Incarcerated Poetry | Society Impact 1

Incarcerated poetry

It is important to us that incarcerated individuals are able have their voices heard. By listening to and relaying their stories through our writings and events, we hope to recognize some of the most silenced members of our society. We believe compassion and second chances go hand-in-hand with justice and rehabilitation. Punishment alone cannot cure the sources of society's ills; true solutions can only come from understanding, and true understanding is only possible through empathy. The dignity of justice-involved, incarcerated, and formerly incarcerated individuals is not just our moral imperative, it is essential for societal progress.

Poems from Maine State Prison

By Gordon Perry

Spring, 2025

Rising voices break the silence, fierce and unafraid,

Inked in truth, in justice, in stories long delayed

Painting worlds, where gender and self can freely be,

Pages filled with echoes of strength and dignity.

Lifting the unheard, the unseen, the denied, the forgotten,

Emerging ripples target righteousness, dignity, and respect, forge to slowly fade

Originally shared in Ripple, a social justice zine published by the University of Maine, Augusta.

By Ralph

Like pieces of wood, rough and raw,
we begin with roots we barely saw,
buried deep beneath the years,
knotted tight with loss and fears.
But time and tools begin to guide,
the rawness smoothed from side to side,
we learn the lines, the bends, the flaws,
the grain that speaks without a pause.
Our hands grow wise with every pass,
turning oak and maple, pine and ash,
each mark we make, each joint we bind,
reflects a shift within the mind.
From workbenches to showroom floors,
our craft rolls out through heavy doors,
chairs and toys, shaped by our care,
go find new homes, go breathe fresh air.
And in each piece, a part remains,
of who we are, beyond these chains,
the skills we build, the pride we earn,
are roots we plant for our return.
We are not lost... we are becoming,
part of something real and running,
a quiet promise, carved in wood,
that we'll come back, and we'll come good.
Not just to serve, but to belong,
to build again, to stand up strong,
with steady hands, we find our place,
creating beauty, earning grace.

Behind the poem

This poem reflects what the Industries Program at Maine State Prison means to me and those in it... not just as a job, but as a path to real personal growth. In the woodshop, we start with raw materials, just like we often feel about ourselves. Over time, with patience, creativity and guidance, we begin to shape both the wood and ourselves into something more refined, more meaningful. There's something powerful about watching a piece of furniture or a handmade toy leave through the overhead doors, knowing it will become part of someone's home out in the community. It gives us a sense of connection and purpose... proof that we can still contribute something good. The Industries Program doesn't just teach us skills we can depend on when we're released, it shows us that we still have value, that we belong to something bigger than our mistakes, that we're capable of creating... not just serving time. This is my feeling free even though I'm really serving time.

- Ralph Tripp Jr.

By Mathew

11/30/25

Some say why bother

while I pray to my father

asking for the holy ghost

to enter the one who controls his soul the most

its why I suppose, I rose

from the deps of self destruction

substance induction

a hell fire of consumption

fusing futile corruption

illusion denile no production

creatin creatins and devils advocates

for heroin and crack hits

never thinking clearly

its all a conspiracy

corrupt politics in government democracy

its pitiful hypocrites they ridicule

over powering inidivudals

lost in a sea of poverty while they keep there pockets full

we wail we fell

with no hope for rehabilitation were thrown in a jail cell

then asked what we think of the nation

talk about aggravation

I don't have the patients

to talk about privacy invasion

tappin my phone to listen to conversation

theres no love in life left

with nothing left people look forward to death

the president barely lifts his head

freedoms mumbled under his breath

if its even pronounced correctly

and he still asks why no one respects me

if I was a terrorist I'd want to kill the most powerful thief

because of his beefs we lost two towers of peeps

it all seeps through the streets

and distorts dreams while our nation sleeps

and we support our enemies and it exceeds belief

the truth bleeds through news briefs

skimming the surface of political beliefs

pushing for new laws to turn over new leafs

and theres flaws as far as the eyes can see

and with there claws imbedded in you and me

we're kept alive until there ready to eat

my body you can beat but my mind and soul won't retreat

cuff my hands and shackle my feet sooner or later

I'll be back on the street

By Ralph

12/13/25

Community is not something most people connect with prison, but living here at the Maine State Prison has taught me that community shows up in unexpected ways. From the outside, it might seem impossible, how could connection grow in a place built on confinement and consequence? But behind these walls, community becomes something different. Maybe it is smaller. Maybe it is rougher around the edges. But it is also sharper, more deliberate, and on some days more necessary than anything I knew before.

