Cry Of Babes 2

April 12th, 2014 by George Martorano

…..Racing near a mounted officer; shots, bullets tore into him, knocking the officer from the saddle. Ally stands there, as the van’s door shot closed, yet, he saw others inside ….. children. He looks at the bleeding mother, the down cop, the cop’s horse, standing by nostrils flaring. Suddenly, the horse prances toward Ally, whinnies, and rears….. as the van’s tires burned rubber, fleeing….. Ally sees a name-tag, ‘ Hank ‘,on the horse’s bridle, as Hank hoof stomps the ground wanting to go….. Ally runs for the weapon on the cop’s side, not knowing if the man in blue is alive or dead. He jams the gun in his waistband and in three bounds is atop Hank. Newly released convict and horse become one…..The horse as if trained, focuses on the departing van and bolts, bolts with all the speed with such an animal can muster. All Ally knows, believes, is those children have to be saved…..Ooh, how horse and rider pursue!…. He sees a park and jumps the stone wall to cut the van off. Hank’s speed is closing the distance. “More, just a little more boy…..” Ally pats his neck and Hank picks up the pace.

As rider and steed come upon them, a burst of gun fire comes from the van’s window. Ally is hit in the shoulder; Hank slows as Ally hits the turf. He gets to his knees spotting the van getting away, out of sight. He moans, “the children, oh God, the children”. He raises his bloody arms to the heavens for strength; then bows his head in silent defeat.

Hank hears the sounds first….. sees the Hallowed glow…..Ally looks up, it is Heaven sent ? A golden light bearing strength from God penetrates into him !…. Coming to his feet ,in one jump Ally is again mounted, Hank is racing….. Then, tender voices, children’s voices are telling horse and man the right way to go. Suddenly,they are moving onto and across a barren beltway, Ally sees the van, he has them !….. “No”! Horse and man suddenly halt…..There before them, evil is placed, a wide, deep fissure and far below it lies debris and spear-like iron rods sticking up….. Tears come to Ally’s eyes, no horse can make such a jump,no horse…..Then more of the strange children’s voices come,along with the Hallowed glow are once again upon horse and rider. Ally looks up at the sky, then around him, thinking, where are the helping people of this world, where, where….. !?

As Ally struggles in thought, Hank is backing up on his own with in the glow and the voices rising, surrounding horse and rider….. Hank keeps backing, backing, readying for the charge,…..the leap. Then, Ally understands , believes, truly believes with all his heart and soul.

“For God…..!” He screams and Hank bolts….. running as no other horse on earth has ever ran…..When they reach the edge of the evil chasm; Hank whinnies and sails…..then Ally actually sees them, children, child Angels. Their small hands and beautiful faces, some even smiling so, holding Hank aloft…..When Hanks hooves meet concrete, horse and rider are off again to save…..

Ally keeps the van in sight….. “this way boy “. And Hank jumps a guard-rail, thundering down the high, grass bank. Ally has them now…..”One more jump boy.” Hank leaps onto another barren beltway, an exit-ramp where the van is now approaching.

Ally pulls Hank to a stop, the van does the same; facing each other only fifty yards apart. Ally quickly removes the saddle, then moves Hank to a safe spot; leaving the steed with an affectionate pat, “they’ll not pass here boy.”

He then goes to the center of the exit -ramp, stands with the saddle draped in front him as a shield, the gun in hand…. more of his blood runs ,yet he stares straight at the van….. The child Angel’s singing, urging him on, singing a warriors beat for God’s soldier, Ally. Then ,Ally begins to walk first towards the van… they runs at it ….. The van moves ,picks up speed. coming to run him over , more bullets fly from a side window…..When the van is upon him, ready to smash him, Ally dives, crashing through the front windshield, saddle first. Once in among the fiends and the poor, bound children, Ally’s hurt,yet manages to fire the gun, guided by a child Angel’s hands, making each shot find its’ mark, right into the three kidnappers; not a child harm though…..Slowly the van rolls to a stop, halts with the…..’ cry of babes ‘ .

All is a cloud, a mist…..As Ally’s eyes open, focusing, he sees white walls, he see he’s in a hospital bed, he then feels the bite of a leg -iron on his ankle and one of his wrist is secure too, he is chained to the bed ; a prisoner again…… He was just released from prison and on parole too and worst has killed.

The door is just closing, someone leaves. Then ,voices many voices….. mothers and children push their way in, shoving the guarding police aside.

“My father is a Senator. You’re not going back to jail, this I swear , we all swear.” Ally hears this looking around. The one who spoke was the blonde mother also holding her babe. He recognizes the children from the van, now reunited with their love-ones…..

