You and I were not friends, Jamie,
But friendly acquaintances? Sure.
You were in my English classes,
For as long as your ADHD could endure.

A great ambassador for my classes,
Getting others to join and learn.
But as for you, Jamie, you couldn’t slow down.
Your mind always raced, always burned.

Your passion was your Native past;
I gladly shared all the info I had.
But in the end, it could not save you,
Your demons stayed until the last.

We remember your enthusiasm, energy, and smiles,
But if we are upset for now–
You OD’d so soon after release;
We’d hoped you’d make it many more miles.

Triumphs here are measured in inches, not feet,
For people incarcerated or out on the street.
To rise up above takes commitment and grit,
With help from outsiders who don’t give a sh*t
About why you’re there–you are human, so they care.

And when you lose one you’ve helped, it hurts.

No matter their mistakes, their wrongs, or their sins, To love one another is where healing begins.

The rain drums steadily on the roof. Beyond the next wall, a virtual classroom instructor’s voice drones through the speakers like Charlie Brown’s teacher: “Wah, wah wah wah. Wah. Wah.” A door in the hallway rattles as it is opened, and then it bangs shut. Florescent lights above my head whine, pulsating with the pain behind my eyes.  The two-way radio crackles to life, a predictable disruption in this house of correction. I gaze around the room; beige plastic-molded chairs sit at tan wooden tables on a speckled tile floor, surrounded by off-white concrete block walls. Dreary hardly begins to describe it. Posters of nature scenes, the Bill of Rights, Branches of the U.S. Government, and other images make efforts to break through the drab discoloration, but the pasty clutter threatens to win the day. After having faded into the background, the rains pick up again, their crescendo and decrescendo toying with the listener, harkening to memories of cuddles with books, blankets, and hot chocolate.

I used to get along
with all my coworkers
It was my signature
but lately I've been angry
and
I've become
illegible

Sometimes I feel old
over the hill
worn out
ready to throw in the towel

Sometimes I feel young
just beginning life
not yet in my prime
raring to get going

Sometimes I don't feel at all
conscious of each breath
hearing the most inaudible sounds of silence
unsure what to do next

Where I am today
I may not be tomorrow
Where I am tomorrow
I may not be next week

The ebbs and flows of life
and emotion
leave
me
paralyzed

Sometimes

We are locked inside a prison
Forced away from light of day
The only windows for our vision
Show us those on life's hard way.

Pithy memes make light of life
bringing chuckles to the heart
But they do not break the doldrums
of the soul oft broken 'part.

Concrete walls and off-white paint
trap us in now seemingly more than ever.
Masked for Covid we feel faint
From these conditions we long to sever.

So up go the posters of trees, sun, and flowers
easing our minds from stresses and pain
Artificial beauty to escape the long hours
before our senses go down the drain.

Good

“What’s wrong with Jackson? Why’s he so upset?”

“He got a call from home. His aunt’s had a heart attack.”

“She’s the one who raised him? Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah, and she’s not gonna make it through the night.”

“Better call mental health, have them check on him.”

“Already did that and they’ve been in.
He says he’s fine, no threats of harm to himself or others,
But we’ll keep an eye out in case he bothers.”

“Keep up the good work. You’re a good CO.
It’s something that our society just doesn’t know—
While the world outside crumbles and falls,
Correctional officers are called to stand tall,
Fulfilling a mandate to keep inmates safe,
to give them a chance even in the face
of danger or illness. CO’s stand on the front line
that’s never seen, never credited, but always on.”

“As a wise kid once said, ‘You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.’”

Orientations
Behavior
Reasons & Goal Setting
Expectations
And Stress Management
Time & Contingencies
Balance
And Barriers
Overcoming Problems
Control
Teamwork
Safety
Smart Moves
Transferrable Skills
Sunrise or
Sunset on
Your Career

For a long stretch of time, it seemed like spring would not come to Maine in 2020. Winter clung to us as if to say, "But how do I KNOW you'll be back in November? What if you decide not to have winter again? I think I'd better stay a little longer this year."
At last, in mid-May, the thaw arrived. Nature has been greening and preening ever since. Spring has been showing off the glory of nature's Creator, displaying calm images of peace in the midst of a troubled world.
Spring is my favorite season because of the renewal it brings. Today is the last day of spring. That always makes me a little bit sad, because from now until the first day of winter the days get a little shorter.

