I tell him I’ve written
A Christian play.
He says
It’s not real, you know.
It’s dishonest.
God says don’t lie,
and that’s what actors do.
Try to be something they’re not.
All theatre is lies.
Satan’s work.
All actors are Satanists.
All playwrights their priests.
© 2017, Paul Brookes
A poem from Juvenile Detention Chaplain Lisa Ashley.
…
He met his baby niece and toddler nephew
for the first time on that three-day special visit.
Each child was named for him,
the way his brother and sister honored him.
His mother wept tears of joy,
her baby son, her youngest child,
her first visit since he was sentenced
six years ago.
He’s a grown-ass man now, twenty three,
seven years lost in drab gray rooms,
twenty eight more to go,
all that time no touching allowed.
The baby girl grew tired,
fell asleep in the crook of his arm,
her head lolling back,
small feet in white shoes dangling.
His slender brown fingers
and muscular arm
cradled her gently
as he gazed into the camera.
Deprived of human touch
all the weeks that grew into years,
his body like the dried snake skin
left in the desert sun,
suddenly flushed full
by this flash-flood of child love,
trusting him to hold her
as she abandoned herself to sleep.
This moment of gentle touch, soft holding,
deep joy and infinite sadness
mingle in his brown eyes,
caught in the lens.
He watched them walk out
the double-locked doors,
standing stock still in the visiting room,
oblivious to the other men and their families.
The guard walked him back to his empty cell,
hot stifling air enfolded him.
He sat down on his bunk
missing them already.
Walking in the razor-wired yard
he looked up
and watched two eagles
riding the thermals
out there in the Palouse, free
to float where they would.
He wondered what his niece would look like
six years from now.
Would she let him hold her then?
© 2017, Lisa Ashley
© poem, Lisa Ashley
May 8, 2017
A poem from Juvenile Detention Chaplain, Lisa Ashley
…
Native-named orb
of antler-hardening season,
it slow-rises
behind a Mt. Rainier cloud,
etching a snow cone Madrona
in its glow.
The bucks begin
their pointed clashes
for dominance,
for the does,
as summer moves into fall, ritual
not often seen or heard by humans.
Sipping, wrapped in a fleece robe,
visited by baby raccoon and elder black cat,
breath slow-moving in and out,
moon watching,
trying to let go of her story:
rape, then raging violence and death;
he raped and beat her
before she shot him with his own gun.
The moon glimmers in gold seams
inside the rock-mountain cloud
until bright beams burst,
flooding over
white gooseneck in the yard,
lighting up the fragile white butterfly.
Did he place his gun on the car seat
before forcing her?
Did she see it shining
in the streetlight?
Desperate,
she grabbed it up
to stop the pain.
Charged with murder one,
prosecutor claims pre-meditation.
She is old enough to know
what she was doing, they say.
Just turned 16, to be tried as an adult,
did she pre-meditate his attack?
Driven by self preservation
and testosterone
the bucks fight in breeding season,
mounting the does when they are in estrous,
un-witnessed.
Does the doe submit each time?
She waits for weeks, alone with nightmares,
in a limbo of fear-filled unknowns
abandoned by heroin-addicted parents
and friends who think they know what happened.
It’s like a surreal movie, she says.
Tears slide down like the setting moon.
© 2016, Lisa Ashley
I am a woman, kept bound
with my mouth sealed,
one finger laid against
my gagged lips
my will
in darkness
in silence
in death
a short period of darkness
before the power
before the sun
appears through silence.
© 2017, Paul Brookes
I remember seeing you
that first day sitting in the stink
of the wet flagged floor
of a green walled prison cell.
A young blond haired boy
looking so much younger
than the ten years of age
of the birth date you gave.
And thirty three years
have passed since then.
but you greet me with the same
mischievous narrow lipped smile.
In all the years I’ve known you
that bit of you has never changed
through the visits I’ve made
and all the prisons we name
like some tourist guide
of the broken and lost years.
And you still call me
by my first name
as you’ve always done
“How are you?” you ask
when you shake my hand
with the firm grip of an old friend.
And I have reminded you
so many times over these years
that you are a miracle
to have survived and be able
to tell your tale. A tale
I know you will never tell again.
You ask if the book is written
about you and your friends
the boys out there in the park.
“Not yet” I say. Realising again
I know your story off by heart
if that is the right phrase to use.
For I am the history man.
A man who has reluctantly stored
like a cursed gift the stories
over forty working years of each boy
and each girl, each woman and man
who has shared their secrets at a time
when life for each one had become
too hard, just too hard, and too much,
for each of you alone to bear.
And I have held your stories
in the knowing confidence
of some cloaked priest.
For I am the history man
wishing that I could let go
of all those stories told and heard
of all those stories I know.
But feeling that if I do let go
it would be just another betrayal
in such a long and pitiless
unforgiving list of humiliation.
