The following poems were written for the Tuesday writing class we have here on death row. Our instructor, noted author Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, is a wonderful source of encouragement in our creative endeavors. This unit on poetry is no different and reaches into several styles of poems.
 
Dreamer’s Gall is a villanelle, a type of poem consisting of five 3-line stanzas followed by a quatrain and having only two rhymes. In the stanzas following the first stanza, the first and third lines of the first stanza are repeated alternately as refrains. They are the final two lines of the concluding quatrain. The villanelle gives an impression of simple spontaneity, as in Edwin Arlington Robinson’s “The House on the Hill”.
 
Dreamer’s Gall is a depiction of life in a cell and all of its broken ignominy. There is nowhere to run from one’s “self, or the emotional struggle of existing in such a tiny space for decades. In the prison cell the only escape from this unending, living nightmare are dreams . . .
 
Dreamer’s Gall
 
Eggshell whiteness will swallow the fall,
Three paces by four paces in this room;
Like the squamous flesh of a dreamer’s gall.
 
Cold reflections howl the internal brawl,
Sanguine portals open, poisoned thoughts bloom;
Eggshell whiteness will swallow the fall.
 
Nothing can break the incarceral wall,
Only the future is left to assume;
Like the squamous flesh of a dreamer’s gall.
 
Merciless light beats upon the broken doll
As it waits to embrace eternal gloom;
Eggshell whiteness will swallow the fall.
 
No one is coming to life the heavy pall.
No velvet lining as toxic thoughts zoom,
Like the squamous flesh of a dreamer’s gall.
 
Hiding a pale truth of the final call,
Hope ill-conceived then returned to the womb.
Eggshell whiteness will swallow the fall,
Like the squamous flesh of a dreamer’s gall.
 
 
This next poem was an attempt to write from the perspective of Michael Anthony Kerr, a prisoner who was allowed to starve and dehydrate to death in solitary confinement at Alexander Correctional Institute in North Carolina. This state has a bad record for allowing such abuses to occur. Though the family of Mr. Kerr has since been awarded millions in a wrongful death settlement, and a number of staff have been fired, it does not change the fact Michael Anthony Kerr’s humanity like so many others in prison, was denied.
 
Pantoum of the Forgotten Prisoner is a form of poem derived from the Malayan “pantun”, it consists of a varying number of four-line stanzas with lines rhyming alternatively; the second and fourth lines of each stanza repeated to form the first and third lines of the succeeding stanza, with the first and third lines of the first stanza forming the second and fourth of the last stanza, but in reverse order, so that the opening and closing lines of the poem are identical.
 
 
Pantoum of the Forgotten Prisoner
 
Nobody really cares if you die in this hole,
They put you here for a reason.
Devoid of warmth and sympathy, yet full of need
A drop in the bucket, time to move on.
 
After all, they put us here to suffer
Banished to a closet where moths eat our existence
A drop in the bucket of an unacknowledged history--
Hang them, shoot them, break them on the wheel.
 
Only human beings are broken and banished with righteousness.
Punish the weak for the darkness in man’s heart.
Break them, bury them, hang morality by the gate.
Meaningless platitudes cannot penetrate the depths of this hole.
 
They punish mental illness as if it’s our sin
So I laughed, screamed and raged – they STARVED me!
Because there is no mercy in the hole.
I was full of need and they said, “He does it on purpose.”
 
In my grief, I wept, screamed and pined for my children,
For my two lost sons.
Full of need, they left me in my weakness.
So I flooded the hole to bring them back.
 
To the legion of lost sons, to the cohort of the damned
They would disappear our suffering if they could.
Bring them back so we can say ‘LISTEN!’
Listen to our stories and help us.
 
They could not disappear my loss
Instead, they cut the water off to spite me.
Listen! Please help!
Are you thirsty, Mr. Kerr? So I tapped and banged.
 
They brought handcuffs to spite me
Then chained me to the bunk.
Are you hungry, Mr. Kerr? So I cursed and spat.
Listen! Please!
 
Chained, hungry, thirsty, full of need--
Nobody cared as I sat in my filth.
Please.
Nobody cared that I lay dying.
 
Cloaked in filth, hidden from the world, my sons returned.
Cold and bright, full of need, shining from beyond
I took their hands.
Nobody cares if you die in the hole.
 
In memory of Michael Anthony Kerr and all of the men, women and children who lay forgotten in solitary confinement. I will remember.

I was asked to write a prayer and wasn’t sure what to do. I say the Lord’s Prayer until sleep claims me, and the Hail Mary too, but these are not my words. Sometimes I’ll add a plea for mercy, or to look after my aging parents, a sick or depressing friend, or my absent siblings, and end by asking God to help me through the next day. In the dark moments when the ENEMY has filled me with despair and destroys all positive thought, I’ll beg.
 
