Eruption; into this life. Seems not bad in the beginning. Seems to worry is short. Laughter comes each day. Play had its ups and downs. Than, once in a while along comes a clown. Though the area wasnt that much. On certain days came a little luck.

Eruption; you’ve grown so tall. Venturing out not knowing, yet searching for the fall. Came the taste of love; went and push wanting more than the hugs. Gangsters near and far, handsome nice to see. Will the neighbors remember me.? Dressed to kill, walking flat streets at will; no, never looking for a hill. My, my they set a trap. Back and front hidden from all; eyes so small; mouths that be. Badges and all……rats, rats in every hall. Wanting one thing, to see me kneel.

Eruption; thrown into a cage. Four by four; can I remember it all.? Tears came and went. Fists bang, bang till dawn. Lips knew words, sounds but she’ll never be found. Eyes, oh eyes just you they see. Eyes, oh eyes tell all to me. Mine are clear, facing decade’s fear. Oh, then of heart. It beats, yes. Does it feel.? Does it wish, maybe a dream.? But it all comes down to you. Last, last eruption’s past. Last, last, the last eruption could be. Life or death. I and the cage wait and see…..wait and see.

And welcome to the age of prison

I feel they took all the pretty seashells from the sea
I feel the flowers gone, vanish before the sun and me
I feel an unholy drape, dark, pulled so tight beneath blue skies

And welcome to the age of prison

No more can I hear the babies cry
No more can I taste lips so shy
No more will I dance to fall
No, no more can I woo again…..friend

And welcome to the age of prison

No, no more will she wake in my arms
No, no more they chained that charm

And welcome to the age of prison

I soon will feel the sum of things
I feel what agony brings
I feel lesson’s lesson, scared on my back
I feel my love never to look back

And welcome to the age of prison

Birds play a part in prison-life; at least in mine. Being surrounded by walls and razorwired fences, the fowl have to come to us.

I remember in one “pen” on the Atlantic coast having a large population of pigeons. There were a few hawks also, they would perch up on the 100 foot light poles. Every once in a while a hawk would swoop down and grab a pigeon, leaving only a few feathers behind to rain down on us.

I remember at another “pen” in Texas looking out my barred cell window, at a dip in the ground where sandpipers would gather after a rain. They moved around fast and seemed to do so with a purpose.

At a Chester County jail while in the “hole”, I remember praying for the sparrows outside my window. The razor wire would cut off their tiny little feet and they would laydown and die on the cold cement. Proof of this was laying there everyday.

The ducks, I remember the ducks at a Maryland prison. They would lay on the blacktop sunning themselves. The road led from the prison, there was little traffic.

I write this from a small space as usual: but it’s my space.

While watching staff trim limbs from the trees that house our fowl here at Coleman: I noticed that 2 nest, one with 3 young doves and one with 2 eggs laid upon on the ground. I picked them up, the mothers and fathers swooped at me. I assured them they would be ok.

Within seconds a warning came over the loudspeakers, announcing for everyone to clear the compound. We were herded to a space 10ftX30ft, a mini lockdown of sorts. Upon entering the space I searched mine out, 2 dove nest in tow. I found my spot-took off my shirt, removed the laces from my shoes-made a cloths line-hung my shirt and tee shirt over it, and had “my space”
I noticed a lot of new arrivals trying not to look over at me: they probrably thought I was the “unit nut”, sitting there, on the floor, behind my cloths line, with my bird nest, pen and paper, lol… little do they know, being so new.

I tore a little peice of my tee shirt and wet it, getting the young doves to take a drink was challenging, but accomplished. Once off this lockdown, I will try and find my friend Brian. Brian takes care of the birds as he has the time to devote to them. I will be able to visit them and watch them mature.

Watching pleasant things is good, please remember that: try it, find that “space”, and try it.

Once, I was flown across America on a prison transport plane that landed in California. We were then driven to a federal pen in Lompac. Why I was taken there, I do not know. I can only believe it was another way for the then prosecutor in my case to mess with me. I was supposed to be headed to Kansas. The ‘messing” with me went on for years, a living hell, I took it.

While I was there, I looked out the barred window at the rolling hills; feeling the constant wind coming through the bars.

As I sit in my cell today in central Florida looking out the window, I can only imagine the flames rolling across those hills heading for that prison.

I can only imagine the massive suffering due to the fires in California recently. I sit here and wonder, what happened to the federal inmates caught in the line of those fires. There was nothing on the news about them. I did see that animals were moved.

I wonder how many 1st time non-violent offenders are warehoused in California that could be released. I wonder this because of the cost. It cost $40,000 a year plus to house inmates in the federal system; just think of how that money would help those affected by these fires.

The government has spent well over a MILLION dollars keeping me caged these past 25 years. Money that could have sent many young people to school, vets medical cost, senior housing etc etc etc…

Anyways, I can only hope and pray that they don’t fly me out there again. For if they do, I will pray for rain, as I have for those there now.

Bunk beds are cute in the free-world home, especially for children. Try sleeping on one for 20+ years as an adult. After years of it, one’s lower back can be ruined, unless, upon waking you stretch and exercise. Those who don’t usually end up in wheel-chairs.

For half of the prisoners “aging” in prison, a wheel-chair awaits. All sorts of illness’s call a prisoner as he ages.

If you heed to that call, you die in here. So what is one to do?? One has to find that inner-strength early when caged. It’s there, yet, sad to say not allknow how to find it. Some that do find it lose it since they don’t try to raise it.

As the years have passed and I see those entering this “forth-world”, I have seen that they are entering mentally weaker than years past. Not all, but most. Their eyes give them away, you can see they are not gonna make it. They have no directions as how to find that inner-strength I try to teach them within my classes.

