I thought I was going to take part in a poetry reading today, but it got postponed until July 31.

When I thought it was today – the same day that Darrell Grayson’s execution was scheduled – I decided to read one of his poems. And then I had an idea: I would e-mail Esther Brown of Project Hope to Abolish the Death Penalty and get her to ask Darrell to choose the poem. He sent a poem that he felt was “life confirming.”

And when I asked Esther about his choice, she said, “yes, Darrell remembered that you liked trains.” Not three weeks before his execution date, Darrell Grayson remembered that I like trains. Now that’s a “people person.”

I will read this poem next Tuesday at the Patrick Beaver Memorial Library in Hickory, NC. But I also asked permission to post it today, regardless of whether or not his execution took place. So this post is keeping a promise to a friend.

Darrell Grayson wanted to leave this world a bit better than it was when he got here. And I choose to believe he did. Not only did he work hard as chairman of PHADP, his poems will keep him alive.

JUMPING TRAINS By Darrell B. Grayson

The smooth baritone sound of the locomotive

whistle sent a surge of energy through our

blood and a foot race ensued to see which

dare-devil would escape this world first.

 

The honey-suckle fence was one of the

barriers that separated us from life in the

projects and a rail-road driven world of discovery.

 

There, we went up and over gracefully as ballet dancers

with only our toes touching lightly, to sink joyously

into a soft bed of kudzu and poke-salad decorating

the tracks.

 

As the train rocked by we’d climb onto the cars

and use the ladders as our staging area. A misstep

by one of the troupe would cause him to tumble to

the road-bed where the rocks, as harsh as the gods,

punished him for being youthful. I survived one

such occasion before I received my Glory Wings.

 

The more successful dancers grew increasingly excited

at the approach to our entrance. And then, like

swans, one after another, we floated down into the

inviting, still-blue waters of the trestle…our

heads bobbing to the surface to make one more

curtain call.

This poem is proudly printed here with permission of the author.

“Peace.” 

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