I ask you about Jason
and hear you say
words I’d half expected
“Oh Jason – he’s ‘gone on’.
And so one by one the boys
in the park take their leave.
Young men who should
by rights have lived long lives
but drugs, alcohol and those memories
that stalked their waking day
and the nights of endless terror
and the trap of silence
inevitably take its toll.
And one of the boys in the park
homeless for fifteen years.
who still greets me each day
smiling tells me his news
“I have a home at last.
A home to go to,
to get in out of this rain”
But the boy still sits in the park
sheltering from the remorseless
disdain of an unforgiving world
lacking in compassion or the ability
to refrain from heaping and piling
on your too broad shoulders.
the unending blame for all
that is wrong with the cruel
virtual selfishness of their digital
shallow flat screen world.
I greet each one of you
I meet pleased to see
that you too have not “gone on”.
For I am the history man.
© 2017, Ron Cullen
To a war
To a peace
To memories
Their hands,
Their eyes,
Their heart.
To this life,
To these walls,
To his fists,
To her tongue.
To this gust.
To this light.
To this dark
To this ocean
To this fire.
To these words.
Justice
Bloodjustice
Skinjustice
Tonguejustice
Blindjustice
Livingjustice.
Breathingjustice
Hopingjustice
Seeingjustice
Deafjustice
Dumbjustice
Loudjustice
Quietjustice
Strongjustice
Weakjustice
Fitjustice
Illjustice
Smilingjustice
Glumjustice
Harshjustice
Subtlejustice
Gentlejustice
Angryjustice
Happyjustice
Wildjustice
Calmjustice
Hearjustice
Tastejustice
Touchjustice
Dyingjustice
Fleeingjustice
Facingjustice
Explainingjustice.
© 2017, Paul Brookes
In prison, Wilde learned to live from Verlaine and Kropotkin
Once reaching the ultimate achievement of wisdom.
But understanding Christ, he was overwhelmed with chagrin.
Enduring humility, he saw the Holy Kingdom.
Once reaching the ultimate achievement of wisdom,
Oscar found that unknowable was the soul of the man.
Enduring humility, he saw the Holy Kingdom.
Writing to Bosie, inside him ”De Profundis” began.
Oscar found that unknowable was the soul of the man-
”Whatever happens to oneself happens to another.”
Writing to Bosie, inside him ”De Profundis” began.
The pillory replaced the pedestal of the lover.
”Whatever happens to oneself happens to another, ”
But understanding Christ, he was overwhelmed with chagrin.
The pillory replaced the pedestal of the lover.
In prison, Wilde learned to live from Verlaine and Kropotkin.
© 2017, Marieta Maglas; Wilde In the Doc, Illustrate Police Gazette, 4 May 1895, Public Domain
empty prison farms
balance sheets with dark red ink
societal chains
restraint by profit and fear
bargain priced prisoners’ hope
© 2017, poem and illustration, Charles W. Martin
an opened window
fresh air whirls around stale fears
prisoners breathe deep
hope’s sunrise cuts through darkness
revenge’s hand ends all
© 2017, poem and photograph, Charles W Martin
a broken prisoner
back bent like an old willow
skin as rough as bark
believed restorative justice
society’s rejection
© 2017, poem and illustration, Charles W. Martin
i am pleased to say .
that it has been a good day. that i said something when she said we had no money. pointed out that we have food, shelter and heat .
#whatmoredoyouexpect?
that we have our comfort and honest work. #whatmoredoyouexpect?
i am not righteous, though my breakfasts are sad now, by design. the cream is off.
limits.
i am pleased to say i wrote the book, bought the book, told the story of my life today.
#whatmoredoyouexpect?
© 2017, poem and art, Sonja Benskin Mesher
. verdict.
seems the punishment is cancelled.
pat says some folk paid the price
already.
we hope he is right. what benefit is
suffering?
there are leaflets to explain. in the
cathedral
&
other power houses.
i visit regular without no ticket.
the formal compaint has not yet
been realised.
it was well over a week ago.
i read daily.
© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher
She sits opposite him gazing over the bare table
realizing he’s only the same age as her son
his eyes hold fear beneath the glass that covers
all his emotions, it’s the protective lid he’s
hidden beneath for years to survive but now
is raised as he faces her and finds she’s like his Mom.
She has one question that he cannot answer
which holds the key to his heart and life
why did he go to that kitchen drawer
before he left for school that morning
why didn’t he take the lunch that he left behind.
James was sitting on the campus bench
quietly eating peanut butter sarnies, muffins
not bothering anyone, alone! He sat beside
and suddenly stabbed, he took a bitten sarnie
and the cops came as James was dying
and now Sally sits opposite needing
his answer, he mumbles “sorry, I don’t know
he was just there and I was hungry”.
