I’m a soldier
in a war
sold to the highest bidder
Biding my time
getting high
but not getting
anything out of
life

A lifer
a loser
lost his way
was on his way
on a journey
was earning
a living
was living
a life
in spite of
spitting in the face
of all I was faced with
Couldn’t face up
to the need
I was feeding
A hole
from which
my soul
was bleeding
Unknown reason
harboring this treason
give it time
it will season
Belief system
the Devil
finds pleasing

No matter
how much I tried
and from everyone hide,
including myself,
what was
deep inside
If I went
and made
an attempt
a fool I'd be,
wasted time spent
A lament
at controlling
the tide
And each day
from the next
more and more
of me died

There was a time
when all my efforts
went unheeded
and instead
succeeded
But these courtships
did not breed
or plant the seed
Instead was seething
to be
leaving
Escaping from me
with each breath
I’m breathing

A horrible time
indeed
Unfamiliar,
making me ill
Not having free will
Undeserving
and not for me
to get
Must get angry
and upset
Breaking steps
So many
missteps
I’m falling
more than I’m standing

Steps I’ve climbed
mostly blind
by my blindfold
Its knots
I bind
the moment
I ‘rise-and-shine’
so that
in time
when rising
like yeast,
the hiding
inner self
self-defeats

Every hand folding
as I’m
raising the bets,
doesn't make sense
From where
did I get
this invisible pet
Originally set
and previously molded
in the early stages
of the morning
in a story
that’s boring
and been told
time and time again
with
lost love ones
and friends

A friendly reminder
that a
“stitch-in-time”
is not
a time saver
if the referenced ‘stitch’
relied upon
was built upon
lies
Consumed
from others
that we
self tie
but mostly
force fed
by the very hand
controlled
by my head

It’s a numbing thought;
reasons sought
Elusive?
‘yes’
but pieces
caught
My peace disturbed
by actions
brought
from a desire
to numb
so that these thoughts
will be
forgotten

Decayed
and rotten
left for days
in a
wrought iron cage
Anyone
with sage
too afraid
to consume
but 'In-Doom'
I trust
and with full ******
my smile
displayed;
Forward I go
for sins
I pay
and lie within
this bed
I've made

Not night;
thick of day
No difference displayed
Skewed indifference
to the
different
paths
that have been
laid
like the path
of destruction
from this day
back
in my wake
Bindings
can't brake
A life's mistake
Lay me down
my soul
to take
Lying in state,
a viewing,
my wake
My mind
now awake
-
Cruelty's laugh
makes me
an ***
A crass reminder
of a life
that's past

Part one done

adverts on now

waiting for part two

Life your life
Or be a lifer
All your life

I wake up every morning and wonder how long I am going to continue to do this.
Am I a lifer?
My how how that term misrepresents the overwhelming dread I feel when I open my eyes and tell myself 'Just one more day.'

The things I'd do to be with you
Would put me away for good;
So, here I wait in solitude,
No sun, no moon, no light.

I've dug deep to break out,
I've climbed walls in my sleep;
I've dealt and knelt,
Held my hands out
To supplicate for pardon.

But I'm a repeat offender,
A schmuck and poor pretender;
A pled lifer for loving you.

It's been said people come into your life for a season, a reason or a lifetime!
Well, the people there for a season although not all negative experiences pass through only.
Then those for a reason probably more to their own benefit!
But those, there for, a lifetime not only give a reason but make us want to be more!
They never leave you no matter the circumstances!
I know my soulmate and although she only sees a season I know my life is to be spent with her!
I hope with all I am she sees this true!
For i’ll be here waiting, I love her beyond all this fighting!
I would do whatever to have her realize this!
Been told of late there is no-one you cannot live without!
Well maybe true to some extent, however, what if there is someone, I wish all I am don't want to be without?
What if my soul seethes for her like lungs desperate for air?
I have to just show her that I am here and if it takes a lifetime for her to see it, ill be sad till the day she does! Yes, sad! although life doesn't allow us to spend all our time together, nor would I think it healthy! But yes sad for every minute I loose with her I cannot regain!
©️

He was equipped with a fine vocabulary
Far in excess of his intellectual needs
An entertaining fool
Stocked with dictionaries
Obscure constructions
Medieval verbs
Circumlocutory, verbose
Impenetrable
A simple mind hid amongst
A confusion of entangled phrases
As if using a foreign language
Assembling hopefully meaningful phrases
Where a listener may find coherence
A simple message

Every request
Every Statement
Observation
From his mouth, no matter how mundane
Appeared decorated
Embellished, almost..
Baroque

In this wordy fog
It was hard to know
Hard to find
Traces of a real person
A tangible, relatable identity
Something predictable.
In the swirling wind of
Constantly shifting
Complex expressions
Seeming riddles.

He was a prisoner
A lifer
Doomed to remain
Incarcerated in his usage
Dense, cloying, exaggerated, unyielding
Usage
He could not avoid
Unconscious, reflexive, merciless
He did not struggle,
That ended long ago.