Spring's clawing its way to reality
here in the deep heart of Maine.
It's really no later than usual,
but the lockdown has had us in pain.
So many events have been canceled,
the rites of passage cast aside,
That the sight of green'ry and of blossoms,
bursts our gloom, blooms of joy, hearts open wide.

What’s a block to you?

Is it a distance that measures street to street in a city?
Or is it a cube of wood used as a toy?
Perhaps a chunk of material, no discernible or particular shape,
Or defense in sport to prevent offense to move.
It could be housing for the incarcerated, a portion of time,
A section of cheese, or lack of writing ideas.
Half an insult, maybe, paired with head?
Part of an engine, working or dead.
Noun, verb, or adjective, the grammarian in me
Asks today what “block” is to thee.

Where You Are

Where you are it may be spring
With all its greening, blooms, and beauty.

Where you are it may be spring
But winter clings with snow, brown grass, gray trees.

Where you are it may be fall
Brilliant hues of red, orange, yellow leaves.

Where you are it may be stressful
News, work, and life awry.

Where you are it may be calm
Despite it all, grounded in peace.

We each respond to where we are
According to what we believe

About the ultimate meaning of life
And about who holds the key.

Would you tolerate it if what I wrote were more prose than poetry?
If what I had on my heart were not flow'ry speech?
Would you allow me to post it, and not take it down,
'twere it not rhyming, free-flowing, nor haiku in the least?

Hello Poetry, you see, has awakened in me a desire to write
what is on my heart.
And it is not always poetic in nature nor thought;
sometimes it just needs to get out of my head and shared
for others to see, whether they agree or disagree, like or dislike,
but I do not belong to another community, just this one.

Would you tolerate it? Short writings of one kind or another?

Like a dog with a chew toy
is winter in March.
Silence and contentment
punctuated by flurries of fury.

Is It Fair?
© Bill MacDonald 3/5/2020

Is it fair to expect his wife to act in a mothering way,
Even when you don’t want her to replace your mother?

Is it fair to expect her to show some concern like Mum would,
When you don’t want her to be a usurper of the affections Mum gave?

Is it fair to expect his wife to connect with our shared knowledge and love
When she’s only known us in fits and spurts, a little at a time?

Is it fair to expect that she’ll want to know us like she wants to know him,
When he’s the one she’s marrying, and we’re all grown up?

Is it fair for her to expect that we’ll all stay away,
When we’re used to seeing him whenever we want, because he’s our Dad?

Is it fair for her to say that we aren’t sincere,
Even though we’re trying to know her and accept her as she’s asked?

Is it fair for her to speak glowingly of her side of the family but not his,
And to be surprised when we feel slighted by that?

Since when is life fair? Since when is life perfect?
Since when do human relationships work without pain or conflict?

Is it fair that we expect one another to act according to our standards,
But we fail to live up to those very standards ourselves?

Is it fair?

A thick column of smoke rose from the ground.
I could see it just ahead.
Why were all other commuters passing unconcerned?
Ah, not a fire. A birch tree, branches raised to the heavens,
looming dark in the fog, beguiling and hoodwinking an
overactive imagination.

Some days are filled with obvious meaning
while other days seem void of life itself.
The Maker has promised to fulfill, and I trust him.
Even if all I do is stand still.

One brought us the hobbits
In writing, the other in film
The orcs and the wizards
For good and for ill.

The world of Middle Earth
Brought to life from you
Now mourns the son’s passing
Farewell, JRR’s Christopher!

There are days when I don't know where I am.
When I charge ahead, heedless of others and their needs.

There are days when I don't know where I am.
When I wander thru the fog, seeking comfort or direction.

There are days when I don't know where I am.
Nor do I really care to know; I just want to heal the hurt I see.

There are days when I don't know where I am.
I laugh and I cry, never sure of my place or my role in life.

There are days.

Who hasn't called a mountain cold and desolate, yet beautiful because of its snow-capped peaks?
Who hasn't remarked on a wintry morning, despairing of the bitter chill, yet amazed by ice clinging to eaves and trees?
Who hasn't shivered in the night air of late December, while regarding with awe the star-spangled skies?

There once was a father named Dad
who thought he'd really been had.
His daughters and sons
made terrible puns,
and thus they grew up like their dad.

"What's it like to teach in a prison?"
"Are security guards with you all the time?"
"It must be so scary; how can you stand it?"
"Nope; it's just me, by myself, six-to-one."

Teachers start with a briefing. Who's new to each class
and which day to begin them; hope he'll work hard and pass.
Period 1 starts at 8, so my only real chance for the morning
is to get coffee before, piping hot, for tongue burning.