She knows there can never be reparation
for her son will never walk through the door,
she’ll never know his wife, or children
for he’ll never meet her, they’ll not be born
but she’s confronting this boy discovers
why he went to that kitchen drawer
needs to stop him and others like him
from following the fashion of the blade
she’ll know James will live in others
unknown boys who will grow in to men
with futures unscarred by the blade.
© 2017, Carolyn O’Connell
Searchlights strafe the night blocking out the stars
while inside boys search sleep, perusing dreams
that conjure memories of innocent pasts, they’re
back in homes where mothers and sisters danced:
this is but a transient relief – too soon
the dawn slips through window bars bringing
steel’s clang to rouse the day, the stink of men –
no woman comes to bathe a fevered brow.
A judge who didn’t know them, a lawyer duty bound
presided over their futures, turned the page of fate
were they guilty or in the wrong place – no matter?
Now they’re behind walls subject to the system
turning innocence to depravement – no escape
for all around older, wiser know the game
survive by bringing new blood to the flock:
This flock thrives by bending all the rules
the rams impregnate all the new lambs
teach them, turn them into wolves and serve
the new shepherds guiding this interned flock.
All is contained by consent of shepherds whose
duty is to guard, but they are weary of the task
for they know there is no redemption; the stars
are set by race, creed, and class for money rules.
Those without the right profile are sacrificial lambs.
© 2017, Carolyn O’Connell
When I was a child I believed God lived in the skies.
It was the only way God could see everything
God was everywhere his proximity was frightening
I walked the mountains searching endlessly
I know I wasn’t alone in these beliefs
I’ve written fifty years and a day, written as they say
without knowing whether my words are listened to
so I walk these mountains listening to your words
I walk old pathways following mountain trails
I sing my words I sing my song to silence.
.
Jacques Benveniste
believed water retains
on a molecular level
a memory
that triggers antibodies.
His hypothesis remains unproven
but his conviction stayed firm
until his end came.
.
I reflect on our indifference
to the way we walk on water
we float on strata of sandstone
once beaches and layered memory
water filters and holds
breaching the surface
springs and dark pools.
And I walk endlessly
on the draining land
beneath my feet
examining the new
examining the past
walking with water
walking with love.
,
Erw Beddau
has been desicrated
a place of burial
long forgotten by men
it was still there
when I was a child
amongst the panorama
of the plateaus uplands.
From those heights today
I cast an eye to the valley slopes
and see in the distance
where Errw Beddau had once lain.
The spring, the well,
it’s clooty tree remain.
It was said of the well
which stood
in that funerary landscape
of twenty five burial mounds
its spring water cured
ailments of the eye.
In this age of blindness
I sense an irony here.
If I could only see it now
I tasted its spring water
many times long ago
when I was young
walking winding trails
in the steepness of the day
Erw Beddau
the acre of untouched graves
remained a story hidden.
And I crossed the silence
of the high slopes
following
parish roads and bridle paths
and when these ended
the intricate web of trails
of hefted sheep
mapping out
describing
the lands contour.
Do we mould the landscape?
Or has it formed us?
Walking with water.
Walking with love.
.
When I was a child I believed God lived in the skies
I walked the mountains searching endlessly
I wasn’t alone in those beliefs
I’ve written fifty years and a day, written as they say
without knowing whether my words have been listened to
so I walk these mountains still listening to your words
words and teachings no longer listened to
I walk mountain trails following old pathways
I sing my words I sing my song to silence
Walking with water.
Walking with love.
Dedicated to my daughter Beth Cullen who walks with water, walks with love – who achieved so much in Ethiopia with the Karrayyuu pastoralist community and our shared love of past essential knowledge!
© 2017, Rob Cullen
“Water, water, every where
… Nor any drop to drink.”
If I should have enough to weep
some tears before we sink
into the deep … then
let the rains fall everywhere
where land is parched
where lips are cracked
where leaves are starched
and odds are stacked
agin those least able
to feel the rain fall on their face
and cleanse decaying life
of toxic overload
and feed the food that’s rife
and rich as any lode
but for strife … and greed
that let the acid rain fall foul
… and cost us dear.
© 2017 John Anstie
All rights reserved.
[The first two lines are taken from “The Rime of The Ancient Mariner”, the most epic of his lyric ballads, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.]
as I wet my Nanna’s mouth
with a tiny bud of wool
she lies half in this world
half in another unseen.
My hand fetches water from the well
of the cup, every time my eyes
notice cracks appear in softness,
dry earthquakes open soil
like her trowel levers earth open
for the receipt of a seed or flower.
© 2017, Paul Brookes
Keep all dry. Quality of life
is in dryness. Any drink is poison.
Swimming is murder. Rainfall
is death. Protect yourselves.
Shelter your children. Ensure
their suits are watertight.
Physical relations with others
must be kept dry. Swapping liquids
means death for you both. Love
is dry. It is cracked and dust.
© 2017, Paul Brookes, excerpt from A World Where chapbook
The BeZine 