That’s Harry!
As a retired Philadelphia Police
Officer, poet, and writer, who has written a newspaper column for over
twenty years, I have been called a paradox. I see both sides of issues
crucial to today’s world.
I have toughness tempered by compassion
and I see our city from a unique perspective. Life’s grime does not
deter me. I can handle the problem and move forward. As a poet
and writer, I am a dreamer, creating sweet, humorous characters in poetry
and prose. I am able to tell the stories and adventures of real people
I met in my travels.
I have wonderful stories of caring,
love and insight. I to walk a different beat. I had one partner killed
in the line of duty, and another murdered while selling his car.
I saved my own life due to my strong intuitive nature. I write about
the comeuppance paid by those who inflict pain on others. Growing up in
South Philadelphia, and later as a cop walking the beat, I appreciated
unusual people and situations like the Dusty Rusty Guy, The Boy in the
Box, and the Wife for the Refrigerator Sale. I tell stories of The
Dancing Policemen, The Six-Foot Rabbit, and the Oedipal Policeman. I was
a private investigator, and later I worked with teenagers, therefore gleaning
more stories to add to my repertoire. I have learned something from
everyone I have met.
I stand on my handy soapbox,
sharing my philosophy to everyone who will listen. I am ready to
do battle with all the unfairness that befalls us. When I was a young boy,
I wrote poetry, stories, and songs about my girlfriends and life as I saw
it then. My perspective is the universal understanding. It
is the “everyman’s” saying, “Yes, I feel that also.” The poet asks
himself a question, the cop answers. The cop asks himself a question,
and the poet answers. This is the paradox.
My heroes are men like Will
Rogers, my own dad, and men who are true to their own sensitivity and who
are open and honest about these feelings. I can cry and laugh with
the best of them. I can poke fun at myself and at our strange world
when I feel it is necessary. As my limerick says,
The things that we make of
our lives
That feed and nurture and
thrive
Are the things set in dreams
With off-winding schemes
Can be seen with the heart,
Not the eyes.
I look forward to telling stories,
anecdotes, insights and experiences in future articles.
Copyright 1999 by Harry Martin Polis
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Street Scene, 9
x 12", by Jaynee Levy-Polis
THE DUSTY RUSTY
GUY
When I was a rookie, and did not know better, I met an old man with
baggy, dirty pants. He used to push a wooden cart up Frankford Avenue.
His pushcart was filled with old newspapers. I used to look at him,
and think that he was an old rusty kind of guy who hardly talked.
I can remember only one time I heard him speak. That time occurred
when I was riding in a patrol car. I had stopped and was making what’s
called a “routine car stop”. The dusty rusty guy saw me pull the
man over. He ambled over to me and said, “Hey, don’t do that here,
where I live!” I was taken aback. I didn’t know what to say,
and I was so surprised, I forgot I had the right to stop cars anytime I
needed because I was a police officer, and my job was to stop cars when
they ran red lights, or had old tags, or broken lights. That time,
I had not been going to issue a ticket or do anything much, but I realized
later that the rusty guy had interfered with police work and could have
been arrested. But I was a rookie and didn’t realize my rights and
authority as a police officer.
Time passed and one morning I found myself crossing school children
at the corner in front of the dusty rusty guy’s house. He lived there
with his elderly mother. I would see him pushing his pushcart, but he would
stop dead on the spot when he saw me. He would zip back into his
house. The house looked dingy. There was never a window
open, nor an open shade. For about ten years, I saw the rusty guy
whenever I had that school crossing. He always gave me the same silent
stare.
One day, I noticed that his old house was empty and up for sale.
Although it was in a prime location, it was never sold. It stands
to this day, a sad empty property, a memorial to the dusty rusty guy and
the story he never got to tell.
Copyright 1999 by Harry Martin Polis
Edited by Jaynee Levy-Polis
Harry is available for lectures and entertainment with stories and
poetry. Contact SCOOP USA, or e-mail Harry.
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Poetry
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3 Articles by Harry Polis and
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Fine Art Paintings
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