Free George Martorano

Come Paragraphs Come

George Martorano — Mon, 14 May 2012 20:06:28 +0000

Ahhh, the cell so dresses my soul
Dark and plain colors from bunk to hole
Scream up to any Saint to see
Me just me, deep within sorrows all can be

Such was I caged and caught never to walk
bow fool, bow to fault
Yet, we’ll give your due….. stand
You have stood you sentenced man
Beneath blue sky, oh, we’ve heard little of a sigh
Seems even bloody, comes that charm, all wrapped in strong arms

The years race, the years slow
Whippings and whippings all in a row
Oh there George, thy captain, thy fate
Funny, how you’ve not mustered hate
Funny, how you’ve… not… mustered …hate

By: George Martorano
CR: 12973
Date: 5-8-12

Leather, Love, And Thoughts

George Martorano — Tue, 08 May 2012 15:19:03 +0000

It is early. The summer dawn has just passed its state of loneliness. And here I sit in the very corner of the dusty leather shop. The barred – window is to my left. I see the prison compound….. waiting like a quiet zoo. There is a piece of leather below me. My fingers ache from pushing and pulling the long needle and its thread. There also is a pad and pen below. The needle and thread rest above it now. I’ve replaced the needle and thread with the pen….. and I am relaying what words your very eyes are picking up….. There is another in the shop this early. Old Jess. He is standing next to a work bench. I see the steam rising from his battered, coffee mug. He is tooling, designing, tapping with a hammer upon black leather. ld Jess knows what only he can do, exist. Taps, sips, then a pausing stare at the part of a forever wall. Old Jess is a lifer. With every sip of hot coffee he takes. With every bang of the hammer he takes. His prison life has its very own state of loneliness….. Now a cloud has blocked the sun. I can see my face in the window. My eyes find my eyes and I let thoughts have their own stage….. “I feel as though in this corner of a room, smelling of saddle. I have made it to the golden midst on top of the mountain. For I truly know myself, taught myself in deep dark cages across America. Truly know be it better and great to just shed one meaningful tear for the forgotten concerns of the world. Truly know it is an enriched understanding than to belly laugh resting atop a pile of gold….. Yes, I state sitting here with only the tap, tap, tap of the hammer. The movement of Old Jess’s his adams apple when he swallows as he trys….. So, I turn once more at myself and the single tear coming down for my lips….. For I care….. even chained to this state of loneliness.”

By: George Martorano
CR: 12793
Date: 5-5-12

A Love Letter To All…

George Martorano — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 20:46:54 +0000

Dear to all,
For I must say through decades of being kept as an animal in a cage. The very and only worldly thing, state of being that truly matters is, love. Please be so kind as to let me explain what I love now….. I love enchanting eyes of a poor mother when she sees her offspring, there, before her, at a sitting of a meager meal. Food of little, yet, devotion so full. I love friendship given within man’s creating storms. To not knowing the recipient, yet, giving one’s all in the face of danger. To do so, must start from a heart that loves. I love those that can look into another’s eyes so attached to the caring stare, then never comes a lie. I love those who march for right when they know thier backs are pushed by wrong. I love an official room where thee, those; deciding, do it in the just and fairness of mankind. I love the grumpy old with their wisdom, their non-surprise at every road’s bend. I so love the children, Dear God bring any and all thier suffering upon me. I love all hearts that know and knew much, and a bit of love. I love laughter for it reaches every part of the warm soul, even out to the high stars. I love a kiss, lips are simply bliss. I love all the small and tall wonders upon earth. I love beings of many legs, four, two, even those with pretty wings. For all those that continue the hurt , I would gladly face….. I simply love and not hate, even when I am beaten before this never ending sealed gate.

By: George Martorano
CR: 12793
Date: 4-29-12

Colors Of Prison

George Martorano — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 18:28:47 +0000

A.) Gray: Walls, halls, and cells. Even the aging hair of the many numbered men. Skin turning gray as if the men lying in a unkept field of hay. Wake to a day complete of sun. Yet, the smell of gray runs. Running from mind down to heart. Making one’s soul feel the holy word, “apart”.
B.) Red; I know the color like no other. o glance and stare at the color year chained to year. Red blood on walls, floors, doors, stairs and ceilings. Red blood on grass, brown dirt, and white sand. Red blood on bunks, sinks, toilets, lockers, windows, trash cans, T.V.’s and radios. Red blood on shirts, pants, underwear, suits, and uniforms. Red blood coming out of eyes, ears, heads, arms, legs, torsos, crotches, butts, fingers and toes, etc., etc.,!!!

