Note: This is sixth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
January 29, 2023
[Typically, these journal entries are sent in written form. Terry called me on January 29, 2023, wanting to share something that he wrote, impacted by seeing the mother of Tyre Nichols on the news. We started recording shortly after he called.]
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
This will be the biggest favor I have asked of anyone, I realize, my head slumped and the phone receiver shaking in my hand. My friend answers the call.
“Are you current on the situation with my Dad?” I ask, relief seeping through me when he responds that he is. I do not have to say the awful words.
My Dad is dying – not dying like we are all dying, or dying with two months to live – dying in that he will be dead in a few hours. The shocking news has hit me hard. I am scrambling to take care of the necessaries.
“I have a huge favor to ask,” an understatement, but I cannot think of adequate words. When my friend pledges his willingness to do anything for me, I press on. “I want you to represent me at the funeral. I am going to write a speech to honor my dad and want you to deliver it.”
Without hesitation, he replies, “Of course. I’ve got you brother.” The tears I had been holding back break through before I hang up the receiver on the wall-mounted phone.
It isn’t until I enter my prison cell and shut the door to muffle the ever-present clamor that I allow the tears to stream. Yet, even as I struggle to breathe, gratitude to God mingles with the suffocating grief, gratitude for a friend, a brother who loves me so much that he is willing to bear such a weight. My thoughts travel back to the day when I prayed for a friend and God gave me a brother.
“Wake up. You’re not going to sleep away our last few minutes together,” I told my biological brother, elbowing his arm. “You’re going to talk to me.” He sighed heavily and yawned but sat up, a reluctant compliance.
In our early twenties, we had traveled many thousands of miles side-by-side, but not quite like this. In the backseat of the family car on trips to visit family in Maryland and Florida, vacations to the Blue Ridge mountains, Disney World, and Myrtle Beach. Then, in high school and college, one of us driving and the other riding shotgun on road trips. So many miles, so many happy memories.
Never had we journeyed confined by shackles, bounced relentlessly by the decrepit shocks of a prison transfer bus. Never before had the trip guaranteed our separation, maybe forever.
Arriving at the Sandy Ridge depot, we were herded off the bus into the ‘Cattle Shoot’, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the livestock. My brother and I were being transferred from Foothills, where we had been together for about a year, to different prisons. With him serving thirty years and me life without parole, we wondered if this goodbye was the goodbye.
His name was called first. We exchanged “I love you” and “Keep your head up”, hugged as best we could in shackles, and he shuffled away. I prayed, “God, please take care of my brother.”
When my name was called, I prayed again, “God, please give me a friend where I am going,” while doing the shackles-shuffle to the next bus. Some of the guys already knew each other. They caught up on news of various prisons and prisoners. I did not plan to talk to anyone – the sting of saying goodbye to my brother still too raw.
The two guys closest to me discussed the previous night’s Fiesta Bowl. Upstart Boise St. had upset powerhouse Oklahoma in dramatic fashion. One of the two turned to me, asking if I had watched the game. Initially, I just stared through my fog. His smile nudged me into a response of “yes”. Despite my barely verbal opening, the conversation on my favorite topic, sports, drew me out of the haze.
We recapped the spectacular (now legendary) plays: the hook-and-ladder, the statue of liberty, the running back’s proposal to his girlfriend, a cheerleader, after he scored the winning touchdown. The sports talk replaced my lifelessness with animation. I was a Claymation form temporarily brought to life. At least the conversation helped the bus ride pass, I thought.. God had more in mind.
When I thanked God for the semi-familiar face of my sports conversation partner in the next cell, God must have chuckled, knowing He had already given me abundantly, exceedingly more than I dared ask.
The confined, compact nature of the prison environment amplifies the obstacles to developing and maintaining a friendship, while simultaneously intensifying the need for a friend. In the friendship building stage, the prison environment causes near constant contact, an abnormal closeness for the start of a friendship. The excessive time together combined with the high-stress state of living generates numerous opportunities for friction. Only when both parties are committed to working through the inevitable conflict does a friendship develop.
