One man forgotten
To all but those who carry
The scars of his pain.
Like trash, men’s futures
Litter the fractured asphalt
Of the prison yard.
I can feel your pain.
I can see it as clear as
The tears in your eyes.
His madness had an
Aura of resignation.
Even broken breaks.
When you were alive
I took your love for granted.
How I miss you so.
When I bite my nails
I taste the dried blood of the
Friend whom I betrayed.
Why do I feel like
I’m living out of habit?
I need to kick this.
A man’s life is weighed
Against another’s sorrow
On the scales of fate.
Percocets, hot tea:
The breakfast of champions
And losers alike.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and a welcome contributor. His poetry is strong not only in word, but also in structure.
Robert can be reached at:
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
175 Progress Drive
Waynesburg, PA 15370
Rewind back to 1989. I was 29 years old, had a family, was gainfully employed, and had a foothold on a music career that was more love than dream. It was mid-summer, and I was alone and recording vocals in my makeshift home studio.
“I’ll take fifty boxes of the mint,” I said as casually as I could, thinking, ‘my wife is going to kill me’. But that many cookies goes a long way. I wouldn’t have to buy cookies for six months.
As a kid my father’s father used to pick me up every Saturday morning to go get a haircut from the ‘brutal barber’, Mr. Plumbar. He had a reputation of using a straight razor on little boys’ heads, then slapping alcohol across the cuts he had made when he was done. Young boys feared getting a haircut from him, and older fathers and grandfathers brought their young boys to him to prove that their sons were brave.
Nothing is sacred here. We still aren’t even provided water outside, and it’s only getting hotter. Water on a hot day should not be considered a privilege. It’s not for the attack dog – he has a big bucket of water to drink out of. That’s what it’s all about though – it’s a system designed to slowly strip away our humanity and whatever self worth we have left. In the name of justice we are left in the care of the unjust. We’ve let people down and we have to find a way to forgive ourselves and become the people we were meant to be, in a world where our authority figures view us as less worthy than the dog on the yard.
I’ll never forget that summer day in ‘78 when my childhood innocence was shattered. I was four, the sun was out, and my only interest was in candy and fun. We lived in Mary Ellis trailer park, a scant neighborhood on the lower eastside of town. Everyone was treated like family in Mary Ellis. Even the insurance guy and the mailman were often shown hospitality. It was a fine community to grow up in – until that day when everything changed.
Helen’s estranged husband, behind the wheel of his blue Chevy Nova. Whirling tires spat dust and gravel as he backed the manic machine into the street and barely avoided smashing a parked car. His chestnut skin glistened with perspiration while franticness hardened his face. As Uncle Jimmy scoured for an escape, I thought to wave goodbye.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of 
Every now and then I’m blessed to have a taste of Freedom, depending on how you look at it. There are times when I have to leave one Plantation for another. At that moment in time, my heart skips a beat, my hands get sweaty and butterflies dance in my stomach. And, there she is – Freedom will appear before my eyes. I’ll be able to tell her – Freedom – how much I miss and adore her company. I can explain my love for her and beg her to take me back. Sounds good doesn’t it?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Bobbie George is not only a thoughtful and talented writer. He also has worked training service dogs during his incarceration.
My neighbors and I have one very large thing in common. In the name of security, prison officials have stripped us of every ounce of our dignity. In spite of that bond – we all know better than to get too close to one another. Each one of is here to be executed. We may not have execution dates – yet – but the possibility looms large with every court ruling, every denied appeal and every date set for one of our neighbors.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
My dreams – they give me the most trouble emotionally. I go to sleep and when I do – I sleep hard. You can empty a trash bag of aluminum cans outside my cubicle, and nine times out of ten, I won’t flinch. When I sleep, I dream. I don’t dream of unicorns and dragons and supernovas. I dream about my dad – camping trips together, baseball games, Ohio State football, my old life. And I don’t want to come back – not to this nightmare.
At approximately 2:30 am, while sleeping fitfully on a pallet of couch cushions and blankets on the living room floor at my parents’ home, I was easily awakened by the phone ringing loudly in the other room. I glanced over at Sara, the mother of my son, lying next to me. She stirred in her sleep, as though having a troubling dream. Understandable. The events of the past three days left me quite troubled as well. ‘What the hell was Jeremiah thinking?’ I lament to myself.
There was one officer standing slightly in front of all the others, as though he was the one in charge. The bright headlights pointing at me from all the police cars, made it difficult to make out any details. As I turned to him, he told me to keep my hands up and walk towards him very slowly. The grass beneath my feet felt cool, soft, and wet from the dew beginning to cover it. But that didn’t fool me, as I knew that grass was notorious for producing some pretty nasty stickers. I proceeded with caution.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Kenneth-Conrad Vodochodsky is a gifted writer, serving a 30-year sentence in Texas, based on the “Law of Parties”. He can be contacted at: