Of Sanitation

We, the yellow vested men, grab the bar
and toe the rail at the back on either side
of the county truck as it jerks, bucks
and grunts its girth through city block

or subdivision.  We leap down, run-trot,
retrieve bins, and attend the marriage
of wheeled plastic container
to greased hydraulic mechanism.

Laying on gloved hands, opening lids,
facing odors, yanking levers—all advance
the cast-off expedition.  We bend and lift,
even reach in, for the sake of the human

trash mission.  Ours is the rubbish romp,
the crud collection, the pride and pomp
of garbage; we are the shakers and dumpers,
the bones and gristle-meat of sanitation.

The Graceful Rider

I recall the asphalt—a blur
beneath—and my days
at the school of tachometry.
All my dreams had chrome
tailpipes and handlebars.
They shone like a vision.
I leaned into the turns
until the foot pegs scraped.
Hardtop suited me just fine.

I evoke the throttle’s spirit—
the twist and release—
and the engine’s heat.
They moved me, but pavement
takes a toll; ditches are replete.
All those close calls,
falls, and crashes hurt,
but I never refused the road.
I crossed the double line

before I slowed.
Then came the graceful rider.
He rode from days of old
on everlasting tires
because the time had come.
When he spoke I shattered,
but he whispered to each piece;
for every shard he shouted.
His voice was bread and wine.   

Pursuit was his standard
and he tattooed me with fire.
I ducked and dodged
and rolled with bent desire,
but he planned my course.
He pierced and purchased—
broke my bones and mended—
then caught me with a look…
He saw a man born blind.

When my will failed, he gripped.
He healed my road-rash knees,
rebuilt my make and model;
he saw to parts unseen
and my gears made changes.
Rubber on the street
moved me to new places.
Beneath chain and sprocket
I saw narrow roads unwind.               

Sleep and Dreams

No crime, keeping watch for couplets or half-lines
to cut through the alley or gather at the street sign.
They arrive as I usher my daughter to bed,
as I doze by her side.      And no surprise

to see them when I stay up after midnight…
but to find them at the trigger of a drive-by
is a hard rhyme.  I have no wish to testify

when the shooter is close—when he is the son
of a neighbor; when I pass him on the sidewalk
on his way back from the Short Stop—then I think,

No!  I didn’t hear a gunshot; I had a dream
that ended with a pop.  I tell myself
      I never had the gift; I need more sleep.
      No living poet would choose this street.

Hydrant

An asthmatic stares at a TV.
It warns of red air quality.
Her bathrobed elbow
Is welded
To a smokey table.

She does not rise
To the window, does not see
The dash of children’s feet
Racing to the city’s hydrant
Or believe
In the sun burnt men
Who clench their teeth
And open it.

They tear the hot street
And find the broken pipe
That would have sent
A mud flow rushing
Toward her kitchen sink.

The asthmatic strains to breathe,
But does not reach
Past the ashtray
To the inhaler
Set beside a glass-half-full
Of something clear to drink.

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.

Beautiful Girl #8

Starry Night Over The Rhone

Beautiful girl, it’s to your sky
I draw my gaze.  Your starry night
has ways to catch and hold my eye.

Though I am often caught in town,
you still appear.  You captivate,
though city light would keep me down.

You beckon to that country place
and, there, decry the well lit streets
and parking lots as lesser grace.

Your sky reveals an ageless cheer:
though stars unveiled by darkest night
are far, they beg us to draw near.

Everything Is Broken by Bob Dylan

Broken lines, broken strings,
Broken threads, broken springs,
Broken idols, broken heads,
People sleeping in broken beds.
Ain’t no use jiving
Ain’t no use joking
Everything is broken.

Broken bottles, broken plates,
Broken switches, broken gates,
Broken dishes, broken parts,
Streets are filled with broken hearts.
Broken words never meant to be spoken,
Everything is broken.

Seems like every time you stop and turn around
Something else just hit the ground

Broken cutters, broken saws,
Broken buckles, broken laws,
Broken bodies, broken bones,
Broken voices on broken phones.
Take a deep breath, feel like you’re chokin’,
Everything is broken.

Every time you leave and go off someplace
Things fall to pieces in my face

Broken hands on broken ploughs,
Broken treaties, broken vows,
Broken pipes, broken tools,
People bending broken rules.
Hound dog howling, bull frog croaking,
Everything is broken.

