POLICE POEMS

POLICEMANS PRAYER

Oh Almighty God
Whose Great Power And Eternal Wisdom Embraces The Universe, Watch Over All
Policemen and Law Enforcement Officers. Protect Them From Harm In The
Performance Of Their Duty To Stop Crime, Robberies, Riots And Violence.
We Pray, Help Them Keep Our Streets And Homes Safe Day And Night. We
Recommend Them To Your Loving Care Because Their Duty Is Dangerous. Grant
Them Your Unending Strength And Courage In Their Daily Assignments.
Dear God Protect These Brave Men and Women, Grant Them Your Almighty
Protection, Unite Them Safely With Their Families After Duty Has Ended.
Amen

What Are Policemen Made Of?

By Paul Harvey...

Don't credit me with this mongrel prose. It has many parents - at least 535,000 of them. They are policemen. A policeman is a composite of what all men are - a mingling of saint and sinner, dust and deity. Culled statistics wave the fan over the stinkers and underscore instances of dishonesty and brutality because they are "news". What this really means is that they are exceptional and unusual, not commonplace. Burled under the front is this fact: Less than one-half of 1 percent misfit that uniform. That's a better average than you'd find among clergymen. What is a policeman made of? He, of all men is at once the most needed and the most unwanted. He's a strangely nameless creature who is "sir" to his face and "the fuzz" behind his back. He must be a diplomat so that he can settle differences between individuals in a way that each will think he won. But, if the policeman is neat, he's conceited. If he's careless, he's a bum. If he's pleasant, he's a flirt. If he's not, he's a grouch. In an instant, he must make decisions that would require months for a lawyer. But if he hurries, he's careless -if he's deliberate, he's lazy. He must be first to an accident and infallible with a diagnosis. He must be able to start breathing, stop bleeding, tie splints and, above all, be sure the victim goes home without a limp. Or, he must expect to be sued. The police officer must know every gun, draw on the run and hit where it doesn't hurt. He must be able to whip two men twice his size and half his age without damaging his uniform and without being "brutal". If you hit him, he's a coward - if he hits you, he's a bully. A policeman must know everything and not tell. He must know where all the sin is and not partake. The policeman must, from a single human hair, be able to describe the crime, the weapon and the criminal - and tell you where the criminal is hiding. But if he catches the criminal, he's lucky - if he doesn't, he's a dunce. If he gets promoted, he has political pull. If he doesn't, he's a dullard. The policeman must chase bum leads to dead ends and stakeout 10 nights to tag one witness who saw it happen but refuses to remember. He runs files and writes reports until his eyes ache - all in order to build a case against some felon who'd get dealed-out by a shameless shamus or an "honorable" who isn't. The policeman must be a minister, a social worker, a diplomat, a tough guy and a gentleman. And, of course, he has to be a genius, for he has to feed a family on a policeman's salary.

 

When God made Peace Officers...

When the Lord was creating peace officers, he was into his sixth day of overtime when an angel appeared and said, "You're doing a lot of fiddling around on this one."

And the Lord said, "Have you read the spec on this order?

A peace officer has to be able to run five miles through alleys in the dark, scale walls, enter homes the health inspector wouldn't touch, and not wrinkle his uniform.

"He has to be able to sit in an undercover car all day on a stakeout, cover a homicide scene that night, canvas the neighborhood for witnesses, and testify in court the next day.

"He has to be in top physical condition at all times, running on black coffee and half-eaten meals. And he has to have six pairs of hands."

The angel shook her head slowly and said, "Six pairs of hands... no way."

"It's not the hands that are causing me problems," said the Lord, "it's the three pairs of eyes an officer has to have."

"That's on the standard model?" asked the angel. The Lord nodded. One pair that sees through a bulge in a pocket before he asks, "May I see what's in there, sir?" (When he already knows and wishes he'd taken that accounting job.) "Another pair here in the side of his head for his partners' safety. And another pair of eyes here in front that can look reassuringly at a bleeding victim and say, "you'll be all right ma'am, when he knows it isn't so."