C.) Then color of tears. Drops upon every type of man’s flesh, face. Tears that have a certain shade all to themselves. Tears of rage have a rust color flow. This I truly know. Tears of sorrow can give off a blue tint. Tears of sorrow go ever so slow down the human cheek. Tears before death come with a yellowish glow. One after one, four at best then the convict is layed to rest. Tears of laughter, far and few in between; come just right, pushing and pushing away jail’s every day fright.

Yes, prison’s primary colors are there and there. On this earth ,so sad my friend ,they will always never end.

By: George Martorano
CR:12973
Date:4-21-12

Migration And Me

George Martorano — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 14:43:52 +0000

The halls are endless. Even if we move fast. Vast, so vast, hearts and strength. Take heed. Venture forth and last.
Men are like wildebeest , all numbered just to flow here within hell’s row.
Moving along, water holes exist. Crocs, small and large, in the showers they wait. Jaws that grab, teeth to tear. They stab, and stab. Oh men of wildebeest beware.
Straight before the halls no more. Comes steps and stairs to climb as if mountains of the unkind. Man pushing, shoving man. Clawing arms like vines. Blood, runs like wine.
Pipe to head. Shouts, then screams, falling, falling. Only to smash, never to go on again.
Of caves and cells. Waits the hush of depravity. All dark, no light to see, the wildebeest man steps in….. Blanket to head , quick, comes pound after pound. Oh Lord, leaving skull all to thread.
Beast upon beast, the rutting now….. After spent….. Only left a dying howl.
Where does it end? The wildebeest run. Man with man, headed as one. Year to year these plains to cross.
Prison from prison the numbered men come, go, never to end, never a friend.
Yes, wildebeest am I. By the grace of me I manage the yearly run. Moving and moving, deep, the true of me.
Struggling to fight. Breathing to live. Never to exhaust. Never to kneel.
Go I must. Go and go is all I know.

By: George Martorano
CR: 12793
Date: 4-15-12

Jackies Song

George Martorano — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 22:48:47 +0000

Jackie was the girlfriend of a friend that I play softball with. She recently passed away due to heart failure. She was one of the nicest people I have ever met at the field and took a GREAT interest in George’s “plight” …. Always asking me “any news on Georgie?” She read his book “Pain Grows A Platinum Rose” and followed George on this blog… I believe she will see this, and it will make her smile, like she always did.

John Flahive

Jackie’s song
By and by, she became so took with the central sun. So took even with days of ball and men ….. She became a friend. So took with others; somehow Jackie found me ….. Yes, this Jackie found me through words…. For words were all I had to give her. Upon a Florida ballfield her warmth so took, that I, yes I, a gainsay prisoner; she so embraced to her world, her caring…. Finally met me from afar. Yet, “closeness” has it’s own way of things. So now with these “kneeling” words. I George Martorano, thus, truly state …..”That heaven is her final field of play, oh, and please all pray, pray this very day and say Jackie’s song ….. ” Jackie of such a brave complete being . Never labelled me of, that, final naught…. Dearest Jackie ; may God always cherish thee ….

George Martorano

STEEL TABLES

George Martorano — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 23:42:43 +0000

As I sit myself back at the steel table. It is the place where us prisoners consume food. It is the place where the smudges of rags slide across the silver metal. It is the place when you bend your head and try to see through the streaks. You may just find the real of you. Look very hard and you’ll see what no other can see of one’s self….. Ahhh, then you look up. There across from you, is death, an old prisoner dying each day. Each day he comes to the steel table slower. Each day, less and less of the dry food he chews with few teeth. Each day his eyes say farewell. Yes, it is deserving of one such as I who writes to look across at death after staring at myself through the stains. It is so deserving and can be but a wish to relay the food and the fall of men….. For in time these prisoners that put on the shirt of the dying each day. Will soon be zipped up naked in a body bag and sent to the address that appears on the standard form….. Thus, this will happen. The body bag will be on another steel table and some uncaring, unknowing hand will zip it down for she. She’ll be standing first as the sound of the zipper slowly moves passed the head, neck and top of the torso. For it takes that much distance for the body bag to start to divide. Her eyes will narrow. For she is trying to recognize what was love. Now, only a stranger, not moving, not breathing, and a face sold, auctioned off to despair. She’ll take a few steps back, find a seat….. The attendant has left and she’ll begin to speak….. “I didn’t know it would be like this. I did not have the money to visit. After all these years of not seeing you, only to look at the old picture on my mirror. Now I look at a stranger. Not only had they took away the flesh, leaving bone, but they took away what I always longed for of you, expression. I, I, can’t even pray. I only hope they’ll help in burying you. For I asked for a ride here and got it. If they said I could take you, the only way would be to carry…..” Yes, and maybe these are the words that are said across America, the land where the naked go home from the cage in a zipped up, numbered gray bag that must be returned….. Steel tables are there for many. Steel tables await in the silent standing row. Steel tables to eat by. Steel tables to cry by. Steel tables to die by….. Steel tables.