I learned early that no one gets through this place alone. Prison strips life down to its essentials, and what is left are the people around you. I eat beside them, walk the mile beside them, work beside them. Over time, I learn their habits and moods, the way they carry themselves on good days and bad ones. Because we live so close, community here does not form through polite small talk. It grows from a quieter understanding: we are all trying to make it through the same storm.

In here, the smallest acts carry the most weight. A guy will slide you a coffee on a rough morning without saying a word. Someone may knock on your door just to make sure your holding up. Advice moves around like currency, tips on handling stress or navigating the unspoken rules of this place. Sometimes a joke drifts down the mile and breaks through the heaviness for a moment. These moments might seem small, but to me they are reminders that humanity still lives here.

Some of the strongest connections I have made come from cooking together. A few of us pool commissary items, ramen, rice, sausage, whatever we have, and turn it into something that tastes close to home. We argue about seasoning, talk trash, laugh, tell stories, and for a little while we are not defined by our surroundings. We are just people sharing a meal. Those moments remind me that community can grow anywhere, as long as people choose to create it.

Education brings another kind of community. College classes inside take effort, patience, and determination. What makes it possible is how much we help one another. I sit with guys going over math problems or swapping essays. I ask for advice from those who took the class before me, and I help others who are just starting out. Learning here is not only about earning credits. It is about lifting each other up so none of us sinks into the isolation that can swallow you if you are not careful.

Community also shows itself during the hardest moments. When someone is sick or ends up in the infirmary, people visit them as often as they can. I have made those walks, bringing a book, a puzzle, an extra soup, or just a conversation. Sitting with someone who cannot leave their bed is a reminder that we are all vulnerable. These visits do not fix the illness, but they ease the loneliness, and sometimes that matters more.

By Ralph

11/09/25

My name is Ralph A. Tripp Jr., and right now I am incarcerated at the Maine State Prison. Most people on the outside think they know who I am because of my convictions or my sentences, but those things only show one chapter of my past. They do not show the work, the growth, or the man I am becoming day by day.

I am not just a convict.
I am a husband.
I am a father.
I am a man learning, rebuilding, and discovering who I was meant to be.

Here, inside these walls, I have learned that time alone does not change a person. What changes you is what you choose to do with the time. I have had to look at my past honestly, take responsibility, and make the decision to grow instead of letting my mistakes control the rest of my life.

A major part of that growth has happened in the industry's woodshop, a place that has become much more than just a job. It has become a turning point in my life. When I first began, I expected only to work and stay busy and maybe learn a few skills. What I found was something much deeper.

I will never forget the first time I built a piece from start to finish, a bureau that took patience, sweat, and hours of focus. When I finally applied the oil and watched the grain rise up and glow in the light, something inside me changed. The wood came alive, the patterns opened up, and I stood there staring at a piece of beauty that my own hands had created.

In that moment I felt something I had not felt in a long time, pride. Not the loud kind, but the quiet kind that settles deep inside your chest. The kind that whispers, this was always in you, you just never applied it.

The proof was standing in front of me, and I knew then, I can do this...

But the woodshop did not just reveal my ability to build. It revealed something even bigger, my ability to teach.

As I grew more confident in the craft, other men came to me with questions. I naturally stepped into helping them, showing them techniques, guiding them through their projects. Eventually, I taught my first class. I did not know how it would go, and teaching in a maximum- security prison is not the easiest place to open up.