I tell them, that each and every night as they stand before that bunk – to really think about what they are living. Are they going to let themselves be wrapped up with fear, wrapped, like the blanket they sleep with? We all have fears, fears of this place, fear family will leave you, fear that you might decay while here. But it’s what we do with that fear. I combat that fear with the inner-strength that I have found and raised. It’s in everyone of them, some can’t find it, it’s lost to them. As those who choose not to search, they become less of themselves every second.

One can not look for the long morrows, no, he is best to enjoy every task he does – no matter how little it may seem. Enjoying small little things is one way to find, and raise that strength. There is no special reward for you when you attain this strong moral. No, it’s just between you and yourself. For a true man knows how to swallow pain… knows how to deal with whats dished to him. And if he is complete, he must try to teach it to others. Less, and he’s a fool to himself and before God.

As I walked the prison yard today, I noticed a group of men that had gathered with “prepared” treats they had purchased at the prison store. I observed for a few minutes realizing that they were “dads”, gathered to celebrate “Father’s Day”. I asked if it was ok to speak a few words to the group. Naturally, they obliged.

I talked to them of the singular appearance of us all. For we all have the appearance of being just prisoners. To the staff, lawmakers, and to many of those in the “free world”, we are viewed as just and only that. I have been viewed like this for almost a quarter of a century.

As I spoke, I was looking about 20-30 feet above their heads; I explained why… I stated that I have been looking up towards the sky for many a year, because, when my eyes are leveled, my eyes only see a compound of caged lives. One must find a way to leave the cage, even if it’s just by looking up !!

Happy Fathers’s Day…

Not too far from me is a long line of inmates waiting to get into the chow hall… I watch them and write. Because of this blog I am never without a pad and pen. For I have to seek out personal news from this “Village of Stone”.

As I look at the line, I can see I am not of them. For I know, that the tortures that have been placed upon me over the past 2 decades, that most, if not all in that line could not have endured it. There are those that I have left behind in some of those hell holes that can survive. Surviving it is not what impresses me though… What impresses me, is when those that do survive it, survive it with their mind intact.

I’ve never lost my cool, never. I’ve never complained to anyone when the worst was laid upon me. If you can wash your face twice a day, shave everyday, workout and write when no one is there to see or hear you except the four walls, and walk out with your mind, then, and only then will I will pat you on the back. But guess what?? I have never been able to pat anyone on the back in the 24 years I have been here.

So, today, I sit looking at those in the long line, their gray shadows. I too have a shadow. Yet, when I stare at mine long enough, colors begin to drape my silhoutte. I just sit here, looking, praying. Praying that none of my loved ones have to take this journey to see their colored shadow.

When one’s thoughts become so pure and plain, it is either time to be released or die. For after so long of walls and their little warmth, I can smell the honeysuckle…still from my daydream.

I stand alone along the prison hall. I close my eyes. I see myself enter a small house. For I just left the quiet country road I walked upon. The road shown only trees, sand edged up to the hot blacktop. No other homes were there. Just the one I stepped into. It is a lived in home, small, yet no-one about. I’ve passed the small sparing living room, glanced up the worn stairs… Now in the kitchen, there’s a hand pump for waterat the sink. Yet, the sunset draws me near the back screen door. I’m close to the rust of it. I see through it. The yard is small, high bushes enclose it. Then, and it is whats keeping me there… the smell, the smell of honeysuckle. Such a sweet smell. It is all I want, just to stand here, daydream and breathe.

Well, here I sit, pen in hand. Pondering again. For I am told this blog is getting some hits, but MORE would be better. I need lots of people involved as steadies. I am counting on your support to help me gain the relief I so deserve after 24 years.

I wish for thee that I could really pen the meat of it about Federal Prison. But, to do so, I, Like before could be swiftly dragged off to the hole. Chained up and shipped, and shipped, and shipped… So I try to not to make my post so bad. I truly do, of course, try to write things that keep the people interested. So, here goes…

Joe was sitting on a slight rise. He was facing the three fences. In-between the fences were layers of razor wire, 12 feet tall. What Joe was staring at was the forrest just beyond the fences. This was in Marion, early 80′s. “What’s up Joe?” I asked as I sat next to him. Then I froze, noticing that he was weeping. To see someone like Joe crying was rare. For Joe was a true convict.

“Got my monthly call from Maw-Maw to day”. Joe is from the south and talks with a deep southern draw. “Homer, that dawg, told on me. Homer got out awhile back. Get’s married, has a bunch of kids, and robs a friggin bank. Gets caught, and rats on me.”

“Rats on you, with what?” I asked “Dawg told bout Bush Axe, they found his body in the cement at Gatesville State Prison”

Joe went on to explain, that in that southern state prison, many years back. Homer, Bush axe and Joe were on a work detail, laying cement. Joe whacked Bush Axe in the head. Of course, the two of them, then pushed his body into the cement, burying him.

Both Joe and Homer get locked in the hole for helping Bush Axe escape. Or so it seemed. Anyways, last I heard, Joe was still on Death Row in some maximum prison, like that of Marion. Joe was actually the lesser of many evils.

I wrote a whole manuscript on this tale-if you would like to read more, just hope I get out soon so I may publish this and the over 25 stories I have to date. I do have a published book available only through the Webelievegroup… “Pain Grows A Platinum Rose” email them at webelievegroup@msn.com to arrange getting a copy.

Thanks to all that take the time to read my postings, and that support me, as well as the other
“Non-Violent Offenders” who deserve a second chance.