POEMS FROM PRISON

These poems were taken from the booklet entitled

LAST OF BONNIE AND CLYDE GANG

THE KING’S WHITE HORSE

Beware, my friend, my name is King Heroin,

Known to all as the destroyer of men.

Where first I was born, no one knows,

But I come from the land where the poppy grows.

I’m a world of power, and you’ll know it’s true;

Use me once, and you’ll know it, too.

I entered the country without a passport,

Ever since then I’ve been hunted and sought,

By addicts and pushers and plainclothes slicks,

But most by junkies who want a quick fix.

My little white grains are nothing but waste,

I’m soft and deadly, so bitter to taste.

I’ll make a schoolboy forget his books,

And make a world beauty forget her looks.

I’ll cause a good husband to cast out his wife,

And send a greedy pusher to prison for life.

I’m King of Crime, the Prince of Corruption,

I’ll capture your soul and cause your destruction.

Am I not a just king, a god to behold,

More treasured than diamonds, more precious than gold.

If you wish to hear more of the things I can do,

Of the men I’ve delighted and the women I slew;

I’ll make a man shabby that once dressed so nice,

And all who use me will go down in vice.

I’ll control your mind and then your whole brain,

With a full course of torment, first pleasure, then pain.

Ah, the fuzz have taken you from under my wing,

They dare to defy me, I who am king.

Nights you’ll toss and turn and won’t sleep,

You’ll be hot, then cold, and you’ll vomit and cough,

After the days of madness you might throw it off.

You’ll curse my name, and down me in speech,

but you’d pick me up again if I were in reach.

And nights, when you lie awake planning your fate,

You know I’ll be waiting just beyond the gate.

I gave you a warning, you didn’t take heed,

So put your feet in the stirrups and mount my steed.

Put your foot in the stirrup and ride me well,

For the white horse of heroin will ride you to hell.

                --Written by a prisoner at the Walpole State Prison

NOT ALONE

From within these walls

I look but cannot see

The sun that’s shining,

Neither grass nor tree.

It matters very little

What be the time of day,

For I am locked in my cage,

Yes, there I must stay.

Come the morning light

Or the evening dark,

I see not the sun,

Nor hear the lark.

Into my view comes

The fluttering of a wing,

Then when it’s perches,

I hear a robin sing.

The nearness of this creature,
Carried by wings on high,

Soars up, up above me,

And causes me to sigh.

I feel the power around me,

That comes to me today,

For God has sent the spirit,

The messenger guides my way.

Here this day I must sit,

but I am not alone,

For He is always with me,

In these walls of stone.

I fear not for tomorrow,

Nor the days I now will be,

By His word He guides me,

Yes, He watches over me.

Written by Harold T. Twgman Smith at the

Ohio Penitentiary. He formerly served as a

guard where he now is an inmate.

PRISON AND GOD

I sit in my cell, a sort of hell

on earth it is to me;

And though there are two men to a cell,

still it seems so sad and lonely.

The cells are small, five by eight is all,

and this, they say, is your house.

A toilet, a sink, a locker, a desk,

and two bunks which hang from the wall.

Three walls of steel a door of bars,

and concrete on which to stank;

Fifteen feet way, fifteen feet away,

lies freedom, but just out of hand.

I work six hours, or thirty a week,

for the sum of a dollar a day;

and this is quite good, you see,

for I am making top pay.

I try to imagine the world outside,

which now seems vague to me;

At times the tears I cannot hide,

from the hurt and misery.

My burden is heavy and hard to bear,

and I could not make it alone;

But through it all, there’s One who cares,

my LORD, my GOD at the throne.

F. W. Mitchell, Maryland House of Correction,

has protrayed some of the hard, cold realities of life

as inmates “feel” it.

ALMOST

I was almost, so were you

there are many almost, more than a few.

I almost finished in prison,

But—well—you know,

I was almost President, well—almost Mayor.

I was going to Mexico, almost got there.

Almost made foreman on my job,

Almost didn’t need to steal or rob.

I was almost there, almost free,

You were almost rich,

Now, you’re here with me—

How many almost, do we plan to be?

There’s no almost now!

It’s up to you and me.

BEHIND THOSE WALLS

A love of mine is barred therein,
And 'lonely' cries his soul.
Dear God in Heave, keep him close!
Lest hell should take its toll.

For prison cells and prison stone
Hold not the anguished cry;
It echoes in heart's chambers
That space cannot defy.

O, give him hope, and give him dreams
To heal the dread despair;
For nights are dark and hell is deep
Before the morning air.

And wise men in their Heart of hearts
Know love is healing balm.
So echo, love, through darkened cell.
God speed the breaking dawn!.

Written by a Canadian woman and dedicated to

 a young Christian recently released from a West Indies prison