“Please God. Please. I can’t do this without you. I’ve never been able to do this without you. Only by your grace and mercy is this possible, anything possible.”
 
“This” being my survival in prison. “This” being my grip on sanity and the will to carry on through the next day and the next no matter how hard and hopeless it seems. I beg God to give me strength to fight through despair, to not be overcome with hatred and meanness and envy or cruelty. I breathe and listen to the emptiness and as fear squeezes my chest – I pray.
 
“Dear Lord, Heavenly Father, forgive me. I am the worst of sinners. Help me to be a better man. A smarter, wiser man who makes better decisions. A caring man who loves and is loved.”
 
Sometimes I will see beyond the image in the mirror and catch sight of myself, my soul. I’ll see ME and all of the time that has passed, the eroded and cracked edges of my spirit and wonder: Does God hear me anymore?
 
So I pray the Lord’s Prayer out of comfort and for those times maybe God doesn’t want to hear what I have to say and he’ll listen to His Son.

Hope is evanescent,
A dream you wish was real.
As soon as you grasp it, though
The grains pour through your fingers.
On cloudy days when the sky quakes
There exists another chance
To capture potential.
Reality eats the shore
Filling the empty spaces
It left open by mistake.
As the sun rises and sets,
Pulling the moon in its wake,
Reality draws back again
And hope returns with the wind
To play with your emotions
And tease a tentative smile
From reluctantly curved lips.
Even as reality dissolves
Carefully design sandcastles
Back into the hopeful mind
Again and again and again.
Until a perfect storm looms
Enough for lightning to strike
And turn sand into glass.

One of the hands on tasks of the Short Journey was taping together the colorful strips of paper with names on each of them and connecting them into long chains to hang from the wall. By the end of three days there were a thousand of them. The strips symbolized prayers from the free world for those of us at this retreat, a physical reminder we were not alone.
 
There are many days I feel so isolated in prison and on death row – especially amongst so many of the hostile attitudes of this place—that I forget there is an entire world beyond these walls, easily dwarfing my concerns. Fighting through a pervasive sense of hopelessness is a daily task on death row. The prayer chain relieved some of the burden and gave me strength to take on the question for our first day of Short Journey: who am I?
 
Not a simple question and one linked with others . . . How well do I know myself? Can I live without God in my life? The truth is there is many an hour I can’t make it through without a prayer for help, let alone an entire day and night. My need for God cannot be understated—it is only by His Grace and mercy that I survive at all.
 
This recognition of my personal weakness and oh so many failings, came after a thorough search of my soul. No regard for the ego or any false sense of pride. No hemming and hawing when better moments bring respite. I’ve looked long and hard at my life in and out of prison and discovered a human being who must accept he is imperfect and sinful, but desirous of a better way to live.
 
I know that deep in my mind is embedded every fear in existence; of never being good enough, loud enough, successful enough or satisfied if I had these things. There in the corner breathes my fear of never leaving prison alive. Hanging from the walls is the fear of losing my parents and closest friends. Stirring the ashes of past mistakes is fear that my sins are too many to forgive. Mustn’t forget the fear crouched in the bushes down the road, because surely there is another dumb decision waiting to be made, and that’s a scary prospect indeed. Despite these anxieties I somehow find myself pushing on as if it’s all I know to do.
 
Except that’s not entirely true. I have a choice—have always had a choice—about the way I am to live my life and to help me along are God given gifts such as intelligence, an openness to experience, perseverance and an ability to write. Writing has been my life raft in an ocean of turmoil and with it I paddle toward the certainty that this gift has divine purpose, even though I’m unsure what it is. It humbles me and helps with the fear, though this isn’t really the point.
 
Admitting failure and accepting help means a willingness to change wholeheartedly, to grab the robe of Christ with both hands and say “I can’t do this on my own! Please, help me!” Judas didn’t know how to accept or give love. It took Peter three betrayals before he acknowledged Jesus Christ as his Lord. Paul, however, knew what it meant to hold on with both hands after his eyes were opened to the truth. In many ways his writing eclipsed those of the apostles who were taught by Jesus and called him, “Rabbi.” Paul’s conversion story is a testament to the power God and a human being’s willingness to change.
 
There are many obstacles preventing a closer relationship with the peace, forgiveness and love of Jesus. Bitterness is one I share with Judas and Peter. This poison is odorless and tasteless yet it corrupts on contact, and in prison it is everywhere. So much so it’s impossible to function without prayer for guidance and strength. The love of Jesus Christ is a light to neutralize every poison and overcome any obstacle. On his shoulders rest the world—all of our sins, concerns, fears, and burdens. This I know and accept. This is a part of who I am.
 
“I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5).