A friend is not a person without flaws but a person with whom exists a mutual contract of grace. If friendship required flawlessness, nobody would choose to be my friend. My new neighbor, Tommy, extended grace to me despite my caustic sarcasm and know-it-all attitude. Instead of taking offense, he laughed, even at himself. And he helped me laugh, a much needed soul-medicine.
Even when friendship demanded a price, Tommy embraced the imposition. After I tore my ACL playing prison-yard gladiator basketball, he helped take care of me, getting my tray in the chow hall. When a miscreant thought the crutches a license to be rude, Tommy bluntly informed the misguided chap otherwise. His exact words, “His leg might be messed up, but there’s nothing wrong with my legs. So, what do you want to do?” Tommy, a Marine always and forever, could be rather intense. Somewhere along the way, we became more than friends, we became brothers.
Many in prison avoid friendship because of the inevitable sudden separation. One person moves to another unit or transfers to another prison, without any warning, without a chance to say goodbye. That’s what happened to Tommy. He was just gone one day, transferred to another prison, no warning, no farewell.
Keeping in contact, even by letters, violates prison rules. As a Christian, I submit to a higher authority when a divergence emerges between the two. I write letters of support as a ministry. Most persons in prison have no way to navigate, or circumvent, the prohibition, but an understanding family member relayed letters between Tommy and me. We supported and encouraged each other through those simple words and, of course, we conversed on sports, especially football. In many letters, he expressed his commitment to always be there for me and to help provide for me after his release.
Tommy walked out of prison after fifteen years. I had not seen him in seven years. My parents visited him that week to help him get a few things. They had gotten to know him well over the years. They were emotionally impressed by the way he spoke of me as his brother and of his love for me.
I have had a number of friends get out, promising to keep in contact and send pictures, order magazines, etc. Most are never heard from again, unless and until they return to prison. A few kept in touch, briefly, then essentially vanished. Not my brother.
Maintaining contact and transitioning to the role of a supporter after release begets numerous problems. Upon release, a person is not starting from zero but from deep in the negative. Acquiring a job, home, transportation and food, plus paying supervision fees – with a felony record – sets many up for failure. If a person does make it through the post-release quicksand, playing catchup makes life move at warp speed. Staying in contact and providing support increases the strain.
Many leave prison carrying with them the trauma of that environment. Yelling, slamming doors, quick movement, feet scuffling, or countless other triggers can activate the adrenaline rush and other fight or flight responses. Every phone call, visit or letter with those still behind bars takes a toll. Maintaining contact with friends left behind forces the released person to constantly confront their own trauma, a steep price.
My brother sacrificed, and continues to sacrifice, for me. As soon as he could manage, even at a cost to himself, he put money on the phone, sent money to my canteen account, ordered books and magazines (mostly sports magazines, of course), sent photos, and relayed jokes and funny memes to cheer me up. On his first truck, he put a NC State sticker on the passenger side, his way of letting me ride shotgun.
When I prayed for a friend, I asked for someone for a season, wanting God to supply a temporary need. God recognized a permanent need and supplied a brother for life. Thanks to the gift of Tommy, on the day I learned my father would die in a few hours, laying on a prison bunk with tears tumbling, I whispered, “God, thank you. I asked for a friend. You gave me a brother. I did not know how much I would need him, but you knew.”
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson is not only a great writer, but he also expresses through his writing who he is today and helps to illustrate personal growth. WITS is about allowing readers to find their own understanding through the written experiences of the writers, and I’m grateful to Mr. Johnson for sharing not only his loss, but also his faith. Timothy is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.
Mr. Johnson can be contacted at: Timothy Johnson #0778428 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Timothy Johnson can also be contacted through GettingOut.com
Author, Kwame Teague, has created a productive, creative lifestyle within the parameters of prison – through pure initiative and tenacity. He wasn’t provided writing classes and tools within his cell, but rather, took it upon himself to establish a positive and productive way of life with access to only a pen and paper. THAT – is inspirational, and also why I wanted to talk to him.
Conversation with Kwame Teague.
