Poetry From Prison – by Kurtis Williams

Poetry From Prison – by Kurtis Williams

To the nonunscrupulous inmate, with a question about your fate, & whether you’re alone?

While pacing in that cell, within that prison hell, without friends or family or home.

There is a rarity in life, born of heart not violence or knife, but by a leader or two,

A teacher or a guide, call her what you will with pride, Melissa Schmitt is there for you.

There are other volunteers, to stem & quell your fears, & lead others under her grace,

To your biographical plane, with picture, place & name, with a picture of your face.

Leading Mentors to an adoptee, for you & for me, supporters, financiers, with the likeminded,

Whether you’re disabled, or bravado enabled, or whether you see or blinded.

Blinded by time & walls, roaming the prison halls, but need a conduit or a place,

To think beyond the clouds, avoid the crushing crowds, to exercise your inner grace.

Not unlike any School, Miss Schmitt has a rule, That screening be done for protection,

This is about inmate adoption, not a love option, but a way to make a connection.

For educational book reviews, Mentors guiding by two’s, networking while your doing time,

Voids in your rhyme, voids in your mind, while doing art with your talent’s you find.

To the prospective visitor, the web site inquisitor, who may be interested to test,

The waters of what’s disloyal, lowly without any toil, to hurt or harm our best.

We are led by compassion, not status quo fashion, but extension to a heart inside,

Where they’ve paid their price, in more ways twice, where they don’t have to live & hide.

Help us help them, create from a loss a win, from their cells where they loom,

While we give them a place, a place filled with grace, adopt an inmate homeroom.

By Kurtis M.Williams N53299 11-18-2022 For Adopt an Inmate and Ms. Schmitt

Poetry From Prison: In a Moment by Michael Fisher

Poetry From Prison: In a Moment by Michael Fisher

Stand Still. Each day we must strive
to combat the currents we dive
beneath, breathing through entropy
in which our souls atrophy.
Tides of compromise, competing
desires through all ills repeating,
please born of the iron bounds
of loving debts as hounds
harrying us all form the cloud.
It clings and pulls, a viewless shroud
in power like gravity
culling me, my soul a cavity
empty of hope and vigor –
by forces I’m set into rigor.

Stand still. Amid the chaos
my isle of peace sloughs the dross;
entropy and gravity fail
as powers fit to assail
my soul. The clamor of voices
pleading, demanding, choices
endless, confusing … subside.
No more the forces collide
as inchoate calamity;
they live with equanimity,
seamless in series with calls
for my aid, courteous as thralls.
Stand still? To aid them I strive.
As calm in the eye, I’ll survive.

Poetry From Prison: The Woman

This is our first post from Larry, an inmate on Death Row in Pennsylvania fighting for his exoneration. Watch for more of his work here on our blog.

LRush pic

The Woman

Her mysterious strength within
carries an aura
of sea water
whispers not dreams.

Upon her face
are two glowing candies
illuminating a romantic vision
and her hands
harness a shower
of twinkling stars.

She smiles
like the crescent
and her thoughts travel
like the scent
of botanical gardens.

First a princess
then a queen
but always an angel.

Her beauty
is the nest
of our eggs.

The counter part
of life …

The Woman.

Poetry From Prison: Unconditional Love

Taj from Virginia, pictured below, with the inspiration for his beautifully touching ode.

Nancee & Taj

Unconditional Love

She rises before dawn on Sunday
just to catch an early Southbound train.
She makes 800-mile round-trip
just a single day
for a mere three hours together
then says, after the initial squeeze,
‘It’s already worth it.’

She hires a driver from the station
just to avoid getting lost, getting late
pays him to idle the visitation hours
watching Southern asphalt bake in August swamp simmer.

She shirks off thanks
looks deep in my eyes
dusts the backs of my hands
(that she won’t let go)
with tender kisses that seed tomorrows
into my pores.

She comes
simply shows
to visit at Greensville
(mid-70’s-Soviet-chic, turreted hell)
just to co-mingle our talk with presence and affection.

She cares little about frisks,
even less about growling coyotes
posturing in uniforms and scowls
flashing teeth and gnashing bad ‘tudes,
and not one bit about the sharp summer glare
reflecting off surround-sound razor-wire, cuffs, and chains.

She enthusiastically proclaims
over the thrill of posing
just for a standard prison photo op
despite the full senior-prom-phony grins
and my state-issued, elastic-waisted attire.