A black cat with a grin and
A scythe, slashing thru
Space-time with a giggle

Invulnerable & finite. Untouchable rabbit
Stretches it's torso many meters out
Evading a cannonball.
Time to go to work; no doors here!
Rabbit shaped hole in the wall
Ever never fear!

4 Thirty minutes on a Sat. morning network 
Talking animals accordion back
From falling crate crushes
Index fingers stretch their cheeks
Ha ha ha ha!
& a wagging red tongue, almost all week.

Piano dangling by a thread
Shrinking Shadow under your feet
It's right above your head!
You step aside just in time -
An anvil smashes you instead.

Too hard to explain to a real-lifer:
This has no point!

Hotshot
Potshot
Fool shot
Cool shot
No shot
Yo shot
Shot, shot, shot, shot
Hey hotshot
Can you tell me who’s the shot caller
You’re lookin pretty dreamy
Didn’t mean to be a meany
Some things come so naturally
Shots are ringing from your balcony
So come on Romeo
Take a *** shot
Hotshot
And
Please tell me if I have a
Shot, shot, shot, shot
Hotshot
You’re such a cool shot
Badass
You can call the shots
You can shoot the shots
You got the elevated status
But, you ain’t got no action
You always know what's going down
You nowhere to be found
Because you're the shot caller
And I don’t have a shot
Shot, shot, shot, shot
Do i
Do I
Do I
Hey, hotshot
Can you see
I’m down on my knees
Beggin you please
For a
Shot, shot, shot, shot
Hotshot
You know I’m such a cool shot
And this is so out of character for me
Can’t you see
I can see
You’re laughing at me
For being a fool shot
Please tell me if I have a
Shot, shot, shot, shot
Hotshot
Will I ever see you at my door
Is this it
Nothing more
Looking pretty dreamy
This time, promise
Not to be a meany
Please tell me if I have a
Shot, shot, shot, shot
Dale had a friend
His name was shot
Because he was
Shot, shot, shot, shot
Who lives and who dies
Doesn’t matter when you’re a lifer
You run the prison
Make the decision
That’s not, not, not, not what I mean
Didn’t mean to be mean
So please
Won’t you tell me if I have a
Shot, shot, shot, shot
I’m down on my knees
Beggin you please
For a
Shot, shot, shot, shot
What I really mean is
Who’s the shot caller
What I really mean is
Well I know I’m unrehearsed
But quite well versed
I think you’ll agree
Always with me
I’m never home alone
Don’t pathologize
Just Apologize
For being such a ****, ****, ****
I know I don’t know how
But I’ll hold your hand
And you can show me how
Then I’ll quickly get off stage
Before it goes to my head
And all I want to do
Is be a deadhead
I mean it quite literally
Always looking for meaning
And that’s what I’m trying to say
My reflection seems to inspire perfection
And that’s not what I mean
Seems I’m always ******* off everyone  
With my off the cuff remarks
That set off sparks
And I think it’s quite a lark
But, I’m the only one laughing
So please tell me if I have a
Shot, shot, shot, shot
Before I’m
Dead, dead, dead, dead
Yo shot

I lay here solitarily
my energy sapped from
lesions of my life
everything is useless
the only thing
left is the light
of the candle
burning in my heart
swaying dimmer
each night
as I lay
expectantly
in wait
of her
final
call

Poisoned by prison,
bolted and barred
just
a number on a
visiting card,

The old neighborhood most of the kids moved off the block. Only one kid still lives there he's the lifer. Most of the kids got in trouble with the law or triangles in their bad habits. Growing up I was the chubby kid but I heard fat more often.
Before my brother passed on I had someone to hang with I have more siblings but I'm the oldest by six year most of my siblings are 3 years apart. I'm the oldest of 6 kids but there's 5 now.
We grew up on a coda sack lived in a 2 bedroom house. I don't like to go back but when I pass by it reminds me of my youth a kid who wanted to get out. I'm not the great big brother but I've learned to understand by watching my siblings grow up.

just when the provincials spoke the common tongue and ensured the urbanites were demasked, and all courtesy went out the window, and there were no actors left to fake an air of superiority and a stiffening of the upper lip... when the urbanites became baptised in a river of dung, mud and fear - and couldn't play our a theatrical adaptation of pseudo Oscar Wilde's: Airs and Superstitions... the champagne bottle-neck was chopped off in the countryside, not in the prosthetic urban environment... and god that bothered them... they could no longer fake being ultra-pro-xeno when in fact wholly anti - even having ethnically cleansed the Caribbeans to speak their own racist tongue didn't help much.

