Rap Of Crickets


There…. Coleman Prison. Arrived 2003. Left 2015. A place of many numbered men. A place where breath of prisoner lives. Where breath at times divorced lung only to bachelor convict to the hereafter. Yes, there I existed, not lived. I lived so where I sweat left my body as pain. Where my tears burned running down cheek. Where hope continued its harsh laugh, laughed right up close. So close I smelled its scorn. Yes there where cell married me, wed as if an ugly weapon was jammed into the small of my back; forcing the marriage… Of doors never wished to know the clang of that steel. Never wish to know the same song of the keys of guard. Yes, never… Thus, I shall not go on of dread. No, I shall go on of the now of self rainbows.



There…. My new palace. Oh how I romance star before sleep comes. Oh how I blossom with nature’s night call. Only God can see and smile I have. Have with my hands folded behind my head, gazing up. Only God sees how I wake within wee morn to giggle…. Then, my sweet sweet dawn come’th with call of bird. Slow and cease the rap of cricket. Sobers the voice of frog. Boy oh boy the colors then canvass sky. Blues, highs and lows of reds…. And I rise. Stand there before my Coleman Tent. Nay and not a palace. Yet, this man’s man gaurd’s before it.

By George Martorano