While WITS is not the platform to share fiction writing, it IS the platform to share and encourage writing in all forms. Fiction writing is equally as important as non-fiction, and in many ways can be an even greater therapy. The book clubs WITS sponsor primarily read fiction, a much needed doorway to another life and time.
Kwame has taken fiction and run with it. In 2021, Dutch, the movie, was released based on a series of books he authored by the same name. While I enjoyed the movie, and felt a connection to it in more ways than one, as I grew up in New Jersey, what was even more overwhelming to experience was watching what Kwame had inspired and seen to fruition from within a prison cell.
I don’t know Kwame’s history. But that kind of dedication to one’s craft, focus, and determination centered on productivity – screams of being well prepared to successfully go home. While he has been busy over the years writing, he has positioned himself as a positive role model, taking time to encourage other writers. For that reason, I wanted to talk to him. I will share his work in our library, and I hope he keeps us posted on any future projects he is a part of. Below is a list of links to some of his existing projects, although it is clear from our conversation, this list is far from complete.
I come from a fractured blacktop scattered with butts, blunt guts and broken butterfly jars. I come from broke and broken families where broken window theories clip wings early. I come from No Child Left Behind and Just Say “No” to three-for-tens and five-for-twenties, ten-ten skinnys and one-twenty-five by fives. I come from penny candies and two-for-a-dollar wings, fifty-cent hugs and dollar dutches – blocks where boys slapbox while the girls double-dutch. I come from humble homes where grandmothers are saints and every kid’s got a father they don’t know named John Doe. I come from late nights looking for my mother in the back-alley of a bar peeking through the crack in the backdoor. I come from where crack is king where the crack of dawn brings crack head neighbors to steal our newspaper. I come from crockpot dinners that simmer while our grandmother works seven days a week with a weak heart, gnarled hands and swollen feet. I come from hunger – from rumbling stomachs in the classroom to cutting class and rumbling in the bathroom. I come from redbrick rowhomes with glass ceilings, smoke-stained walls and tear-stained sheets. I come from big iced teas and big white tees, dirty Dickies and dicked sneaks that talk while you walk. I come from coupons and food stamps. I come from group homes and boot camps. I come from false prophets who sold me money-green dreams who never told me that God is dead and life is hell. I come from the otherside where trying to survive is a waste of time – I come from the end of the line.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, whose first submissions were a joy to read, and he has only gotten better over the years. I don’t know if we will hear from him again, as he will be starting a new life in the not too distant future. He has spent nearly a decade in isolation. I wish him the very best in all that he does.
Robert can be reached at: Smart Communications/PADOC Robert McCracken LG8344 Sci-Fayette P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
Note: This is fifth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
Listen as Terry reflects on this particular journal entry.
April 17, 2016 (4:02 am)
It’s been 4 months since I wrote in this journal, but tonight I’m having trouble sleeping and I didn’t have anywhere else to turn. I keep having these dreams of getting off Death Row, but I can’t stay long. For some reason I’ve gotta come right back. I’m going around visiting people I haven’t seen in years but it’s just to say goodbye. I don’t know if it’s meaning I belong on Death Row or this place is so far removed from the world that once you’re here, you’re lost forever. I wonder what happened to that little kid that used to be me, the one who wouldn’t be caught dead on Death Row. I used to dream of white picket fences and gardens around a trailer, now all I can dream of is the chance to see people before I die. Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse, being woke to face all the bullshit that happens on Death Row, or going to sleep and realizing I’m still in this bitch.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
The bold red lettering screamed, the words an unexpected punch to the stomach causing a burdened breath to break free. Unable to face the sullen sign any longer, I lowered my head, chin to chest, contemplating the burden that lie beyond – spending the next sixteen years imprisoned, only able to call home once each Christmas; the thought… fathomless. My life was over. My brittle heart crumbled, the pieces plunging into a pit of despair, dragging along my broken spirit.
I sat in a daze, oblivious to my surroundings, yet aware of their presence. Fluorescent lighting clicked and ticked above, my nose numb with the smell of fresh paint masking decades of stale urine, and my bottom paralyzed by the cold concrete bench. Slowly, the void began to lay claim.