"Lord," said the angel, touching his sleeve, "rest and work on this tomorrow." "I can't," said the Lord, "I already have a model that can talk a 250 pound drunk into a patrol car without incident and feed a family of five on a civil service paycheck."

The angel circled the model of the peace officer very slowly, "Can it think?" she asked. "You bet," said the Lord. "It can tell you the elements of a hundred crimes; recite Miranda warnings in its sleep; detain, investigate, search, and arrest a gang member on the street in less time than it takes five learned judges to debate the legality of the stop... and still it keeps its sense of humor. This officer also has phenomenal personal control. He can deal with crime scenes painted in hell, coax a confession from a child abuser, comfort a murder victim's family, and then read in the daily paper how law enforcement isn't sensitive to the rights of criminal suspects."

Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek of the peace officer. "There's a leak," she pronounced. "I told you that you were trying to put too much into this model."

"That's not a leak," said the lord, "it's a tear."

"What's the tear for?" asked the angel.

"It's for bottled-up emotions, for fallen comrades, for commitment to that funny piece of cloth called the American flag, for justice."

"You're a genius," said the angel.

The Lord looked somber. "I didn't put it there."

The Lousy Cop

Well, Mr. Citizen, it seems you've figured me out. I seem to fit neatly into the category where you've placed me.
I'm stereotyped, standardized, characterized, classified, grouped, and always typical. Unfortunately, the reverse is true..I can never figure you out.

From birth you teach your children that I'm the bogeyman, then you're shocked when they identify with my traditional enemy..the criminal!

You accuse me of coddling criminals......until I catch your kids doing wrong.

You may take an hour for lunch and several coffee breaks each day, but point me out as a loafer for having one cup.

You pride yourself on your manners, but think nothing of disrupting my meals with your troubles.

You raise hell with the guy who cuts you off in traffic, but let me catch you doing the same thing and I'm picking on you. You know all the traffic laws...but you've never gotten a single ticket you deserve.

You shout "foul" if you observe me driving fast to a call, but raise the roof if I take more than ten seconds to respond to your complaint.

You call it part of my job if someone strikes me, but call it police brutality if I strike back.

You wouldn't think of telling your dentist how to pull a tooth or your doctor how to take out an appendix, yet your always willing to give me pointers on the law.

You talk to me in a manner that would get you a bloody nose from anyone else, but expect me to take it without batting an eye.

You yell something's got to be done to fight crime, but you can't be bothered to get involved.

You have no use for me at all, but of course it's OK if I change a flat for your wife, deliver your child in the back of the patrol car, or perhaps save your son's life with mouth to mouth breathing, or work many hours overtime looking for your lost daughter.

So, Mr. Citizen, you can stand there on your soapbox and rant and rave about the way I do my work, calling me every name in the book, but never stop to think that your property, family, or maybe even your life depends on me or one of my buddies.

Yes, Mr. Citizen, it's me...the lousy cop!

THE ROOKIE & HIS CHIEF

The young man came foward, his face drawn and sad
As he held out his hand, displaying his badge.
The old chief rocked slowly and put his hands on his lap
And shook his head gently and said,"What is this crap?"

The young cop sniffled, and from his eye wiped a tear,
"I've given you my best for almost one year.
But I make no difference, as we once thought I could,
There is far more evil out there than there is good."


The old chief stared up into the young rookie's eyes
And tried to recall something clever and wise.
"Tell me", he said, to the once eager young cop,
"How many DUI's in a year have you popped?"


"Forty-two," the rookie replied with great pride.
" and had you not, how many more might have died?
It's not how many are arrested, now, is it?
It's how many less accident scenes you must visit."


The kid hung his head, and flexed his strong hands,
"But, Sir," he said, softly, "You don't understand.
We're greatly outnumbered, the drugs are the worst,
The schools are like hell, and the streets, they are cursed.


