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

Yes, some eyes can catch the camoflauge animal suddenly move, making its cameo…….Than say, human eyes adjust upon a caged beast. Just there always, sadly there, in its hardcore zoo enclosure. There isn’t an unnotice movement. It is still in its wonderous fur, so enable to hide. Nothing of the wild there the beast so needs. Born, entitled to blend in, entitled to jump out; entitled to make one’s heart race. Know, your eyes in that zoo are only on that beast eyes……Waiting for some shift, some quickness from its soul. Gone, gone they have sealed it away. Gone, gone leaving the beast to its forever dismay.

Ahhh, say the man, there, in his prison cell. Each day as I. Staff eyes look upon me, through me. And I have not a thing upon my skin to camoflauge myself within their gray walls. Only can I stare back, stare as the leopard in the cage. I sit, stare and wonder why I am kept this way and not mercifully killed. Cause worse than the beast. God gave me mind. And it longs, crushing in on itself. And it pleads with God to keep me a good man and not the leopard they daily count and stare at in the zoo. Am I of not human glue? Am I not as one as you and you……?

* * *
Say one day I am freed. Say one day I live and love in peace. Say one day upon a desert floor. Eyes catch the quick of me. Say…….

Poor stars. Poor stars
High, looking down alas she wont be found
How she lived. How she dance
Loves she had; the very meaning of romance
She so enjoyed the spot, how true when it was such a bright stary night

Poor stars. Poor stars
And we search the land below
Little did we know. One crushed her soul
Told of ways, ways of long troubled days
Told her lies with clover in her hair
Told her she will always be his dear

Poor stars. Poor stars
These nights are but a bore
Oh she was such a Heavenly lore
She smiled after every kiss, no matter how breathless nor bliss
She even had a laugh, up it traveled…..echoing, echoing as it passed

Poor stars. Poor stars
Will she ever return; must we burn and burn so bright; waiting for her one night?
Her name doesnt matter; her being is the fame. Oh what ashame
We poor stars……could we be the blame?

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.

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.

Close your eyes and try to create, or imagine this scene.

There is a lock-down. Cell-blocks, long, narrow and dim. They all have solid steel doors. They are all on one side. It is late at night; not much sound…

Then… a moan, followed by a groan…then…a lone voice… “at least when he was here, on the compound, we used get postings and updates from that thing he helped start”

Then another unseen voice chimmed in… “yea, the WeBelieveGroup.”

“Yea, that’s it, the WeBelieveGroup, at least those postings gave us hope.”

Another unseen voice, from way down block yelled… “I wish George never left.”

Anyways, just this week, a convict came from the USP-1 that I was at before coming over here. He told me of what I have just relayed above.

After, I went find somewhere I could be alone, to ponder. I thought of the caged hearts, the guys I left behind, the guys that have been wasting away…almost to a point where they can’t even dream of love, nevermind hope.

I have asked John, to please send some letters, postings and articles of “updates” and “hope”. (I know he will, or most likely already did when he read this) I have realized that when I leave one “fourth world” for the next, I can not just be gone. No, I must try and still be there, even if it is only in words.