“Out, out, everybody out. This man is a prisoner, a violent parole violator!” shouts one officer….. “Don’t you shove me. Look at these children. Do you know what those sick-o’s, those monsters wanted to do to them…..!”, the blonde mother points to the children. Then another mother holding her child moves in front of Ally’s bed protecting, ” you ‘re not taking him , you’re not ,you hear me. Take those damn chains off him !”

“I want to see him, I want to see him !,” the lovely red headed, four-year-old leaves her mother’s side….. Ally reaches down with his one free arm, helps her climb up. The beautiful, red headed child begins to stroke Ally’s hair, begins to sing….. the room falls silent, guards stand down. The song is soft and lovely, a sound of sweetness coming from a child’s heart. The words…..about God’s warrior sent to save the children……As she sings, tears run down the faces of the adults, even one guard, all except Ally…..For his face has a bright smile as the young ones about him…..

The End

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973

Cry Of Babes

April 6th, 2014 by George Martorano

The one window where the yellow glow of light comes through is barred. It aligns high up with many other secure windows on a tall gray building in lower Manhattan.

Ally does not sleep, he knows that when they click off the light it is evening count . The ten o’clock bed-count that they have at any and all prisons across America…..

Ally hasn’t slept good for days now, nervous, due to his impending release, very soon now. Yes, the long long anticipated freedom will come at some time after mid-night, Saturday night no less. Tonight. In the warm month of July.A warm night settled in with in a city of many many stories.

Ally’s prison, cell particularly tortures him tonight, tortures in ways his own mind only knows . His cell is at the very end of the 12th floor lock-down tier. No guard nor sound seldom ventures near. Flat on his back staring up, he waits for the little ones. Always around eleven, like now, the mice always come. He always ties a string to the end of a pencil, the pencil bracing up a small trash can;the trap ….. The mice begin chewing on the crackers…..BANG! He pulls on the string and they are caged as he. He then lets them stir a bit, eat a bit, then he paroles them. But tonight, closing on that hour to meet the free world.He really lets them enjoy the crackers longer and only glances down now and again…..Only hearing the low sounds of their lowly movements…..

The coming of keys, the clanging grows and grows. So much so that when the lone guard turns the heavy lock, the steel door swings back…..Ally is standing in the very center of the cell, eyes glaring, rigid.

“It’s time…..” ,the guard stands by the steel door. Ally kicks the can over ; the just guard stares down as mice dash here and there ,one between his legs. Ally passes the guard with only a small brown, paper bag under his arm, keeps walking right on down the tier. Not a stare nor a good bye comes from the other cells at the quiet, dead hour.

Down in the out-going bull-pen, Ally is totally alone and looking at himself the best he can in the scratched up tin mirror. He sees a not-so-bad looking, middle-aged Italian , brown eyes and hair. His attire for the free world; black pants and black shoes, a white shirt and white summer sport coat, no tie, a cool wrist-watch. In his pocket a government check, all his earnings in the prison factory for the last fourteen years.

The same guard, in silence, walks him to the prison’s back-loading, dock door. Getting there Ally sees more rodents scurrying through the barren kitchen….. As the wide, steel door eases back,came, the stab of freedom hits him hard …..Ally swallows hard….. There, a side street of New York City engulfing him so…..Smells of the city coming into him.

The night, this part of Manhattan and the street he is now on; there is no one about, seldom does a vehicle pass. He has no cash, only the check totaling eight grand. In the coming day, in the busy Big Apple, he will be able to cash it somewhere, maybe at one of the old haunts he knows. But for now he continues to walk. The more he walks the more empty he feels…..In time he inhales more easily but does not stop walking. Turning a corner, he sees her, up a ways in a doorway. Nearing, he sees she is a Gypsy, the place is that of a fortune teller. When he is opposite her, each stare at each other. Ally moves his eyes away, looks about,looks up at the city skyline in the night, again only stillness.

“Come come, handsome man, I tell your fortune”, she leads him in…… “No money,” he shows the check. “Your watch…..”she points to his wrist ,the watch .

Her voice and attractive olive face is sedating…..his eye lids succumb to her cleavage; yet, he feels tired, oh so tired .The perfume candles adding to the fast coming fatigue ….. He just steps to where his closing eyes see cushions; goes to his knees before them as if an alter….. The last thing he remembers is the lovely patterns upon the beckoning soft soft mounds upon the floor….. he collapses…..

When he wakes the single room has sunlight, the front door is wide open, and a small child, a girl child crawls on the carpet after a toy. He feels for the check, it is there. He smiles at the baby, then hears the mother’s voice, the pretty gypsy, looking younger in the daylight….. She is there now ,through a hanging curtain.

“Coffee…..?”She smirks,hands on her hips, hips with in the same, dark dress she wore last night….

