Fishing for Poems

I was trying to figure out what I wanted to blog about this afternoon but couldn't come up with much more than these words you're reading now. I'd like to share a poem written by a friend of mine who lives two cells down the tier from me. I live in a super-maximum security prison unit where they don't let myself or anyone else physically interact with each other. Despite these restrictions, strong relationships are built by yelling to each other or passing notes. The latter is done with a technique called "fishing."

To fish I slide a comb with a long piece of string tied to it under my door and down the tier as close to my target's cell as possible. Then he pulls my string into his cell by hooking onto it with his own comb/string missile. I connect the note, newspaper or whatever I'm sending over to the end of string still in my hand and he pulls it into his cell. Boston and I share notes, news, poetry and artwork by fishing. He has been in prison for 21 years and has around 15 years and two life times before he's legally considered free. I think his poem is a look into the constant daydreaming that goes on in this solitary place called home, but I won't try to critique his work. Enjoy.

After doing 10 straight years in segregation in Walpole's D.D.U. Control Unit in Massachusetts, two things can happen to you; one, you go crazy or two, you grow stronger mentally; I chose number two even though sometimes I feel like number one found a place inside of me!!! My writing poetry helps stave off number one. Enjoy.

"Seasons of Reflection"

Does the purple dawn silently creep or is it more a misty blue?
Does the black crow outside still screech as the day drinks up night's dew?
I don't know anymore, but I know you do!
Let me tell you what I'd like to do;
I'd like to take a long walk outside and try to lose myself in the treetops where inside my mind I'd find a warm safe place to hide and let my eyes lick the foliage like lollipops, surely I shall be reminded by the radiant colors of the trees of my youth and sin of existence and a decade shall be reflected on the scent of a cool breeze as I refuse to let my age wear down my resistance!

The Autumn chill wraps tighter around my bones with time and wrinkles the faces of familiar expressions. Those colorful leafs of yesterday shall be long left behind as their purpose leaves illusional impressions...

As my memories fade and go back to where they stay and the trees are left standing naked and bare, I am forced into another season where age and time reason but refuse to let my dreams become dust in the air...

And still be reminded by all my reflections during their daily inspections on how quickly they try and steal all my graces, as my senses become dim and their changes grow slim and one day we'll both be gone without traces...

Everything D.O.C.'s ever done will turn into particals in the sun, even my gravestone will turn to dust; just like these words, butterflies, bees and birds, even all of their iron and steel will turn to dust!!!

Daniel T, aka Boston
Still Going Strong 21 Down
© Daniel T. 2010

"Are we animals in a cage,
or caged because we are animals?"