All of this rests on a foundation of respect. Not everyone becomes friends here, but we build a kind of code. We learn when to speak and when to step back, when someone needs space and when they need support. Respect keeps the place steady, and sometimes, out of that respect, real friendship grows.

The routines of prison can wear a person down, but they also link us together. Whether I am working in the shop, walking the yard, cooking with friends, or studying in a classroom, these experiences give me a sense of belonging I never expected to find here. In a place where your identity can be broken down piece by piece, these moments help build it back.

To me, community behind these walls means showing up for the people around me, even when the world assumes we will not. It means sharing what little we have, food, time, knowledge. It means lifting each other up, through study sessions, conversations, cooking, or a visit to the infirmary. It means creating connection in a place designed for separation.

Prison isn't just about the punishment but so much more than that. It is survival. It is purpose. And on the best days, it is proof that humanity can grow anywhere, even here.

After that class, one man came up to me and said, I appreciate the skills you taught me, but I really appreciate the way you taught them even more.

Hearing that anywhere would have meant something but hearing it in here made it feel surreal and powerful. It touched something inside me that I never expected. It made me realize I had a gift I never knew about, not just building wood, but building confidence in others. Teaching unlocked something in me that I did not even know existed. It gave me purpose. It made me feel connected to something good. It helped me see that this is a calling for me, something I want to keep doing.

In the woodshop, every project teaches me something, but every student I help teaches me even more. Little by little, all of this, the work, the teaching, the rebuilding, is shaping the man I want to be when I walk out of these gates.

I am also working on my bachelor's degree in business, preparing for the day I can get out and run my own cabinet company. I plan to create classes for people who come from circumstances like mine, giving them the skills, confidence, and encouragement to build something meaningful with their own hands and their own lives.

To most people on the outside, I might still look only like a convict.

But I know the truth.

I am a craftsman.
I am a teacher.
I am a husband and a father working to become a better man.
I am a student, a business owner in training, a mentor, and someone rebuilding his life piece by piece, lesson by lesson, day by day.

My convictions are part of my past, but they do not define my future.

The man I am becoming, that is who I truly am, and I look forward to the day I walk out of those gates to show my actions are even louder than the words.

By Ralph

2/10/2026

The walls at Maine State Prison don't move but my mind does

It wanders when the doors slam when the count is called

when the air feels too used up to breathe It slips past concrete and razor wire and goes looking for solace

a sacred place where none of the prison's realities or pains can follow

In that place I am not watched I am not measured I am not reduced to mistakes or time There is quiet there and for once the quiet doesn't hurt

My mind speaks to me softly there telling me it is okay to rest okay to remember

okay to want more than survival It reminds me that even here I am allowed to feel whole

Slowly that place begins to change It takes the shape of the people I love and miss faces I carry like photographs in my chest It becomes the places I have already been roads rooms moments that once felt ordinary and now feel sacred

And then it opens wider into places I have yet to see Places my body hasn't reached but my spirit already knows In my mind I am not locked up I am moving forward

My body stays here but my thoughts practice freedom And in that wandering in the solace I keep seeking and finding I remember who I am

beyond the cells

beyond the number

beyond the pain

By Ralph

Spring, 2026

The Awakening Within

There is a prison inside you, not made of walls, not built of steel, but of doubt, fear, and old regrets...

You have wandered its shadowed halls, heard the whispers of every "I can't," felt the weight of every chain you wrapped around your own heart...

But listen, the door is never iron, the lock never unbreakable, It lives in thought, and thought can be set free...

Take the first step, it may be small, quiet, almost invisible,

but it matters...

Say to yourself,

"I will not stay here,

I will rise,

I will awaken..."

Awakening is not sudden, it is a slow fire spreading through old habits, lighting paths you thought were lost, revealing the person

you

were always meant to bo..

Every choice matters, every action a hammer striking the bars of doubt, Love, patience, courage... these are the keys,

and they have always been in your hand...

Look within,

you are more than your chains, stronger than your shadows, wiser than your fears,

The prison exists,

but freedom begins with a single thought...

And that thought becomes your step, your word, your deed, it reaches out, it grows,

it reshapes everything...