Ally only shakes his head no, reaches out caressing the child’s cheek, stands and starts to leave…..pauses….. ” I’ll see you again”, he smiles , takes off his watch ,tosses it onto a cushion….and is out the open door….

The new day, the new early morning sun feels warm as he walks, yet, for the life of him, even if it is Sunday, there is no movement about, no traffic…..As if something took over,stalling, this very part of the city…..he continues on…..

He sees them coming towards him up the block a ways, a pretty, blonde mother pushing a stroller; then, he hears the roar of a motor… old white van pulling up,fast, the van’s side-door shots back….. Screams!…..They’re grabbing the child as the poor, helpless mother is beaten down…..Screams!…. Then…strange, so strange….. the clap and pound of ‘ hooves ‘ !

[ to be continued ]

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973


March 30th, 2014 by George Martorano


Today, I write this as I have so many many times over the prison years…..under a lock-down. Lock-down is when the entire prison is secure. Where all prisoners are quickly herded into your cell , any cell in fact. One has to hope he is near his…..Once you are in a cell. The steel door is locked fast and that is it until the dangers are over. That could take two days to six months. It is according to how much blood was spilled…..Of my prison years,the only life as I know it. I truly have lost count of how many lock-downs I have been subject to. I can say I am a pro at it. For I know no matter how tranquil the prison day is. A day of me teaching, mentoring, a lock-down will come sooner or later. So, I know to keep certain items stored in my cell:books, radio batteries, sustainable food items, etc…..Yet, being prepared does not matter if you do not have the right mental attitude….. Attitude….. What do I mean? Well, even if a man is in prison. When he gets sealed in his cell, his own mind can come heavily down upon him. He totally believes the very, all, is lost. He curls up on his bunk for days on end. He totally believes, he totally feels the very meaning of lost…..What to do? What to do?

1. Eat less of what’s in the paper bags you get three times a day. Lots of water is best.
2. Take your narrow mattress and make a chair out of it. Fold it, tie it off with a long torn piece of sheet. For to lie on the bunk for hours and days is like a mist of cancer upon you. No, best to use the makeshift chair for at least 8 hours. Then, back onto the steel slab, and later sleep.
3. When under a lockdown. You should work-out even more. Three times a day. Early morning yoga, afternoon upper body, then early evening jogging in place or step-ups upon the cell’s trash can.
4. Wash. First. Make a screen of a sheet or blanket. Then you get naked and soap up then soak down. I use a lot of shampoo upon my head and use the suds downward…..Last shave, shave every day in fact. Do not worry about the cell’s floor. You get that water up later by rag or sponge.
5. Of course read and write.When using the radio get the news,it at least makes you feel you are still apart of what’s going on in the world. For some, their minds shut off all more under a lock-down and they just, vegetate.
6. If you are alone in the cell. One should sing to himself; a lifting for one’s spirit;even dance. No good being silent for long periods of time. If not alone, talk to your cellie in positive ways, no hateful language. Especially, if he is younger, inexperienced within the fourth world, prison. For he can become dark in his mental state; learning to be mean.
7. When relieving one self, again you set up a screen of some sort. Best to run the sink’s faucet to create a sound over. Flush repeatedly…..For now within a lock-down you must stay pleasant in human form; more of a gentlemen as never before;even if you are by yourself. The very foremost of one’s self character.

Yes, I have lived, been existing through countless lock-downs. Did some of my best writing when the steel doors have forsaken me. And when that steel door finally forgives, opens. I always pride myself by trying to look the freshest, the strongest,always delivering a huge smile. I stand there arms raised…..’ Everybody all right ?! ‘….. Though I am smiling, my heart gets saddened. For I see those that the lock-down has become as though a bad date. The old prisoners look older ,their skin yellower, bodies more bent. The young are sour faced, unclean and starry eyed with confusion so laced with hate. All I can do is roam around the cell block looking to stop those readying to argue or worse. Ease them ,make them laugh ,for laughter is the greatest healer after released from the long bite of the four walls…..I have even lived through back to back lock-downs. You get out. They battle. Sealed in again…… Only longer…..

Federal prison in America,2014.

The Past Does Sing

March 4th, 2014 by George Martorano

Laughter’s Echoes

Usually, you are led at night. Told, shoved through thick door, down down long hall. The going, tis slow…..for you are chained. Why night…..? It is the birth of the “long day”, gray-dark before the dawn-start and the placing chains come upon each human limb. Then the sealed in bus. Your head against steel on window. Yes, the steel even becomes as a soft-pillow, the pain the pain, of thy skull, throbs that beat. A deep, beat beat beat as the hours crawl crawl crawl. You can tell the time of day by the uncaring traffic that moves, by the hate that pokes up against your heart…..Yes, always night addresses the next prison stay. A stay of day, days, of hours, create dream after dream. Yes, create, cause it’s… all… you’ve… got….. Oh, the many cages, all, have a story. To you and you, think, sad upon sad…..To me, the “very” of life.