Some like it scalding. Some like it hot.
I take what I can get from the community ***.
Not terribly picky, it's the caffeine that I crave.
I'll take it lukewarm or cold to make it through my day.

But as for the teaching, it's really the best
situation I've taught in all through my career.
Men getting a new lease, returning to society
with education, vocation, more prepared for life's tests.

So, if I have to drink my coffee when it's gone past its prime
because I've been tutoring this one,
or prepping that one in writing,
My reward is his success: I'll drink when there's time.

"My life's going nowhere," he said with a sigh.
"I'm locked up in prison for the third time."

"While you're here, go to school," I advised the young man.
"Use your time wisely; get ahead, make a plan."

"I did drugs on the outs, crystal **** and *******,
loved getting high, never feeling any pain."

"Well, you're clean while you're here, let's get some work done.
Learn some English and math, nouns and verbs, Algebra 1."

"I wish I'd finished high school when I had the chance.
This work is much harder!" He fidgeted, like ants in his pants.

Situation Normal All Fouled Up, like so many, frustrated. General Situation, reporting for duty.

Fat, chunky, or obese,
Give me chocolate ice cream, please.
Chubby, heavy, fatty, flabby,
Orange sherbet like my tabby.
Big, gargantuan, giant, huge,
Melting popsicles in deluge.
Absolutely all, every single one,
Totally, completely, I am done.
Adjectives, adverbs, and the like,
Overweight learning, say “goodnight!”

I left for a time
because I felt like a mime

Nothing would post
Tech took longer than toast

I gave up on HePo
When saving was NoGo

Took writings to my blog
No feedback, but no bog.

FJ Davis liked something
So I came back a-wondering

If HePo worked again,
I'd jump right back in.

Every effing day
I effing go to my effing wonderful job,
Where I effing listen to effing grown-ups
Who don't effing seem to effing know
How to effing make an effing sentence
Without effing using the effing eff word
Every effing other effing moment.
My effing students say the effing eff word
So effing often that they don’t effing realize that
They’re even effing using it; it just effing slips out.
So, when I effing say, “No, thank you,”
They stare at me blankly. “What the eff?” they ask.
“You said I should ‘eff this’,” I reply. “No, thank you. I’d rather not.”
For one or two effing moments, they effing realize that
Their adjective, verb, and exclamatory vocabulary has been reduced to variations of the same effing word, but then they resume their effing,
and the effing teaching moment is effing lost.

It effing drives me effing crazy!

I walked back via the perimeter road
to clear my head. It's a tough day
when a coworker has died.
I didn't know him well, but he always greeted me by name
and had a smile on his face, even when he was mad.

His friends told me today that was because he knew
someone was about to hear from him;
we all chuckled about that as we processed our loss.
Eight weeks ago, he was healthy but for a stomach ache.

"Cancer, stage 4," and he knew then it would soon be over.
He declined treatment; took care of business for his wife,
and with his Maker. Conversed with his friends,
settled matters for his adult children, and prepared for the end.

A stroke immobilized him Sunday, and Death claimed him Wednesday. We found out later his expectant grandson was born before J died. Small blessings in times such as this.
We all agreed today that in the mercy of Providence,
neither J nor his dear wife had to bear a lengthy illness.

But his friends will miss him--those he mentored, most of all.
"There'll be some long walks in the woods," one said,
as they come to grips with their grief, "as we remember this good man, and say farewell to Joel."

He will be missed, by colleague and inmate alike.
A man of good character like Joel is hard to find.

Do you remember Y2K?
The panic we all felt?
Everyone was going nuts
Expecting the world to end.

Computers ran the world “they” said,
And as the day drew near,
"All numbers will return to zeroes,
Crash all systems—we’ll be dead!"

No one knew how to respond,
So, we prepared for emergency;
stashed away food, water, batteries
Then partied like t'was 1999
and waited to be Y2Ked.

Didn't happen, we panicked for nothing.
2000 came and went.
It was all a big, fat, nothing-burger
Until last week; and then

Wednesday, 10/2/ Twenty-Nineteen,
When they checked the power at work,
Our wireless routers didn't like it--
quit working just to be mean.

For three days and countless hours
Chef instructor/IT man scrambled
To find out what was wrong with our routers
To learn why our network was dead.

Try after try, while we waited and prayed,
Late on the 4th connections were made.
Nineteen years too late, router clocks were all zeroes,
We finally found out, we'd been Y2Ked!