The crackle of ratcheting manacle locks shattered the emptiness, a sound I would, unfortunately, become intimate with. None of it even mattered.
ONE PHONE CALL A YEAR CHRISTMAS
This had to be cruel and unusual. I swallowed hard, hoping to gulp down any tears threatening to fall. My chapped lip quivered; I bit down, tasted blood.
“Aye…” I felt a light tap on my knee.
“Aye…” Grappling through my haze, I struggled to focus on the face before me. It belonged to the county sheriff, whose job it was to deliver me into the custody of the department of corrections.
“Hold ya head up homeboy… You from Laurinburg,” he said, smiling encouragingly.
I understood the sentiment, but despite the man’s effort, the lore of the infamous Central Prison weighed heavy upon me. Frightening images flashed before my mind’s eye, depicting gruesome tales of murder, assault, and far worse taking place behind the century old walls. The prison’s vicious reputation brought to mind fangs, thirsting for fresh blood. I shivered.
“You’re going to be a’ight Emmanuel… I’m sure of it,” the Sheriff said.
There was something in his tone, the look in his eyes, the way he said my name. Emmanuel, ‘God is with us’. It gave me a sense of reassurance.
As the words processed, my head began to rise. Although I could feel my neck cringing beneath the weight of stress and anxiety, I firmly held the sheriff’s gaze and gave an affirmative nod. Responding in kind, he smiled again before turning to leave.
Watching as he gradually descended that long empty corridor, I silently cried out to return with him. The sheriff was going home… I was not.
Once again, I looked at the sign.
ONE PHONE CALL A YEAR CHRISTMAS
I swallowed hard, hoping to gulp down the tears that threatened. Defiantly, I stood… ready to face the burden that lie beyond.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Christmas and other holidays carry a unique struggle from prison. Carter captured some of that struggle in this essay, and I am grateful for him and all the WITS writers who continue to open up and share their experiences from within prison. If you would like to contact Carter, please reach out to me directly.
lost at fourteen, a product of the system, wandering behind walls confining souls like Satan. silent screams of youth can be heard through my eyes, far off cries for a seat at Grandma’s table. while sleeping beside a toilet on a concrete slab atop a 4-inch mattress, I ride my bike again with friends left far behind. reminiscing can be pleasant, nostalgia can be sickening, color, emotion, tone; contrast. recalling crispy fried chicken and siracha hot chili sauce, collard greens with bacon strips, hot water cornbread and Kool-Aid. warm tears on my cheeks, the saltiness finds the corner of my mouth. reminds me of my father’s whoopings, all that correcting didn’t correct me.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Michael Kent is a new poet here, and he is a true pleasure to work with. I’m drawn to his writing because of its unforced and genuine quality, and I’m drawn to working with him because of his clear willingness to explore his creativity. I look forward to sharing more here.
Michael can be contacted via Getting Out or by writing: Michael Kent Jr. #15215000 777 Stanton Blvd. Ontario, OR 97914
Inside the confines of solitary confinement’s concrete cell, you have to make abnormal adjustments in a rather abnormal situation. Otherwise, your capacity to socialize atrophies, you wither up and die a social death. In this place, you’d better adjust and find creative ways of connecting and communicating, lest your emotions become hollowed out, leaving behind only a mere shell of your social self. I’ve been isolated on federal death row for fifteen years now and have learned some deaths are more inhumane than lethal injection.
As long as there is an ounce of humanity left alive in you, a person is compelled to reach out and socialize, by any means necessary, even if you gotta yell through the solid steel door of your solitary cell. Or shoot the breeze, as I often do, with disembodied voices through the ventilation system.
In this four-storied, maximum-security building at the federal penitentiary in Terre Haute, Indiana, the ventilation system is a social lifeline. The grapevine of prison gossip and not-so-private confessions. The social network where mundane conversations go viral, carried through the vents of far-flung cells across the four floors.
Standing on my stainless steel toilet in my third-floor solitary cell, I shoot the breeze with voices from downstairs, my head close to the perforated vent on the concrete wall.
