The Passion Of Johnny Robinson

Johnny and his friends bent steel with their hands,
sent rocks and bottles at cars full of white

revelers on the Sunday streets of Birmingham.
A black church had been bombed, four young lives

taken.  Johnny cussed and flung his reprimand
till the law came—a cop, a shotgun—and he lay

facedown, a door blown off its jamb in a storm. 
In the alley, dust, and a flow of desperation: 

a small stream had risen, had breached its banks,
as rain pressed the levee and waited to be given.

link to the NPR story about Johnny Robinson’s death that inspired this poem

Shepherds Of The Street

The shepherds of the street who pass our house
each day do not suppose they go their way for me.
By gentle steps, one or two move past our place.

At times, a posse walks up to the store
to meet some friends or buy a pack of smokes

and as they go, they talk to me if I am there
and rise above my fear to catch their eye.
Or I may give a Hey, to my surprise.

I am sure I never have that much to say,
but when we speak—or nod our heads to make a sign,
or pound our fists to greet, or even when,

from in the house, I hear them on their way—
I find their presence to be not unlike a compass.

The shepherds of the street do not suppose
they go for me, but, steady, move their feet
south by southwest or else north by northeast.

Tapestry

photo by Denton Harryman of GreenvilleDailyPhoto.com

Answered prayer, she says, you are an answer.
Billiard balls dance behind plate glass.
Cue sticks aim, wave, conduct our conversation.
Like over-sized batons they signal us to begin.

Friendly strangers, we lay out the makings
for a tapestry—words, expressions.  We weave
answers and questions.  A weft thread
beneath the warp rises to the pattern.

With longing, each one eyes the other
standing there.  Each looks for a close weave,
for a familiar image to appear amidst the intricacies,
beneath the lighted Corner Pocket sign.

Our eager, wanton prayers fly quickly, brightly,
like a tight rack of balls at the break.
Like many lavish threads, they emerge from below,
pressing against each other to form a whole.

to see more of Denton Harryman’s photography visit http://GreenvilleDailyPhoto.com

Amid Old Friends

Amid old friends, a working hand
comes down hard.  Fear falls on the land,
as a fist becomes a hammer,
a glass tabletop to shatter.
A man, afraid, will take a stand

when, not according to his plan,
he receives a humble brand
and is loath to drop the matter
amid old friends.

Shards sing out how rage will expand
into violence, will demand,
with a loud rattle of anger
and a bang of bad behavior,
that we heed a fool’s reprimand
amid old friends.

The Best Thing About Old Friends

The best thing about old friends is:
You can visit them in a cool city like
Atlanta, near a really entertaining and
educational attraction—the Aquarium.
Your old friends have been successful and
own a beautiful home with a guest
bedroom suite that has its own bathroom.
There is another room for your children!
They treat you to lunch at the Varsity
then buy your tickets to enter the Aquarium.
Later, they sit and listen while you tell your
interests and opinions. These turn out to be
many of the same things they say are their
thoughts and intentions as you listen to them.
You eat grilled tender steaks together and
decide there are many best things about
your old friends. And while you’re chewing and
sitting and listening and being
listened to, you begin to recognize a surprising
sensation you never expect to be feeling
this side of heaven. And you know that your
old friends are the best thing about them.