The awakening starts with you, the awakening becomes you...

By Kevin

Being tough isn't convenience, it's a lifestyle you live when people take your kindness for weakness, being a snake isn't adhesive, it's a choice you make when you slither out of obedients (obedience), being loyal is highly strategic, it sets you up in life to be highly prestigious, speaking from the heart is when your talking your deepest, but you might hurt some souls it's just how they perceive it, this is my life and part of my thesis, never had to beg for pussy, it's probably why I'm conceited, I won trials but a part of me was defeated, them four walls will break you, leave you partial depleted, shortly asked can I come over and properly beat it, my leg gave her a cold shoulder as she gobbled and eated, Patron here Cuervo more over, no hangover cognac made me go sober, especially If I played poker, who doper than seize, I bob and weave, right hook ah stumble em, left hook make em drop to they knees, like people (niggas) scared of trial so they cop and they plea, I'm a lone wolf whose allergic to sleep, so I eat lions and use their blood as broth for my tea, old coke would make you glide on your feet, smoking newports back to back and you hardly would sleep, smoking blunts back to back it made it harder to see, like the more you show feelings, it make it harder to leave, because you feel lost like a bro departing from Steve (Harvey), to make me think slow I listen to Erik Satie, Trois Gymnopedies eases my soul to the tee.

By Jason-Blue

6/7/2026

Who can empathize with the sight
of blood rollin off the hood of my humvee
While we sittin in cells – 194 channels
gettin comfy

But what we feelin from cold tables
made of steel while we write
Sittin in the cell
2 dudes in a bathroom all night

let me bring you into current day
combat of the mind
I’ll maintain the sobriety
while others around me
dope feenin in the med-line

Tryin to read my Bible every day
it gets harder and harder but I still pray
Just listening and waiting to hear
the guard say – we gettin out today

Or maybe hear the yellin
of two dudes turned felon
gettin at the guards
or each other – no tellin

One slip of the mouth
get you ripped up like
a clown
Couple hard hitters
takin you down to pound town

Blue, can I get a soup
and I’ll give it back to you
on commissary/Annex day
Now how can you tell a man like that no way?

Especially 9 months after being misinformed that the dudes gay.

So I give him the soup – doesn’t matter if he
pays it back anyway,

Back to the Senses, where was I
So rudely interrupted
Doin what I can not to have
a cardiac eruption

Until you know what it’s like with nothing to taste
I put pepper on my oatmeal
Ain’t nothing going to waste

My cell’s by the microwave
I can smell it right now
burnt trays, prison food
Something smellin kinda foul

But what really matters up in prison
while you tryin to get your senses tight
That you get plenty of sleep
to keep your sixth-sense, your mind right

Let me bring you back now
From the stale beige smell of the prison walls
while I’m looking through the green bars
of my Maine view hearin rain fall

Ten thousand Dandelions – yellow singin at my play-ball
I’ll keep looking to the sky
Feelin/sensin on my next move
From our God’s call.

By Dennis

Today incredibly breaks like
a fever and reality sets in:
I am a prisoner.
Waves of early morning odors
(reminiscent of the Cheyenne
Mountain Zoo) assault me,
wafted on air thickened
By stale tobacco smoke.

Sunlight fights its way through
dingy plexiglass windows.
Cleaved by the bars before
reaching my tiny cell,
Each ray revealing a myriad
of motes doing an aerial ballet
As they descend upon helpless,
reluctant prisoners.

The din grows as prisoners
rise to yet another day:
The whoosh of toilets and the
rattle of plumbing are punctuated
With flatulent exclamations.

Suddenly, above the din rises
a new cacophonous assault:
Jack boots on steel grates as
a new shift of keepers arrives
To replace the old guard.

Inter-cell yelling commences
as faceless prisoners greet the day
In their own curious ways and
m hackles rise as I try to
Control the anger; no, the rage
for having to listen.

I am a prisoner—
a universe away from
The quiet of my country home,
the melodious songs of
Morning birds, the sweet gentle
greetings of my mate.
I am a prisoner!