“I’m a white girl with tits and hips and ass,” a feminine voice lilts through the air ducts, cutting through the heavy male notes clogging up the airways. I would know that nasal, high-pitched tone anywhere, the way it emotes a joy uncharacteristic in this dank and dark place. It’s Bonnie.
“Call me Bonnie Grace,” she told me when we first met at the vent.
Bonnie lives on the second-floor, confined to administrative segregation, also known as the hole, which occupies the first two floors (federal death row occupies the upper two). In the hole, men who were once in general population are segregated and locked down in solitary confinement for various reasons, most of which have to do with disciplinary infractions or pending investigations. Bonnie is there for the latter. Or so she says.
I’ve been chatting with Bonnie since earlier in the day. I’d been pacing when I heard her yell up through the vent.
“Death Row!”
I ignored the voice at first, not sure who she was calling.
“Upstairs!”
Still, I paid it no mind.
“I know you hear me. Hear you movin’ round up there.”
Sounds travel through all this steel and concrete, and apparently, my footfalls were thudding upon the concrete floor, Bonnie’s ceiling.
Tugged by the voice, and ever yearning for social proximity, I stepped up on the toilet seat, put my ear to the vent, and that was the start of our social exchange. And no matter the subject, Bonnie tends to go off on tangents and promote her appearance, as if she’s taking selfies with her words. At this moment, she’s doing just that.
“I’m about five-ten, weigh about 150 pounds. Skinny. Long hair. Pretty…” She pauses, perhaps distracted or thinking, and then she says with gleeful pride, “And they say I look like the girl on Beetlejuice!”
“Beetlejuice? What?!” I reply, confused. I faintly remember that movie. I think the characters are phantoms or a version of living-dead, ghostlike, and I’m surprised that Bonnie sees this as a compliment. “WTF!” I comment.
A male voice interrupts us, “And she gotta big-ass nose too!”
“Oh my god!” Bonnie says, her signature interjection. “But I’m cute though!” She giggles, and I picture her admiring herself, her hand running through her long hair, flinging it in the air, giddy with all the social attention.
Bonnie is transgender, identifies as female, and takes hormones. “I take estrogen and anti-testosterone pills every day,” she informs us. And now she’s “a white girl with tits and hips and ass,” one of fourteen or so transgender residents at this all-male prison.
Bonnie’s legal name is Steven, out of Texas. Steven used to be part of a white supremacist gang. “I used to tear shit up,” Bonnie says, wilding out, fighting and stabbing, doing all kinds of “crazy shit” for the gang. But all along, she says, a part of her felt like a female.
Bonnie never tells me what led her to taking the prison psych evaluation, one of the first steps to transitioning inside the federal Bureau of Prisons. She just tells me about the process. She started transitioning less than a year ago, and her body has changed drastically. Or so she says. You never know what’s true at the vent. A person can be anybody, assuming whatever persona, catfishing and being catfished.
But I choose to believe Bonnie. I have to. In order to socialize. To stave off social-death.
After some time, I end the exchange, step down from the toilet, and plant my feet on the cold concrete ground. I resume pacing compulsively, one of the adverse effects of solitary confinement, and I immerse myself in the lingering warmth – the afterglow of social rapport.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Rejon is new to WITS, but determined to build on his natural ability with words, spending a good deal of his time on federal death row constructively using his creativity. I hope he continues to write, and I also hope he sends some of that writing our way. You can learn more about Rejon at his website: www.rejontaylor.art
He can also be contacted at: rejonltaylor@gmail.com
To learn more about Rejon’s case, which involved being charged at the age of eighteen years old and later sentenced to death, click here.
I want to get out of prison. As a Christian, this desire hasn’t decreased at all – but my reasons for wanting to get out have changed, some of them, at least. Before, I just wanted to return to my old, pre-prison life. Over time, I began to pray for God to let me demonstrate my repentance, promising I would serve Him better if I were free, help those in need. Those of us in prison who identify as Christian have probably all prayed and promised some variation of that. Repeatedly. It’s been about twelve years since I last did.
And God answered me! Just not by granting my request. Rather, God first answered with a question He wanted me to contemplate, and I could sense the question like a rock in my gut. “If you won’t serve me wholeheartedly now, in a place and situation with fewer temptations and distractions, what makes you think you’ll serve me when free, when inundated with many of the same choices and temptations that condemned you to begin with?”