By: George Martorano
CR:12973
Date:2-26-12

GEORGE STILL HAS HOPE !!!!

George Martorano — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 22:11:47 +0000

Well, low and behold – the appeals court has granted oral argument – and even before our reply brief is do on March 5th- here in the 4th world, prison, we take it as somewhat a fair sign – so to all and all – be so kind and think of me in thy prayers — as always; strong as I can be; especially for all of thee — this writer from the 4th world

George

Quitter??

George Martorano — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 22:04:27 +0000

All I know is that from season to season of this life I am the numbered man. At times my prisoner’s sorrow, cares for its own and not me….. No more of silent moon light on that path. A path beside a city’s river. Where the dirt lane curves just so; tilting its hat nearer to the flowing purple water. Where a gray wall of large stone leaned, letting the moon light give off a warming bounce. Ahhh, the reaching down of the trees singing limbs. In such a reach the warm wind pushing so brought a song….. And as I would approach the girl, her eyes waiting, inviting. I can still see my arms wrapping around her waist, a slow pull….. and out lips meet. Then that path would be a lovers complete….. But nay, nay, they took that place, that path, away and away from me. Now you can call me a match. Just a single lit match. Ohhh, nice to look at, bright along with the striking aroma circling….. Then, I, the match begin to fall. So many watch my descent, down and down. Yet, they think soon I shall just go dark….. No, I am not quitter. Never will the vast darkness take me. For once you think the black is forever more….. I become a great blaze. A blaze that begins a destroying of the fourth world, prison. And I promise this, I’ll quit.

America The Gray

George Martorano — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 23:46:46 +0000

His eyes opened. His nose smells. His right hand reaches out and runs along the cell wall. He feels pain in his lower back. He breathes in the years and exhales within his mind. He begins to pull, push, struggle, himself upright on the prison bunk. He lifts one leg, then the other and his feet succumb slowly to the cold concrete floor. In his torso’s lean. In his stooped shoulders. He stares at all below. He sees the draft blowing across the bottom of the steel door; pushing, lent, bits and pieces of this and that. With a moan he stands and shuffles the long, the short, distance to the steel sink. His hurt hands grab hold the sides and ever so slowly he looks, believes, into the tin mirror. Oh, what he sees. The age, as if the bent tree outside the cell’s window….. In time with worn old but clean prison clothes, he begins the journey. First he eases his head out the cell door. He looks left. He looks right. He begins to move. There’s no one about….. Finally, he enters the traffic of the living dead. The long red broadway of the prison hall. He does not look up at the faces. His mind ignores the sound. The smell of prison food his lungs reject….. Yet, he shuffles on. He moves with the set purpose within. He moves with the final judgment he has decided within. In time he’s there. It is where the orders come from. It is where they told him he must leave. He must go free after 52 years caged. He stands, backs up against the stone of the wall. Now he adjusts his stare, a moving stare, at what is about him. The waste, the human waste, as he. Then, the plan begins to develop. It is a simple plan as he himself. A simple prisoner and no more. He exhales. He sees a cut in the human traffic and he shuffles across to the spot he so chose. Before the set of steel bars he locks onto with his old hands. Then, with all the aches within, he begins to slide to that red stone floor….. He shimmies his arms through the steel and holds on for dear life….. “Come on Mr. Brown. You’ve got to go today,” delivers a guard from the group of guards around the desperate soul….. They see his head shake, the gray of it. They hear the mumble and whimper coming from he who sits….. “Clear the hall. Clear the hall!” And the prisoners are chased away. Now, just the man and his wants and uniforms with their orders….. “I, I, there ain’t noth’in out there for me.” And finally a clear sentence comes from what the courts have delivered from decades within the prison castle….. “Just leave him be. Come on all of you go on about your jobs.” Came the warden leaving the man when to he decides to unlock his soul from the forever grip.
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What I have just revealed to you I have witnessed. For I was one of those prisoners in that hall traffic that day. What I have relayed to you is occurring in prisons all across America. We are the only country that keeps non-violent prisoners forevermore in cages. Sad to say I George Martorano might some day find his set of bars and lock onto with all of my soul’s wants.