Dealers breed like damn roaches. On the kids, they all prey,
And even when arrested, they are out the next day."
The old chief set his jaw, and tapped his finger,
And on the young cop, his eyes sadly linger.


"If one little kid cannot get connected,
If one pregnant junkie finds the strength to reject it,
If one lousy addict decides he can beat it,
If one crack-head in a million says I just don't need it,


Then you have removed his greatest temptation,
If only for a night, it might be his salvation.
And wars are not won by those who say, "Screw it!"
They are won by the men who decide they can do it.


The rookie pulled up a old wooden chair
And running a hand through his stock of brown hair,
"But what about the children and the poor battered wives?
Why can't we stop it and fix all those lives?"


"Each time you set foot in that same, run-down house
Each time you go back to bust the same dirty louse,
For the children and wife the violence has ceased,
If for only a few hours, you offer them peace.


You cannot dictate their said chosen path,
You cannot stop his booze-laden wrath,
You can't pack their belongings and cart them away
But you can prevent murder for just one more day."


"But Sir," he said, his heart heavy like lead,
"I know there are dirtbags who wish I were dead,
But the public, the press, the politicians fling mud,
And who says 'thank you' when we shed some blood?"


The chief pursed his lips, his answer unknown
For he knew it was this pain that hurt to the bone,
"There are no easy answers for the ache that you feel,
But appreciation and praise just ain't part of the deal.


The respect, gratitude and admiration, too
Will not come from people who cannot do what we do.
You ask for a sense of honor and pride,
My advice, my son, is to look deep down inside."


The young cop stared down at the badge in his hand
And he knew he would not resign as he had planned,
For he saw the badge now as not just something he does,
It was not just a symbol....It's what he was.

(The following writing is in Honor of a Municipal Police Officer who paid the ultimate sacrifice)

"The Badge Shines Bright"

The badge shines bright
On the shirt of blue.
It takes a strong soul to wear it
A heart that's proud and true.

He says good night to his family
before he walks out the door.
He must go watch the streets,
Yet he does so much more.

In his car, when the call comes,
The lights are flashing blue and red.
He would never hurt his children,
He can't believe what was just said.

With his partner awaiting,
He has to be there, he must answer the call!
The wife is frantic,
"Put the gun down," but the man won't withdraw.

Shots are fired, his partner is hit in the arm,
One more flash is seen, someone must fall.
His partner is there, and so is the man,
and on the ground He lies, giving his all.

He says goodbye to his family,
With the pain in his chest.
The lights are flashing, blue and red,
As he begins his final rest.

Leaving a wife and two children,
Is the hardest thing He would ever do,
How will they live,
What are they going to go through?

Will His children grow old,
will His wife move on?
Will they know how much He loved them,
Now that He is gone?

He was only doing His job,
Trying to help who He could.
It was never known how hard it was to be a Cop,
But now His family understood.

On three cheeks, three tears shine bright,
Like rain from a cloud,
It takes three strong souls to shed them,
Saying goodbye from hearts that will always be proud.

(In loving memory of Patrolman Ronald J Turek, killed in the line of duty, March 27, 1985.) Written by his son, who says don't worry Dad, we know how much you loved us.

Somebody Killed A Policeman Today

Somebody killed a policeman today, and
A part of America died.
A piece of our country he swore to protect
Will be buried with him at his side.
The suspect who shot him will stand up in court,
With counsel demanding his rights,
While a young widowed mother must work for her kids
And spend alone many long nights.
The beat that he walked was a battlefield, too.
Just as if he'd gone off to war.
Though the flag of our nation won't fly at halfmast,
To his name, they will add a gold star.
Yes, somebody killed a policeman today.
It happen in your town or mine.
While we slept on comfort behind our locked doors,
A cop put his life on the line.
Now his ghost walks a beat on a dark city street,
And he stands at each new rookie's side.
He answered the call and gave us his all,
And a part of America died.

                                                                                                                                          

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