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

Motorcycle Memories: One Day A Graceful Rider Caught Me

This poem has been revised many times.  It is getting much closer to what I want it to be.  Yes, I used to ride motorcycles.  I wrecked several times, including a crash where my bike stuck into the side of a Ford Escort and I flew over, landing in the road.  By the time I came back to consciousness, the emergency crew had arrived.  A full-face helmet saved my head (and life).  I had many other close calls.  Clearly, God preserved my life each time as he continued to pursue me by his mercy and grace.  In a very real way, he rode with me.  In an earlier version of this poem I said, “Only he could look me in the eyes at speeds of 80 and above.”  He never backed down or gave up on me.  This poem, one of the first I ever wrote, continues to be an encouraging reminder of my Savior’s faithfulness.  I hope it encourages you as well.  Thanks for reading.

I remember the asphalt…how it let me
live outside the lines on a bike.
I remember a rowdy night-spot
where speed got up to pick a fight.
My bright wheels cannot forget: boots,
a leather jacket, and turns
that made me lean down to the pegs.
The boundary blurred
till hardtop hit like hard times.

I recall the throttle: a twist and clutch
made emblems in the road.
It sounded good, but ditches stood
nearby; the pavement took its toll.
Parking lots demanded wheelies.
I never did say no to them.
Close calls, falls, and crashes…
some could lay it down, but I wrecked.
My graceful arc crossed double lines.

Still, I did not slow the pace.  Then,
one day a graceful rider caught me.
How he chased!  How his engine raced!
He had new tires and tattoos of fire.
His eyes were like mirrors,
and when I looked I shattered.
But to each piece he whispered;
for every shard he stood and shouted.
His voice could not be unkind.

He made pursuit his standard.
His hands, like living stone, never tired.
I rolled with bent desires,
but he anticipated every deviation.
He determined my progress;
he broke my bones, then mended.
I fled, until he pierced and purchased,
until he caught me with the look of love…
a look that saw a man born blind.

He gripped when my will failed.
He healed my road-rash knees.
He knew my make and model.
He saw parts no one sees.
Now I listen—as gears make changes,
as rubber on roadway moves me
and I approach new signs and places,
as chain and sprocket go humbly—
to make a narrow road unwind.

November Highway

I drive on hard and hallowed roads
until the blue sky stoops,
until my radio receives
these strong November days.

They transmit Dylan’s boot leg
release number eight.
The buzz of amplifiers rises
when he breathes.  Once, he says,

I had a pretty girl, but she did me wrong.
Now I’m marching to the city
and the road ain’t long.
I join the sacred melody;

I join everyone
who moves over these highways.
We drive and sidewalks go beside us.
We sing and signals bend to find us.

The People Of 4200 Shenandoah Avenue

The People of 4200 Shenandoah Avenue are
above average-not an ordinary lot. We buy a
home on the street, unaware that we’re surrounded by
the finest names in neighbors on a city block;

turns out these folks are cut from first rate stock.
There’s Walt and Rhonda (and Buttercup, their
golden retriever). Their welcome is ever ready
to extend. At Thanksgiving we’re like old friends.

James and Mary also reside up at the end. Each fall,
they throw a creepy Halloween costume party.
Their front porch is decorated with elaborate pumpkin
carvings. One year we go as Velma and Shaggy.

Lynn lives across the street. She keenly keeps an
eye on things. On weekends, she sells homemade
barbecue ribs and spaghetti. She drives a great big
car and always shows up for the block party.

One day, Liz and Jay (with their dog Barney) move into
town from Cincinnati. They are as non-generic as
neighbors get. They never miss a chance to be good
to us. They are self-abasing, funny, and direct.

Kevin and Stephene are godly; they live next door.
Their black lab is Schaeffer, he’s outrageous.
They, however, are mature and caring. Like
food additives, they are agents that stabilize us.

Tim and Kristen, Steve and Alisa all live together
(with Hank the terrier). They’re the new next door
neighbors when Kevin and Stephene depart. Whenever
we make treats, we invite them over to take part.

There’s Brandon and Afua, Sean and Kris, an
Irish priest named Patrick, another Patrick with
his Juliette, and Lillian and Pastor Brad who
buy what once was Walt and Rhonda’s pad.

Arriving from Holland, it’s Ralph and Alied. Later,
we meet South Africans Andrew and Justine. Though
Pat and Jess, who used to live below us in a duplex,
are now gone, their names remain bright and strong.

By each of these names we come to know a kindly
touch, like lovers hands that gently hold our faces.
These people give their hearts to us and make this place
a city block where neighbors names are graces.