By Dennis

Limp sails beneath windless skies
Mirrored on water dark as oil
A tiller, foot still wet, rusts with disuse
Belonging to a prisoner banished to
doldrums.
He wants for nothing, desires
everything
Eyes glazed, lost in dreams, seeing
Sails trimmed across the face of wind
Thrilled to life by unexpected gusts
Full-bellied and groaning in
contentment
Sailing! Sailing to well known ports
The prisoner, though dead becalmed,
Sails the seas by memory.

By Nathan

5/28/26

I was born inside the lotus
from under nana’s capsized rocks
in the muddy backyard
and between the dying lights
of Heaven’s senescent stars
I came from the lotus
from that heavyhearted goodbye
her afflictive lessons learned
Punished by my scars
my skin branded and burned
I rose from the lotus
my distant youthful eyes
astounded by Guerrero and Malenko
these frivolous dreams
they voraciously come and promptly go
Forever from the lotus
Yet here I still sit
beside the self
embracing the world
amongst everything else
It all started in the lotus
it’s where I currently am
it’s where I am from
regardless of who
I may or may not become
Always from the lotus

By Nathan

6/5/26

A nothing name from royalty
So many Kings
Such little fulfillments
My great uncle
told to “Kill that Korean”
My grandfather overheard “roll tide”
and sat with his ball by the TV
My Dad scolded
“Be more like your sisters”
All’s I got was
their common middle name
I’m no King
no more than
a byproduct of my environment
a caricature of culture
Living on the Borderline
of who and who cares

Ora et Labora

Ora et Labora is a journal rooted in dignity, justice, & transformation. Latin for “Pray & Work,” we amplify the voices of those directly impacted by the American criminal legal system. Our mission is to cultivate a space for healing, advocacy, spirituality, resistance, & labor toward a freer nation. This newsletter is rooted in the belief that the balance of reflection & action—prayer & labor—is a powerful path to personal growth & collective healing. Whether you’re returning home from incarceration, supporting those who are, or simply striving for balance & purpose, Ora et Labora is your companion in the journey.

By Dereck Anderson

12/15/08

Flags

Religion

and

Culture

How fowl. Why revere

the incision of the fangs and the talons

called government and false pride

that has decimated

hope and impaired the impairable

recognized as God’s design.

Handed down, like hand-me downs

shabby ideals and illusions of

equality.

In mixed matched

colors

sick with patriotism.

Charming lost souls

in the name of God, country, dogma

and riches.

To processions of early manicured mass graves

decorated with ribbons

and tin metal symbols

of cynicism.

How fowl. See what I see

is the prayer

of little hands not being reached

and the

tears of stained heels of little children, not being wipes

screaming for their mommies

and daddies

coming home in pieces

to no peace.

See, I can see

the empty bags of the Red Cross

and

no Salvation for any

Army,

being brokered by any God, that’s

any good.

But what I

Kant see.

is flags

that promote

peace.

True religion

that promotes

God,

and most importantly

(a) culture

that promotes

unity,

that we call

civilization.

So what

have we

learned?

Indocile.

By Dereck Anderson

My work doesn't come with "Parental Advisory" but it does come with "Reality Advisory!"

So if you are tender heart, or tender skin than this is not where you want to be. So buckle up!!!

Criminal Psychology

Since I met you

balls & chains,

whips & twisted lips.

handshakes filled with handcuffs

has been our introductions.

Yet, we haven't

exchanged not one

civilized word.

Criminal

The psychology of our rehabilitation

has been your recreation

from paycheck to paycheck.

Even with a little overtime.

No thanksgivings were given

at your kitchen table

over your last supper. Thank you.

No blessings and prayers were in order for

our remediation.

To redefine, redirect and self correct

misguided means

that's led to an undesirable

beginning and end.

Your creation and our incarceration.

By Arthur Logan

Winter, 2009

LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW,

WHAT DO I SEE?

I SEE REFLECTIONS OF THE STATUS QUO:

METAPHYSICAL WINDSBLOWING AGAINST THE GRAIN.

