.
But turned the pages and I found them
celebrating love and life and friends
they were gathered all around him
joking, laughing, crying, and remembering when.
Now the hall’s not empty but full of Robert’s strong spirit.
Yes, at times I think of Camelot
and those deep and noble days
but I’ve found Robert resting in his Mount Pleasant spot
and now remember his grin, his laugh, and a soul worthy of praise.
Author's Note: Dedicated to and written in honor of my friend and former colleague Robert Hamm who passed away December 3, 2015. Robert was a Faculty Counselor and one of the founding fathers (although he would not be happy with that term) of El Centro College and the Dallas County Community College District.
December 7, 2015
Fishermen’s Consolation Print this poem only
​
Stayed up late into the night
drinking beer and gin and Sprite
slept fast and dreamed of being kings
but too early the alarm bell rings
so we gather our rods and reels
not exactly kicking up our heels
but dragging ourselves to the lake
just before first light breaks.
The water is calm and glassy today
below dark waters and sky of gray
we hope the hungry fish won’t wait
too long before gobbling our bait
meanwhile we chit and chatter
about things that don’t truly matter
and other things we’d never tell
the preacher or he’d damn us to hell.
Today the fish aren’t hungry but we are
so two hours later we head for the car
store our tackle and without delay
we make our way to Pat’s cafe
where we’ll wait as long as it takes
for eggs bacon and piping hot cakes
lots of coffee and conversation
these bites being our only consolation.
Author’s Note: Dedicated to my fishing and camping buddy Joe David – remembering our many camping and fishing trips to Lake Whitney and to Pat’s Cafe.
Written 11-21-15
Instead to Give Print this poem only
They say that you were man but also God
but when you’re hanging there upon the cross
if God - it seems to me completely odd
that you would freely pay so high a cost
without a sword or lightning bold to kill
those men of worldly power and domain,
that you would not assert a forceful will
escape that hill avoid that ghastly pain.
They say you resurrected from the grave
they saw you walk and eat and speak with them
I think you rose the moment that you gave
your life and did not kill the soldiers then,
the day you asked your Dad to let you live -
in your humanity you thought he’d left -
but showed us how to choose instead to give,
those times we feel so selfish and bereft.
I think the Spirit of your Father comes
when every fiber of our being screams
when all we hear are pain’s repeating drums
we’re sure we know we’ll not fulfill our dreams
but then we choose to sacrifice our will
to die a little to our heart’s desire
to rise to find our God atop our hill
and pierce our darkness with your Sword of fire.
Written 10-6-15
Late Blooms Print this poem only
Like seeds in a package
we waited
aching for fertile soil
the spark of Life within.
But then we caught the wind
traveled the decades a thousand miles
before we met.
And here we are
now flowering side by side
in the same garden
in our seventies –
lovely late bloomers.
All this new growth –
this improbable rebirth –
if someone wrote a story
it would seem a fiction,
but this is real.
Still we learn lessons
in this adventurous landscape.
He believes,
he knows
his creation goes on
we still need training.
He is here, ever here
teaching us:
he won’t be bound
or confined
by the mere conventions
of time.
Dedicated to Sarah Murphy and Helen Currier, my precious fellow travelers in the wind.
Written 10-5-15
Seeing Beyond Print this poem only
I can see you
just over the hill
my heart is shackled
to this sacred land
my vision suited
to communion with you
I can see you
just over the hill.
Written 12-13-15
The Field Print this poem only
The field is broad and deep
crops gone
just weeds
oh, the weeds
survivors
of drought
and clever but useless schemes
to kill their teeming.
Across the timeless field
children run and dance with abandon
and chase the wind
sparkling with dragon flies
and flying florets
of dandelions.
Trudging its crumbling clods
are battered beings
bowed
from travails
and travels
in the bowels
of rusty oily ships
conviction squeezed
and beaten out of them
in the shadows hanging
on their backs.
Just over the horizon
a stream
gleaming with promise
and hope
and light
and life.
There on its banks are children
and those beings –
now standing
in daisies and daffodils,
standing beside willows, and reeds
among those tenacious weeds.
And there among this throng
am I
standing
renewed
by Light and Word
joy undeterred
hoping the ship of faith
will carry me
into eternity.
Monday, October 12, 2015
Be Whole Again Print this poem only
There was a blockage in my friend
the doctors had to cut on him
they pushed and pulled and clipped and tied
to redirect his pipes inside.
The doctors said he must behave
for months and months he skimped and saved
on calories and carbs and fats
his wife with patience cooked with class.
His insides had to rest a spell
the docs they said if all went well
they’d put things back the way they’d been
and he’d freely eat and play again.
And now our humpty dumpty’s back
it won’t be long he’ll be on track
he’ll write a poem and joke and grin
we’ll laugh and wonder where he’s been.
I too have had some blocks inside
did things that caused a great divide
I had to go and get some aid
and work to fix mistakes I’d made.
My friend has been a valiant man
his grit has showed me I too can
arise from brokenness inside
be whole and strong where grace abides.
Dedicated to my friend Roland Ruiz. Be whole, Rolo!
​
Written 11-18-15
