When digging for answers
I found a new level
Kept shovelling deeper
Ran in to the devil

He offered protection
He baited with vice
Through his ringmaster's grin
Promised Paradise

Politely, I declined
In peace, took my leave
He tracked me and traced me
Devoid of reprieve

His net cast so broadly
An erroneous shove
What he didn't see coming
Incalculable love

Wealthy people have a knack
Of making contributions
They don’t let trials get them down
But focus on solutions

So don’t let anger conquer you
Or seek out retribution
But seek to take the higher road
And offer a solution

Of several ways to undertake
A problem’s diminution
The best by far is simply choose
A mindset of solution

So cultivate this daily choice
There are no substitutions
To making it your daily goal
To seek out good solutions

Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
******* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.



Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com

I started this because
No one else would
And I told anyone who asked
That if they wanted to be in charge they could.

I took charge because
It was the right thing to do
But if you wanted to do it
I would’ve let you.

I'm not in charge of directing
Or picking out the cast
And if you wanted me to have less power
Then you could have just asked.

I'm only gathering names.
And making sure we’ve got a script.
I'm not judging the talent
That's someone else’s pick.

You could have spoken to me
Instead of some random prefect
Words hidden behind your hands
Like I'm some ***** secret.

Would you rather it was a mess
Of crumbled papers on the floor
With sean yelling st us
And Ms carvill wanting more.

Would you rather we did nothing
Had no play at all?
But would you stand that judgement?
Would you take the fall?

What is it you actually want?
I hope I find out later
Cause I'll put it in the play for you
Signed-
   Your loyal dictator.

Give a man some straw
to build a bridge,
and he will find a way
to mend brittleness for his
Family to cross.

But give a man cement
and the foundation will be lazy

There is the ancient story of a shepherd boy
whose king outfitted him with armor
to ready him for the challenges of the day
and the boy could not walk
so he threw off the armor
picked up his sling
and tended his father’s flock
with peace and joy freely erupting in song.

My armor is not wealth or wit
I cannot make myself fit
into the current conventions and hype
trying to conform to the normal type
stops up the energies that yearn to flow
freely and gleefully and urge me to go
to the dawn, darkness, clouds and sun
to wrap myself in words that run
like sparkling streams
and windswept dreams.

Poetry is my armor for each day
where worries and problem allay
where I search my feelings and mind
for the word elixir loosening knots that bind.
This armor does not weigh me down
but frees me to my triggering town
where I find and create the poet me
and the landscape of my soul’s poetry.

I am optimistic
that Destiny
will reveal to my mind
the answers and solutions
as I continue to ask Destiny
philosophical-questions
about how I can achieve
joy and happiness
within the situations
Destiny is bringing me.