NIGHT LIKES THIS I WISH IT WOULD RAIN.

DISENFRANCHISED AMERICANS,

WE DREAM NOT FOR TODAY.

IF BARAK OBAMA EPITOMIZES THE AMERICAN DREAM,

WE, STILL, DREAM NOT FOR TODAY.

"I, TOO, AM AMERICA," LANGSTON HUGHES WOULD SAY.

IF NOT FOR HUE, WOULD WE ALL BE BLUE?

EXAMING THE TENETS OF A DREAM A KING ONCE SEEN

CROSSING SOCIO-ECONOMIC LINES, MOST SAY,

WE ARE, STILL FAR BEHIND;

THE PACEOF OUR TIME IS DISILLU$IONED.

MOST EYES ARE CLOSED LIKE BIRDS FLYING THOUGH WINDOWS.

NO MORE THAN AN UNTHREATENING HANDFUL,

QUOTAS REFLECT THIS GOVERNMENT'S SCANDAL.

THE AMERICAN DREAM HAS BEEN A FAILURE, THAT IS,

ONLY A FEW CAN RALIZE IT.

IN ITS FULLEST SENSE, WE MUST MOVE BEYOND IMAGES

BECAUSE WE'VE PAID AN EXORBIDANT PRICE,

WHILE BEING DEPRIVED THE KNOWLEDGE OF CONTRIBUTIONS

MADE TO AMERICAN LIFE.

LIKE FORTY ACRES AND A MULE, WE ARE TOOLS.

I SEE A BENIGN PICTURE:

THE DANGLING CARROT IS HER'.

WE HAVE HOPE?

NO, MY WILL MAKE ME HOPE FOE; I WILL HOPE NO MO'E.

GANGSTA' IMAGES KEEP SOME WHITES IN THE DARK.

HERE ARE THE INTRACACIES OF RACE RELATIONS:

IN OPPOSITION TO WHITENESS, BLACKNESS THUS DEFINES;

A LITERARY SYMBOL REFINES THIS CULTURIZATION.

STRIPPED CONSCIOUSNESS MOVES BLACK INTO THE MIND.

GOING BACK IN TIME, THERE'S NO SUCH WORD TO RELATE TO

ONE KIND.

THE COLOR OF MY CORE:

SOME MAY SEE BLUE; OTHERS MAY SEE RED.

THOSE OF THE RACIST MIND MUST SEE THAT

WE ARE PURPLE PEOPLE: NEITHER RED, NOR BLUE.

LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW,

WHAT DO I SEE?

I SEE REFLECTIONS OF THE STATUS QUO:

METAPHYSICAL WINDOWS BLOWING AGAINST THE GRAIN.

NIGHTS LIKE THIS, I WISH IT WOULD RAIN.

DISENCRANCHISED AMERICANS,

WE-DREAM-NOT-FOR-TODAY.

By Seán Martín Dalpiaz

The moment your nose hits that air,

Eyes stretch

A shot of the purest

Your skin.

I was a lucky one.

Captain Constant gave me a firm handshake,

Talked some upstate trash

Thanked me &

wished the best.

For years, I watched.

There was a window in Shaka & I’s confinement quarters

We watched

Men released

no trash talking

Just back spins & wrist & ankle

shackling

I thought Constant was just trash-

talking,

Nahhhh….there was large up-north January snowflakes fluttering

& no unmarked vehicles

I was a lucky one.

{in a slight surreal sense}

So much life was spent,

Like bitcoin,

Political investors sucking blood &

Sweat equity

For the chair.

By Seán Martín Dalpiaz

~you aren’t alone Joe L.

A KIND SPIRIT JOKES OF A PAWLESS RACOON,

AS IF TO SILENTLY AGREE OUR LIVES ARE NOT THAT SERIOUS.

ALL HE WANTS TO DO IS TO SPEND TIME WITH A SOUL.

