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Jailhouse Poetry

When I hear the sound of hard shoes clapping against the tiled floor, I connect it with the memory of jingling keys and barred doors that won’t open.

I think of the 3 A.M. drunks that dry-heave in stainless steel toilets,

and the first time-offenders, or “Keepers,” as they called us.

They called us keepers because we were older than the under-aged throwbacks, and old enough to be tried as adults.

I think about the guards and their perverted laugh as they locked the door to my cell

When I see a county bus passing with steel-meshed windows,  Continue reading →

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From The Sunday Morning Sunrise

Sunday morning, and it’s a pretty one
It was mornings like this one. I remember.
The sun was out and the early frost was on the grass of our Long Island town. I was a boy then.
I played football on a team called The Levittown Red Devils
We were dropped off an hour before game time; we ran laps, stretched, and did our version of calisthenics.
Our young growls resulted with smoke leaving our mouth from the cool morning air.
We counted out loud, “1, 2, 3, ONE…1, 2, 3, TWO 1, 2, 3, THREE!”
Our hands rose above our head, and then slapped down  Continue reading →
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Journal entry#321

It was early in the morning when she attacked the pipe with a large soup spoon in her tiny apartment. She said, “That’s a sign for the super to turn on the heat.”
But of course, the sign never works. A winter fly somehow found refuge and flew around the small kitchen. On the wall, a yellow fly swatter with a white handle hung like an explanation of a month long infestation. The dried remnants of other flies smashed into the mesh proved the winter fly was the only one left.
“Damned fly,” she swatted.

Apparently, the super was unaware  Continue reading →