firepoems page 2

Paul Harvey News 1994
Nobody knows why firefighters are firefighters. Not even they can tell you
why. It's time somebody try.
Firefighting is the most risky of all dead end jobs and yet also the one where
  most workers are most likely to punch in early. It's hard enough to believe
 that; it's impossible to explain it. Fire and ice are uncomfortable separately or
       together. Wives hate the hours. Kids love the noise. Fire and ice.

  Any day at the firehouse the bell from hell puts the dispatcher on the horn
 with a tenement tinderbox address. Into the bunker pants, turnout coat, grab
  the mask and go. Minutes later you're onsite. As others run out, you go in.
     You'll need all you can carry. The four pound axe, a six foot rake, the
 halligan bar. The ceiling concealing the smoldering has to come down and it's
  one of those stubborn tin ones. In the scary dark with the heat eating your
 ears, you're gouging out and tearing loose and pulling apart, gulping air and
 tasting black. Your windpipe is closing and you've lost track of which way is
out. Is it worth it?

 They've budget cut your ladder company from six to five, so now everything
  you do is 16.67 percent more difficult and more dangerous. Your air is low.
   Inside your mask you're throwing up. There's a searing ember down your
 neck. Torn gloves expose a smashed hand. So you emerge from the holocaust
hugging, with your elbows, somebody’s singed kitten. Fire and ice. You've had
  minutes of exhilaration on the bouncing rear mount of a steaming hundred
   foot Seagrave, hours of using all you've learned and learning more. Now
  you're back at the station house. You've unstuffed your nostrils with soapy
  fingers; you can almost breathe again. Next come the tedious hours as you
  and Brillo gang up on the grimy tools. The cleanup crew at the firehouse is
you when windows need washing and toilets need cleaning and floors mopping
   and beds need making, you do it. Fire and ice, they both go with the job.

  Then there's that night another engine company gets there first and you see
  this wet-eared rookie hot-dogging ahead; his academy boots still shiny. You
 lose him inside the crackling dark and you forget about him until your helmet
  warning bell says get out. The battalion chief is calling you off. You get out;
   the other guy didn't. He had heard a scream from the bottom of burning
  basement stairs and he headed down there, when on the bubbling tarpaper
      roof the three-ton compressor broke through, that day we lost two.

  Oh, yes, firefighters cry, but only briefly because now comes the inevitable
 and evermore paperwork just in case OSHA complains or somebody sues. Is
 it worth it?

 Your B crew pumper swapped his day shift so some family guy could be home
  for his kid's birthday and then, outbound toward a false alarm, your buddy
          gets blindsided by a hotrod driven by a drunk. Fire and ice.

   The intercom barks again. This time it's a warehouse, a big, fast, multiple
  blaze, probably torched. Onsite engine men draped with icicles dragging an
  inch and three-quarter hose are waiting for your big line: ladder men can’t
 make the building without you. Search, rescue, ventilate. Eventually it's over
  and out. You're smoke smudged and sleepless and wrung out, but you won.
  Behind graffiti-fouled walls you saved what you could. But the raging blaze
  that wanted to consume adjacent buildings did not because you were there.

  Back at the firehouse before cleanup, you and the guys sit a spell, tired but
stimulated, drinking coffee and laughing, and feeling good about one another.
   Nobody outside your world can ever quite know that feeling. In any other
  uniform you get streets named after you for killing people; in this one you
 risk your life to save people. Until one day you run out of chances and at one
  final fire, either you buy it or you don't. If you don't, it's only eventually to
 be brushed off with a puny pension. Yet there's no third way you'd ever leave
              this job and you're doubting even God knows why.

You're out of the shower now; most of the grime and some of the cynicism are
     down the drain, when you hear a strangely familiar voice saying, "For
 salvaging things and people from flames, I have to rely on your hands." You
  look around, still nobody. But when you get over your incredulity, you feel
  better. Suddenly today’s crew cook in the kitchen hollers chow. It's time to
 eat. It smells like roast beef today, and that'll be good. But you'll eat fast, for
any next alarm you'll want to be ready.