Why does every story seem to end up in the same place?
Dark, gloomy, serious, troubling, depressing.
Too many questions; not enough answers.
Too much philosophy; not enough happiness.
Can’t there just be life, with its twists and turns,
and oblivious meaninglessness?
Must one be tall, dark and handsome?
Cannot one be tall, bright, and beautiful?

Speaking of which, does handsome imply slender, too,
or can one be portly and still match the description?
Rounded features can be good-looking, can’t they?
Consider what’s in front of me, just to my left.
Narrow at the top, broader at the shoulders,
thinning at the waist, thicker at the hips, with short, stubby legs.
Imagine asking this one out on a date. Or not.
A brilliant blue top, no trousers, and a transparent look all around,
except for the hard cap and necklace.
“Aquafina: pure water, perfect taste” it reads on the label.

A little further on, there’s one that can’t get enough, it seems.
Open for business, wants all it can get.
Invites everyone to plug in and get a charge.
Of course, that can be taken as many ways as one wants.
Literally, euphemistically, you name it.
Tripp-Lite it says. The splendid splinter, trim as can be,
full of the juice of life.
Don’t want to give tongue here, though.
That’d be the end of love for you.
Shocking, really. No power stripping for you.

So where does one go from here?
Does history really have its eyes on you,
as the sign on the wall proclaims?
Who are you, in all the world,
that history will take note of your place in it?
In a population of some three billion,
what effect do the ripples of your life cause?

It is so easy to become wrapped
in the circumstances of your world
that you think your world
is all the world that matters.
You navel gaze, as it were.

Hospitalized February 6th
"It's pneumonia and Influenza A," she said the next morning.
"They want you and the boys tested. Love you; see you later."
We did not speak again for six weeks.

Lungs and kidneys quit February 7th,
placed on complete life support, and coma induced.
I am quarantined with flu and cannot visit.
Doctor calls, "She's not likely to make it. This is the worst I've seen."

Allowed to visit February 10th,
informed, "We almost lost her last night. She had a heart attack. I
must be honest with you; I've never had a patient in her condition
survive."

I thank the doctor for his candor, add, "If it is her time to go, then we will find a way to go on, but..." and he turns to me...
"we have thousands of people around the world praying for her."
"Then I will add my prayer, too," he said.

Doctor calls February 11th.
Reassures, "She's fine,  don't worry. I go off-shift tomorrow.
I think your prayers are working.
For the first time since I attended her, I think she's going to make it."
I believe him. I thank him, hang up, and cry.

Each step of the way she shatters expectations.
Surviving. Breathing. Walking.
"Expect months in the hospital." It was weeks.
"Expect months of dialysis, maybe a year, maybe a transplant." Kidneys recovered.

Thousands prayed, many gave, the Lord answered with a Yes.
In our deepest darkness, he carried us again, teaching us to trust always.
Next week, she goes back to work.
Once again, the Lord gave me my wife, my miracle.

When trouble
  Assails,
   Then
  Even storms
Raging and
  Fierce cannot
   Alarm.
  Loving, merciful
Lord
Secures.

Natural beauty moves my heart.

Often cloudless spring days turn dark and dreary, but not this time. Azure skies, verdant trees and pastures—the splendor of creation breathtaking, and I am at a loss for words.

Wildflowers bloom along the highway, purple, yellow and white interrupting swaths of hay. Trees in the new green of spring. Young leaves flutter in the light breeze. My soul is stirred. I am poetic in heart, but not in writing. Words fail me.

The air is warm and comfortable, like a lazy, midsummer afternoon. Forests and hills as far as the eye can see in the distance, framed by manicured lawns and brick buildings of a stately college campus. Glory!

Counting the days until the twenty-fifth,
He gazes longingly at all the trappings of the season
Really, though, he knows
It’s not about presents, trees, lights, and
Sugar-laden treats.
The true reason for all the celebration is the
Man sent to earth below from heaven
Above to die on a Cross for lost
Sinners.

All the wrath of God was poured out on this Man, bringing
New life to all that submit and believe that He who
Died for sinners now lives.

Whether mankind believes
In the Savior or
Not, the
Truth
Eternally
Remains.

Day in and out their view is the same.
Concrete walls, locked doors,
Regulated life, till their time has been served.

For some it becomes home, and they fear the outside.
Others resist and refuse to adapt.
The resilient change what they can; accept what they cannot.

Crime is not required to imprison a mind or body.
A begrudging character can limit as well as a cell.
Freedom comes to those that endure with grace.