GLIMPSES OF A HIDDEN LOVE SPARK & DIZZY HIS STANCE

ANIMALS DO HAVE SOULS,

JUST ASK THE MAASAI ABOUT THE ELEPHANTS OF THE OPEN PLAINS

19 YEARS FROM THE HAND OF HIS WIFE,

LIKE FLESH FROM THE BONE,

HE SLURPS HIS STYROFOAM COFFEE, LIKE COCAINE TO THE NOSE,

IN REMEMBRANCE OF HIS 21-YEAR OLD DAUGHTER.

A MATRIARCH FORGING HER OWN WAY,

HE SQUEEZES HIS EYES TRYING TO REMEMBER

HER NAME, LIKE THE ONSET OF A MIGRAINE

TEARS SEALING TOGETHER THE TORN PICTURES OF A HEART.

HE RECALLS SHE IS A BEAUTIFUL GIRL,

THE WAY 4TH OF JULY BLUES, REDS, & YELLOWS EXPLODE IN THE MIND OF THE BLIND

FROM THE TOUCH OF A MORNING ROSE PETAL.

HE DIDN’T DECIDE TO LEAVE HER BEHIND.

THE MIDNIGHT STARS AS CELESTIAL LURES WANTED HIS IMMATURITY,

THE WAY TEENAGE GIRLS FALL IN LOVE, THE WAY THE SUNSET IMBUES

PROFANE VISIONS INTO THE WINDY MINDS OF BOYS DODGING APPROPRIATE

NOISES OF RANCH HOMES, THE WAY STEEL FLUORESCENCE ABSORBS SCREAMS & SHADOWS

CROUCHED PREDATORS, THE WAY MATINEES ARE TASTIER THAN

SUNDAY’S BRUNCH, THE WAY HIS WIFE

WANTED THE MAN SHE KNEW HE COULD BE.

JOE TRIED-

HIS THICK THREADS HANGING FROM SUBTLE LIMBS,

BOOTS WORN FROM SALTY CONCRETE,

GLOVES JAMMED INTO HIS COAT POCKET,

HIS HAT HURRIEDLY AFFIXED.

HIS 18B HURRIEDLY AFFIXED A PLEA,

THE COURTS WANTED THE PRISONER THEY KNEW HE COULD BE.

IN A HOUSE OF GOD,

I FEEL AT EASE TALKING TO

JOE. MY INSIDES ABLAZE

SINCE I AWOKE THIS MORNING, A MAN SHUCKED TO THE SIDE

BY SO-CALLED PEERS & COUNSELORS HAS IGNITED

THE TRUEST POEM OF THEM ALL-

A STEADY PRISON HEARTBEAT.

AS HE TURNS & MURMURS ABOUT THIS & THAT,

THE BLOODY ENGINE OF MY CHEST SHIFTS GEARS.

YOU WOULD THINK THAT THIS HOUSE OF GOD IS SEDATIVE ENOUGH.

HOWEVER {YET}, UP IN NORTH COUNTRY, WHERE SLOGANS LIKE

“WORKIN’ HA’D OR HAD’LY WORKIN” ARE PERSONIFIED

YOU LEARN TO WORK HARD, LIKE MOTHER THERESA,

TO ESCAPE THOSE HAD’LY WORKIN’.

By Seán Martín Dalpiaz

Wal nut St.

New gate superparent handcuffing {G}god’s

Youth, wasted,

{On the young},

to upstate section eight penitentiary radiators.

Rainbow scarves of snatched breath from

Necks of hooded prodigal fathers &

Sons subjected to Scarlet Letter correction-

al interventions of offender processing by

Hands muscled to the barred-face $20 bill-

Auction of Auburn, auction of Pennsylvania

To well-dressed townsfolk sick, like Washington,

Of limp humanity hanging from the gallows

As if clean concrete & flesh technology are made

Easier on the eyes, like brunettes in Central Park,

Like the penitentiary was a paragon

Excavated to purchase a mask,

Like Maybelline.

Ora et Labora archive

Issue no. 1

“There comes a point where we need to stop just pulling people out of the river. We need to go upstream and find out why they’re falling in.”

- Bishop Desmond Tutu