A FIREMAN’S MOM is in a class of her own. Like an angel from heaven, like
 a queen on a throne. Her heart and spirit as large as a mountain, With a smile
 that sparkles like a sun-splashed fountain. She’s put up with me since the first
   sound I’d spoken. Even to this day . . . that’s a feat seldom broken! While
  she’s fully aware of the danger I face., She rarely shows it - not even a trace.
  But deep within . . . her thoughts are more prayerful, "Lord, watch over my
child - OH please . . . be careful." A beautiful lady with her charm and appeal,
   Never missing a birthday or my favorite meal. Like a rare-cut diamond; a
   priceless breed, Always ready to help any person in need. Not mentioned
     enough, like a prayer or a psalm, "You’re loved more than ever," my
FIREMAN’S MOM.

Neal Mullane, Jr.

As you lay down your head, you won't sleep very well; You are always waiting
   to hear the next bell. When the time comes, you forget the fear; There is a
 calling that only you hear. To save a life you would give your own, And there
is never enough gratitude shown. The risk, the dangers no one can tell; But it's
  always there, and you handle it well. With courage and caring in our time of
 despair, We feel safer knowing you will be there. In those rare quiet evenings
 when sleep is near, You wait for your weary head to clear. As you drift off to
 sleep, is it rest you will find, With thoughts of the job still on your mind? You
 helped someone; you did all you can. You wanted to do more, but you're only
 one man. How do yo feel when you witness the pain? Does it weaken you, or
   is it strength that you gain? The strength that is called for so many times,
  When visions you saw still race through your mind. Do you want something
 else? Are there any regrets? There's so little recognition a firefighter gets. Do
   all the emotions you keep unshown Surface only when you're alone? Does
 anyone see what you are feeling? Is there some pain that needs healing? You
 keep up a wall that's hard to break free. You let no one in, so no one can see.
 What alarm do you ring when things aren't going well? When you need to be
  rescued, who do you tell? Who holds your hand and says it's alright? Who
  listens and comforts you through the night. Depended on by all, and we all
  agree Nothing compares to the security Of knowing you're just a phone call
 away, And you keep us safe day after day. You don't ask for thanks, but this
         much is true: You give us yourself, and for this we thank you!
 

 Patti Esposito

Chris Richards

here is some cool history of the fire service

History of the Maltese Cross

The badge of a fireman is the Maltese Cross. This Maltese Cross is a symbol
    of protection and a badge of honor. Its story is hundreds of years old.
   When a courageous band of crusaders known as the Knights of St. John,
  fought the Saracens for possession of the holy land, they encountered a new
 weapon unknown to European warriors. It was a simple, but a horrible device
   of war, it wrought excruciating pain and agonizing death upon the brave
             fighters for the cross. The Saracen's weapon was fire.
  As the crusaders advanced on the walls of the city, they were struck by glass
   bombs containing naphtha. When they became saturated with the highly
    flammable liquid, the Saracens hurled a flaming torch into their midst.
  Hundreds of the knights were burned alive; others risked their lives to save
            their brothers-in-arms from dying painful, fiery deaths.
    Thus, these men became our first firemen and the first of a long list of
     courageous firefighters. Their heroic efforts were recognized by fellow
crusaders who awarded each here a badge of honor - a cross similar to the one
   firemen wear today. Since the Knights of St. John lived for close to four
  centuries on a little island in the Mediterranean Sea named Malta, the cross
                   came to be known as the Maltese Cross.
  The Maltese Cross is your symbol of protection. It means that the fireman
who wears this cross is willing to lay down his life for you just as the crusaders
   sacrificed their lives for their fellow man so many years ago. The Maltese
  Cross is a fireman's badge of honor, signifying that he works in courage - a
 ladder rung away from death.

 -anonymous

danger

Living with danger, facing those fears,
making people safe by being near.
Taking the call, racing to fight
fires, day or night.
Excitement mounts,
anticipation and readiness counts.
A rush kicks in...
prepared to save lives begins.
To do the job, he's trained to do..
 fighting fires, loving it too !

fire

sparks ignite
smoke and light
flames begin to grow
red and gold
flickering brightly
heat of fire grows
licking the wood
with tongues of flame
growing hotter
growing higher
encompassing all there is
charring all it touches
leaving ashes of black and gray

A Firefighters Story