My initial reaction was to argue that I had changed. But had I, really? Maybe I wasn’t selling drugs or using them, but I had no trouble with fighting if the situation arose. I could also turn a blind eye to the needs of those around me. And I had this attitude that because I was in prison, I could do whatever it took to survive, to do my time. I realized I didn’t really stand for anything; rather, I was like a chameleon, adapting to my surroundings.
But in my heart, I wanted to be authentic, to be the same person God wanted me to be regardless of where I was living, regardless of being imprisoned or free. I prayed, “God, how can I possibly serve you right here, on death row?” All I heard was silence, as if my heart wasn’t quite ready for God’s response. Nevertheless, my question seemed to hover before my eyes everywhere I went.
Then, one day, God suddenly broke into my thoughts. I was in my cell working on an art project when I saw this vision of myself putting together a bag of commissary items and handing it to an elderly, less-fortunate prisoner. He had a very abrasive personality (almost nobody liked him, including me), so I didn’t want to give him anything. Further, he lived on another pod.
Attempting to set aside the man’s grumpiness and my personal dislike, I asked, “Lord, how would I even get it to him? You know the guards won’t just let me walk over there and pass it to him – it’s against the rules!” In answer, God brought another scene to mind: me walking toward my pod’s door, carrying the goodie bag. That was it.
I got the message, “Just do what I tell you to do.”
So, I headed toward my pod’s door, bag in hand. As I approached, the pneumatic door hissed open. Looking up at the control booth, I saw no guard. And coming around the corner was the very person I was to give the bag to, hobbling along with his cane. “Hey!” I exclaimed.
The old man recoiled and screamed, “Hey!” Then he eyed me warily. I quickly stepped into the hall and thrust the bag into his free hand, saying, “Uh… God wanted you to have this…” I felt weird saying it, though he seemed unfazed. In fact, he brightened.
“Okay! Thanks! I gotta see the nurse,” and he shuffled off, rattling the bag as I stepped back into my pod. I was a little stunned about how it’d all played out.
A guard appeared in the control station’s window ten feet in front of me and saw the open door. She gestured angrily, as if I’d opened the pod door. I shrugged at her and walked away, hearing the door hiss and bang shut behind me.
Now I understood. I didn’t need to know how God would accomplish his goals. To be of service is simple. I need only to maintain a humble, willing and obedient heart – and do what God tells me to do, when He tells me to do it, how He tells me to do it. Period.
Whether I’m in prison or out of it, if my heart’s in the right place, I am useful to God’s purposes.
Of course, I still want to get out of prison. Only now, getting out isn’t a precondition God must meet in my life before I’ll serve Him.
Amen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row in NC. I think that this piece, more than any other shared here, is the greatest reflection of the person I have come to know. George is an accomplished poet, writer and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Crimson Letters and Beneath Our Numbers. More of his work can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
My father was a wild man who lived with his feet off the ground an eagle soaring on the wings of errant pride he was love on fire scorching heart beat on the move swaying to the groove of a guitar and a mended spirit a cue-pid ball gliding across the evergreen way chasing all the pretty numbers in the school yard he was brick pile wild the allure of promise jive talk over corn stalks and hawk bills in hip pockets perched on high a rooftop throne of rock tiles and sometimes regrets the king of tickled bellies shot gun shells and shattered windows of proven love crazy with that “I wish you would…” courage My daddy was cold Budweisers and ‘son, bet wiser fitted caps and waist tucked tees and greeted death with a smile on his face he was hard work potential and good old memories and 2 o’clock gatherings over hymns and hyperboles the greatest dad ever salute Wild Man Steve
“God called my daddy, Steve Robinson, home on November 6, but he left us with a lifetime of memories and three generations to carry on his name. Hug your family while they’re still here.”
Steve Harris Robinson July 27, 1948 – November 6, 2022
Terry Robinson he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com OR you can follow the writer, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson, on Facebook, all messages left there will be forwarded to him.
