Caged

Horror and pain of my life / rides the winds of my sleeping mind /
Shivering awake / I stare and wonder looking out at the prison yard amidst the razor-wire fence.
How can this unconscionable evil be / How long will this injustice and wanton sacrifice of human life go unanswered and unrevenged

And how long will the thunder clouds of my soul hold back the volcanic eruption of my anger / Which sunrise will bring my rescue

And evaporate this ugly nightmare from me / Just another surviving night awakening to the sickening smell of my painful unhappiness /

Tormented and burning wishing hoping trusting for the wings of justice to flutter free the horrible wrongs done to me /

Horror and pain of my life rides the winds of my sleeping mind /
Shivering awake I stare and wonder looking out at the prison yard
amidst the razor-wire fence /

How can this unconscionable evil be /How long will this injustice and wanton sacrifice of human life go unanswered and unrevenged /

And how long will the thunder clouds of my soul hold back the
volcanic eruption of my anger /

Which sunrise will bring my rescue / And evaporate this ugly nightmare from me / Just another surviving night awakening to the sickening smell of my painful unhappiness /

Tormented and burning wishing hoping trusting for the wings of justice
to flutter free the horrible wrongs done to me.
by BRIAN JOHNSEN, #300907, 1115 H. St. Modesto, CA 95354

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The World of The Forgotten

Women come to prison having no shame Thinking being in this world is all a game, Laughing about violence Crying about drugs Not because of what it's done to their life But because they can't get none. They walk this place Strung out from their high Not realizing it's killing them slowly
inside. Do you think they wonder if their family is okay? The only time they pick up the phone is to see If their money's on the way, Not to see if the baby's fine, or the kids went to school today They can't face reality Life's too damn short Coming in and out of prison like it's a sport The plot to this poem is very simple and true In here is like out there The drug's using you! You're a puppet to a substance That Satan has preserved You can ask for help, no need for words. Lift up your hands, Give your habit to the Lord! -Leticia Cortes W#45898-5-D-30-2U P.O. Box 1508 Chowchilla, CA 93610-1508 Letting Goby Gregory Shock TO "let go" does not mean to stop caring,it means I can't do it for someone else.TO "let go" is not to cut myself off,it's the realization I can't control anotherTO "let go" is not to enable, but to allow learning from natural consequencesTO "let go" is to admit powerlessness,which means the outcome is not in my handsTO "let go" is not to try to change or blame another,it's to make the most of
myself.TO "let go" is not to care for, but to care aboutTO "let go" is not to fix, but to be supportive.TO "let go" is not to judge, but to allow another to be a human beingTO "let go" is not to be in the middle arranging all the outcomes, but to allow others to affect their own destinies.TO "let go" is not to be protective, it's to permit another to face reality. TO "let go" is not to deny,
but to accept TO "let go" is not to nag, scold or argue, but instead to search out my own shortcomings and correct them.TO "let go" is not to adjust everything to my desires, but to take each day as it comes and cherish myself in it .TO "let go" is not to regret the past, but to grow and live for the futureTO "let go" is to fear less and love more! YARD TIMEI run miles in squared circles 22 strides long by 11 wide, Brushing the walls with my shoulders, Nudging them outward . . . pushing against my confinement. Flying in my mind's eye, challenging their oppression. I daydream of loved ones and glance at the sky On the straight-aways . . . 22 strides long by 11 wide. I fight all the battles we won on the streets, I breathe with the cadence I set with my feet. And when I tire before I'm ready to stop My mind recalls the story I've read so often to my kids. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can . . . As the little engine struggles to the top, And the joy of the children as they change the chant . . . I thought I could, I thought I
could, never say can't. So the pain melts from my lungs And settles in my heart As my stride opens up To the pace at the start, A new cadence grows as I cover the distance, One we all know . . . Repression Breeds Resistance Repression Breeds Resistance Repression Breeds Resistance(Written 1990, Control Unit, Trenton State Prison) by Tom Manning, 10373-016 P.O. Box 8500Florence, CO 81226-8500 The Wannabe Quorum prs magna fui . . . I've always wanted to ask my mother what it felt like to- -to bring a child in from one wet- closet into another world where she herself had drowned within the tears of a self-deluge brought on by fears of her own making -making me feel at home with fears of my own ineptness and the emptiness that had lain long like a child borne out of an unhealthy anger; forced into a mediation between the living and what whose breasts at I once suckled- considered dead -dead to the fact that if my mother had ever spoken about him more than once -to me he wouldn't have been the one who had fathered these guilt- ridden eyes that sometimes cried out constantly wanting to ask for attention, constantly wanting what I felt was due to me, wanting
only to know the truth about bottled- tears and if they age.

by Lee W. Doane, 91-B-1447 Box 51, Comstock, NY 12821
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Heartache


My house is one of heartache
A place of steel and stone
A barren cell, a home in hell
And here I stand, alone
And when I rage and pace my cage
That no man wants to own
My body aches with frozen stakes
That chill me to the bone
I hear them sling their giant keys
And crank the iron locks
The scrape of feet upon concrete
The guards patrol the blocks
Convicts' knives take human lives
No jungle holds more danger
And each new day that comes my way
Each man remains a stranger
I watch my back 'cause there's a lack
Of men who can be trusted
And through the haze there comes a rage
Toward the rat that got me busted.
They came today and took away
The man that lived next door
To end his strife, he took his life
He couldn't take no more.
It's quiet here upon the tier
Since Death has claimed a brother
Now each of us are wondering:
Who might be another?
Allen B. Williams, C-09851 P.O. Box 7500, PBSP
Crescent City, CA 95531

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Wake up Call

Is this a hellish nightmare that I have to awaken from?
Caged and confined, thinking and pondering,
I wonder what human is this
that he should be subjected to imprisonment
that neither improves nor corrects his soul?
Is there no compassion for restoring a man
to contribute to this nation?
Or does the dark side of humanity
see offenders of the law as utter undesirables
unworthy of aid and therapy?
Society, I have been tried and sentenced.
Serving time for violating the law
is not supposed to be a picnic.
But demoralizing and dehumanizing a man
to the dust of the ground does not correct behavior
which got him incarcerated in the first place.
This only fuels the fire,
a fire which, if not handled properly,
will in time burn everything in its path.

Now who is the real criminal?
by Douglas Duncantell C-52514 B2-229, P.O. Box 7500 Crescent City, CA 95531
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How Sweet It Is

How sweet it is to be loved, To be loved by the Lord He's the food

that I eat He's the water that I drink.

How sweet it is to be loved, To be loved by the Lord.

He's the shelter in the storm He's the blanket that keeps me warm.

How sweet it is to be loved. To be loved by the Lord.

Man put chains on me, Lord, But he can't put them on my heart.

How sweet it is to be loved, To be loved by the Lord.

-Tommy Jones, H-53663 FAC. 5-22-145 up 480 Alta Road San Diego, CA 92179

 

Remember Me? (1979)

I'm your mama Who carried you
nine-month belly warmth
kayak peapod journey
to opening night
and love-crawls breastward
your bird-mouth seeking
suckling
through sing-song lullaby
rock-me-gently bedtime intimacy
and (god, I love you) quiet moments
to first step accomplishments
giggles and discoveries
and, hey, you said my name time
to hugs and spills and tears
and fears . . . and losing you
after 17 short months
and seeing you now infrequently
at jumping joyous five
arms open, eyes seeking
Remember me?
I'm your mama.
Diane Hamill Metzger, 005634, P.O. Box 180, Muncy, PA 17756