ODE TO ABANDONED POLICE STATION
POEM FEATURED IN
"MY JUMP FROM HEAVEN"
A COLLECTION OF POEMS
POEM FEATURED IN
"MY JUMP FROM HEAVEN"
A COLLECTION OF POEMS
Ode to abandoned police station
I
Abandoned police station you sleep by tourist shops and city harbor.
Strange there is nothing to extol your past grandeur.
What untold stories of daring-do behind your walls must hide?
A metal fence with bars imprisons your history from the curious eye.
Your main archway has no plaque or flag that stories patrolmen brave and bold;
Who with bullets and smoking pistols brought bad men into custody;
and in pursuit of justice gave their lives and blood.
You trumpeted the academy lesson about protecting life and property.
It was you who stood against evil in the cold night and offered protection.
Now your hollow skeleton lies abandoned and forgotten.
II
Like a fallen god of yore abandoned without praise.
What powerful demonic event could have stolen your pride?
What colossal event occurred that you now rest unadorned?
It was from your stomach long ago patrolmen went to the streets;
with guns, clubs and handcuffs each to cast shadows of giants.
What of those patrolmen, forgotten orphans everyone?
You were the father of patrolmen who honored right over wrong.
Their muscle, blood and thought were your soul and rule.
How could the city fathers leave you without acclaim?
The day your doors were closed perhaps they were afraid.
III
Since the first Roman Centurion with spear and shield took a complaint
from a citizen of Rome about the emperor’s law being broke
what has remained the same is human nature.
Surrounded by the smell of sulfur and blue-pink flare;
before a patrolman decides to make an arrest; before a detective
begins to lift a latent print with charcoal-dust and tape; or in a cushy office
in the sky the lonely district attorney deigns to prosecute;
none can but think about the options in their heart
of what or who would benefit
from their decision to charge or not.
IV
An orphan son who once wore badge and gun stands outside the station wall.
He wonders what terrible monster could have caused his father’s fall.
After all, the purpose of the station was to protect property and life.
He gently placed his hand on the station’s wall as if to feel a pulse,
or perform an autopsy; then in dismay he pulled his hand away-
to ask, “What is a police station anyway?”
At best a house of shepherds with guns protecting rights and pursuing wrongs.
At worst a box of tin stars that turn a few hearts into momentary gods
and for a few moments outside the court police become the hands of fate
fixing wrongs and rights in the darkness of the night.
V
Behind your cold walls the careers of honest men were lost.
Good men were accused of dispensing justice outside the court;
not to scare the criminal on the street, but set a price on broken silence by police.
Patrolmen and chiefs faced false accusations of scandal and crime.
Turf war and station politics caused investigations to implode and slide.
On graduation day recruits threw away the pursuit of misdemeanor and felony.
The reign of self-investigation was ushered in with a siren crying emergency.
Public relations hacks, sycophants and chiefs scrambled over station walls
to find safer positions in other stations, to look back with red faces
where the abandoned protectors could not defend themselves.
VI
Your story is of loyal men and ambitious chiefs.
A tale of protecting life and property wrapped in the circumstance
of trust and power that eventually forces each to ask,
“Where shall I place my heart?”
In the hands of brother cops who cover my back with pistols cocked!
In books of law and men in robes that seek justice in this world.
Or justice of the ultimate kind in the worship of divine.
Some find the answer in the law, others in their god, alas some exchange
Their soul and silence for a part; or like the orphan son,
turn in their badge and gun.
VII
Without a celebration of great deeds, without a stone or plaque,
Without a speech that lauds the dead to insure no questions asked;
This is the way great police stations are retired;
One day the doors are closed and a demon comes to rest and guard;
To guard against the brave deeds of lawmen springing forth;
The whisper in the monster’s breath takes the form of simple truth:
“When silence is exchanged for promotion and reward,
after time, instead of law silence is enforced.”
Best step soft about this building’s vacant rooms
and not disturb the ghosts of past investigations closed.
Abandoned station silent sleep between Pacific Highway and West Market Street.
Part of the Ode was written in the parking lot of the old San Diego Police Department located at 801 W. Market Street, San Diego, California, on the evening of the day the doors were officially closed. The old department is today a tourist attraction. There is yet to be placed at the station a memorial/ or plaque detailing the greatness of the men and women who served the City of San Diego.
Charles N. Guthrie’s poems often embrace famous people as well as non-famous such as this poem about the revered Patti Smith, or a poem about an old girlfriend entitled Bigfoot, who after breaking up left her large tennis shoes with him and because of sentimentality he could not bring himself to throw her shoes away. Linda Opie’s Eyes, written as an Ode, is about a La Jolla High School crush the author had on the to be actress and movie star. Elegy to Hank, is about the iconic Loyola Marymount basket ball player Hank Gathers who heroically died on the basket ball court. The Ghost of Judy Mae Hess, who played Princess Summer-Fall-Winter-Spring in the Howdy Doody Show--- whose firing in 1953, broke the hearts of little boys and girls in the United States and created consequences for Richard Nixon and John Dean when the little boys and girls grewup in the 60s and 70s. A poem entitled Pete Wilson, about his statute which stands alone on a downtown San Diego street extolls the virtues of a good and decent man (with some humor). The River Ouse, is a poem about Virginia Woolf’s insanity and suicide. Old Joe’s Dirt, a rhyme about “the road to Stalingrad,” the Russian People, Joseph Stalin, Winston Churchill, Charles De Gaulle, and Dwight D. Eisenhower coming together in a poem about World War II. Hey Freud Holster Your Cigar, a humorous rhyme — sometimes a poem is just a poem. Guthrie grew up in West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and California. His two uncles one a pastor in the Lutheran church, the other a Minister in the Presbyterian— Guthrie’s father at different times played the church organ in both churches, resulting in the author’s attendance at all church services. Often his family moved in West Virginia where he attended McKinley Junior High School, St. Albans Junior High School, and Dupont High School.
In Ohio he went to John Glenn High School (New Concord High School); and when 15 he moved to La Jolla, California, graduating from La Jolla High School. After seven years on the San Diego Police Department with commendations for armed robbery arrests he left police work as an acting sergeant to finish law school. He holds B.S. and M.S. Degrees in Criminal Justice Administration from San Diego State University and a Juris Doctorate from Thomas Jefferson Law School. His Masters Thesis on domestic violence written at San Diego State University was used to fashion the present day California Penal Code's domestic violence laws. At Thomas Jefferson Law School he received AM JUR awards for studies in Torts and Remedies. He writes books, and practices law in San Diego, California.
Here is a poem entitled The Studebaker: It's about getting lost in a West Virginia graveyard, south of St. Albans, close to the Kanawha River.
I came among the congregation to stand and pray on the cemetery lawn. I was a child, come to pay homage to ancestors that had come and gone. The loved that walked before I was born; but, they were still in the conversation. Songs were sung and prayers read. Sacrificed flowers placed on graves. With a sore neck from a bowed head and bored with songs and prayers, I walked away into the graves. Got lost and became afraid. When I found my way back my family had completely left. My family’s dead flowers sprawled over the cemetery graves. The Studebaker that brought me would stop then it would blow its horn. Someone called my name into the stretching shadows of the gone. . . . . If you want to see how Studebaker ends, purchase My Jump From Heaven.
We use cookies to analyze website traffic and optimize your website experience. By accepting our use of cookies, your data will be aggregated with all other user data.