The window laid high, high and narrow. You could see tips of grass growing through the brown spotted glass. For the cell was mostly underground. Just stone block, trowelled over with thin cement. Cement now cracked and mapped with large patches of green slime. A holdover-cage. No bunk just you and a bed roll, cracked sink and chipped-up toilet bowl…..The weekends are the worst, the long long of it, no movement only you and the “now”. A Holiday weekend even the worse; mine to exist through back then….. So, you sit, stare, head always tilting up, stare at that one, narrow window….. Night comes, may you and you never know that taste of blackness-realm, never…..

Ooh, come late afternoon when the sun levels to that narrow window, making the damp cell, lowly bloom. The green slime then turns to many shades….. your eyes search for the traces of silver. The floor’s cuts have tones of brown….. And you, dream dream dream…..

Aah, then, she came. Ooh, such a lovely, purple-black, legs legs so silky too….. Slow, straight she walked…..Playing hard to get….. A beetle. A beautiful purple-black beetle….. So, I leveled down my face to her’s….. She stopped. Stopped, turned, going going with a sway. Then, I lifted her so,her high heels, imagined, sticking to my very palm. Then placing her on the wall so ,to see her courage, did, she climbed, …..She fell, poor sweet thing….. down down onto her back, legs a-wiggling up…..And I laughed, a roaring laugh!…. A laugh, I still hear today.

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973

Letter To Some Forgotten gods

March 4th, 2014 by George Martorano

Dear Forgotten god:

It is I, George and I wonder. Do you dream? And are those dreams of such and much meaning, have as, I, am mine? You see, forgotten god, being in prison so very very long. What I dream at night is almost life in vision. And I so look forward to simply dream. And I know forgotten god you have been long in your obscurity. All alone, a drift in some dark sky or there with repeated thoughts, deep within a valley dear. Yes, I wonder wonder if you too so look forward, just to dream. My God, forgotten god, just to dream. Dream to have just a bit of desire and good or dream just to bare, just to bare…..Well, let me tell you this, okay, all right? Good, I will.

‘So, head upon a dark, brown pillowcase last eve. Of course I slept prison-tired-deep. Aah, and the dream the dream went as the taste and touch of real life itself…..In my dream the prison guards took me chained to a public bus stop. Unchained me, paid a one-way fare and they walked off. Slowly…..I step up, I move up the aisle and found a seat, and there alone I sat watching watching the never seen free world go by…..In time, a shout came and off I was put. Only to walk and walk in a strange city, watching watching the city breathe there and by…..In time, a city park…..And there upon a peach bench sat a lovely lady at weep. Just weeping and weeping away…..Then, gallant I became. Swept the weeping lady up in my arms…..And ooh, how we kissed so long and sweet. The wet of her tears, my did my heart so meet. After the kiss, I kept her in my arms and we went along our way. And would you believe forgotten god, why she and her moving, oval eyes closed and she rested her weary head upon my shoulder…..

‘Then, in dream time…..And underpass we came. Dark, gloomy and much debris. She still in my arms, we came upon a lean and burly gang, there, under that underpass of dark-grey, cold steel…..The gang in and foul, foolish talked , of slang in ways of this and that and nothing more…..Then,and yet I did stopped … Stopped and Look at the dreaded, thug row, locking my eyes upon each so very so and so…..

‘Why here, you’s all are, are of no good, sad, straight from the hood. But, follow me and set thy and yourselves inter-free,free from this bad bad world , come, yes come and join me….’

So, follow they did……And still carrying the lovely Miss…..In crowded school yard we came….. Then I introduced the gang to a bright new game. And my word, forgotten god, those gang members spoke through their souls and from their hearts, saying smart and good grace to keep the little ones from all evil of the city’s bad, bad acts and parts…..The children hung on their every word, mines and feelings did they save, my, and yes, to keep the little ones from the worst… early grave.

And as I held her, she opened her eyes. For she heard and knew I was not the lover she believed her to…..She gently left from my arms, kissed my cheek, saying….. ‘ you have become but great ‘….. and, I awoke.

‘Well, forgotten god just wanted to share a dream between you and I. For I know tis all we have to get by and by. Me, my head upon brown pillowcase, wishing for sleep, longing of the create. You, out there with sad barrenness’ and your sleep and dream…..Yes, just two forgotten ones…..Left just to dream…..left just to dream.’

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973