It is the rainy season. The rain comes fast and hard each day. It is usually in the late afternoon. When the rains come, they shut “movement” amongst the prison. One can not get from here to there. The rainy season can last 2-3 months, this year I think it’s gonna be a long one. Therefore, either you get done what you have to before the rain, or you could end up locked in a cell-block till it’s over or even the next day.

But, I know the ways of a rainy season. I know where to be, be as I I write this. I know how to get caught frozen to a small place out of the rain, a place where I can not move, not allowed to move until the rain goes. If it is a long rain, I will have to make my way back to where I am housed. I will end up very wet, but that usually does not happen as I play it right. I stand alone, under a overhang that keeps me dry. There I listen to the rain and thunder. There I think of things.There I see the fast water running down, across. Seeing it i think, I think I am at fast rivers bank. I stare, stare in time that narrow fast water becomes a different water, a different place. I’ll stand there and look out across the way, eyes cutting through the silver rain. I’ll think back, see her face there besides me as we wait for the storm to pass. I’ll kiss her lips. First, she giggles, then draws me close to her, the sound of rain and the warmth of her. I even smell her beauty as we embrace.

I’ll stand there looking down. I begin to see the forest path of which I ride my horse under the leaves that have rain slicing between them. I smell the heat of the horse, the wet of the leather… And I ride. I ride not for home, no, further than that where it’s just life, earth and me.

Yes, within the the rainy season I know how to jail, write in it. It brings me some peace. I have never written anything free, only caged. At times I know that God has chosen this for me, for I am one of his soldiers. Can he let me march free, free under his rain again. It is not much to ask. Yet, I ask over and over, day after day. Lord, please give me that ’second chance.” If I do not get that, at least he gives me the rain.

As I slowly walked across the prison compound, I let the very hot sun beat upon me. My walk is to the visiting room, where I will be rewarded with the cold air inside. Today’s visit will be different though, let me explain. Today I will speak with an attorney for the first time in many many years face to face. You see, I’ve been doing my own legal work for years. Many legal minds in my prison past have brought fresh hope only to have it stolen away while I languish in my prison cell.

Her name is Marcia Silvers,(pictured above with George) an attorney from Miami Fl. She works closely with Attorney Roy Black. Word is, she’s the best legal research mind for post convictions to come along in many years. Roy and Marcia are working on my freedom. I work on keeping my sanity, something I must do day after day after day…

From the visit I took away many good things. While walking back towards my cell after the visit, I stopped, looked up to the Heavens, took deep breath, and silently, I said;

I am not of common man
Where I am is where I fair
Death can be near, yet I never fear
Bless the lord-good people are near
To fear the fear takes too much care
Where I am is where I fair
The sun comes, tries to burn me, I’ll never run
Come freedom I’ll see my son
Lying there beneath some land
Oh where oh where is life so dear
So I walk some more as my cage awaits
For where I am is where I fair
For I am not of common man
Of common man call me not

Each Sunday, late afternoon, I receive the Lord’s host. Of course I say a special prayer afterwards. There is a special spot I go and kneel before the Lord. A low space, square with steel bars. The side of the bars I see are not white like the outer side. No, kneeling, I see rust. I have been coming to this spot for four years, saying my special prayer and the rust has gotten worse.
After my prayer I also do the same thing every week with my hands. I reach out aways and begin to pick away bits of debris, weeds, and, now and then, some insects. Funny how it still lives. Yet certain times of the year it is unyielding, just a stem. Then at good times of the year it blooms. Just one tiny flower of red. Funny how there is no other about it, just it. But I honestly enjoy just staring at the rich red color of it. But today, Sunday, as I cleaned around it, stared some, it came to me!
The flower is like me. You see, of late, some good people have found a spot. They kneel before it and begin to pick, push and clean above at first, then lower and all around me. They are trying to push away much debris. They are trying to give me space so I can live and not strangle from the weeds of prison life. For I truly believe I have blossomed of sorts. Oh it was hard to flower for I had to extend my arms very high to keep the pushing foliage from crushing down on me. Now I have help, and maybe and finally the season of miracle will come. A season where my rich color can be enjoyed by all.

This is George’s cousin Alexandra Rose. She wrote this to George recently and he was so moved by it, he wanted me to share it with all.

An Angel without wings.
A Saint unrecognized.
His miracles walk the halls so cold.
They each hold a piece of legacy untold.

Giving to all, all that he has.
Never holding back his gifts.
Knowledge, experience, compassion, and love.
Like the arm of God working from above.

When he’s granted his overdue freedom,
the love will not cease to flow.
This man is an Angel of the highest rank.
Each day, for him, the Lord I thank.

I thank God for Georgie.
For all that he is.
I know I’m not the only one,
So many are grateful for this miraculous son.