eye on the prize, there she sat, in the shop-window,
a beauty, a mandolin -
with my student loan un-amused i bought her
working three nights a week for a month
in a nightclub carrying empty glasses from
the dance floor and toilets -
got her in the end, my dear Antoinette mandolin;
all i ever wanted was to play the end
of Rod Steward's Maggie May to a girl
from a revised scene of Romeo & Juliet -
played it, her amused but she can no longer be seen,
unless crisscrossing South America in some weird
Paulo Coelho novel alt. - thinking a pharaoh would
be hiding cremated in a top hat along
with Alice's first impressions of wonderland -
years later i bought a Martins' & Son guitar
on debit, my ex-girlfriend's father ****** it up,
and gave my mandolin up for free -
the nightclub where i earned her? ***** near
the Edinbrugh train station - being almost cornered and *****
and serving my fellow compatriots of study made me
leave - not before i earned the mandolin -
the shop? *Scayles Music - they have no
jealousy on me these days, and i'd frankly give
writing up for my former health, i don't care
what readership i get - i'll keep at it - they can
submit their little Kafkaesque interrogations making
me into a fool - sure, they can, but we all serve
the higher lord above the knee-bending baron of god -
death claims us all - for the life i've had
i find it strangely appreciative to have a chance to
write it, and all the more thankful to live a cameo life,
because i hardly think it's proper to write
a book after having climbed Mt. Everest... it's just bad
etiquette (lack of tact) - the lesser life demands literate affairs -
the grander lifer demands portraits on horseback
and in the finest attire -
but what i accomplished thoroughly was buying
a mandolin, playing Rod Stewart's Maggie May outro,
and that's that... for the love of Scotland,
among the inbreeding locals of English suburbia -
proven by a low haemoglobin count of passion-fuelled
pigmentation, passions reduced to xenophobia rather
than xenophilia.

There's the coffin
Here's the nail
You and your demons
Can go to hell
You need to be grateful
I coulda sent you to jail
Been shiesty and told What I know I should tell
Your *** would be a lifer
They'd never grant you bail
Destroy the key after they locked the cell
But lucky for you
After the months of hell you put me through
And the degrading things
you made me do
I can walk away
With a simple *******.
This is now your game of
one
Not two
So go ahead *******
WHAT'S YOUR NEXT MOVE?

You're digging
your own grave,
that'll save on
funeral costs

****, no better hard-on apart from listening to some bruce springsteen and reading something from the book of malachi...

  my name will be great among the nations, from where the sun rises to where it sets: i.e. in english...

         good on y'ah pastor...

                 i admit, oh lord,
distinguishing between the righteous and
the religious folk...
hard to tell the tale of either,
most excruciating is when,
the two congregate...

     malachi (4:6)
he will turn the hearts of the parents to their children,
and the hearts of the children to their parents;
or else i will come and strike the land
   with total destruction.

you know my offering unto my father
this father's days?
the usual...
taking out the *******,
cooking some food,
          watering the flowers
in the garden...
  it wasn't a carboard cut-out
******* of the west...
oh, i'm well versed in bible jargon...

        i'm half a man? i'm not insulted...
because i didn't grow up to be a man
and have children?
  talk about a miracle being
a walking abortion!
      isn't kierkegaard or nietzsche
or kant the hälftemann?
"half" the man?
   so much for the "Übermensch",
more like: parodiemensch these days...
send the teens to the cinema
while the parents stay at home,
when, the inverse was corrected
and the parents went to the cinema
and when kid sitters were required...
like... shirley maclaine: hot as ****...
and the whole gig of trampolines...
or whatever you called them in the 1960s...
elevator operators... ****...
that's what you called them...

****... better start telling the pro-life
movement that,
whenever i ******* into a tissue
i get a sense of being the next
pol ***...
        i guess the ***** was always
dead in me,
   and "magically" became
                             alive in a woman...
well: here's to another genocide...
oh sure...
    having started aged 8,
     castration wouldn't be a problem...
the male sensation of an ******
isn't related to ******* anything as such...
you can experience an ******
as an 8 year old...
   but there's no ***** to be *******...
still...
        prostitutes are pro-life,
but they don't gamble / bribe the argument...
that was the worst time in my life...
   being bribed: the "oops" moment...
there was about as much "oops" in
that moment, as there was kama sutra
in oppenheimer's vedic citation.
or is that somehow related to shooting
out hollow eggs all the time,
              it was one thing to call
me irresponsible,
another: no legal contract,
                "man-up"...
                           ­ that's probably the only
reason i ever went to a *******...
had to check the ground...
  fiddle my way through
some sort of justification
    in order to not be shouted down
by some day-time agony aunt jerry
springer host on t.v.,
            and to be honest?
   once that brothel transaction went through?
and i saw with clear eyes,
what an authentic transaction looks like?
all that pandering, dates,
   clothes shopping...
           n'ah...
             give me a cube:
   i'll put it through the square hole...
give me an sphere,
              i'll put it through the circle hole.

my present for father's day?
my daddy-oh received a letter from
the p.m. of england,
mr. cameron, how he was the goodie-goodie
good-shoe tight left foot bloat
when paying taxes...
    paid them...
                  a regular at the tax olympics...
me? i don't pay taxes,
i don't earn enough...
i have a student loan...
almost halfway through,
once i reach 30+ years it will be written
off...
              i'd pay... if i landed
a chemistry job... since working in
a supermarket is all i'm ever going to get?
**** 'em...
              i'll wait... then i'll take the
dutch youth route of asking for
euthanasia... well... it's not like i will
jive to have a life worth of living
for... just... strangers...

see, i have found release...
   i'm so unterribly unjealous of my father...
he can have all the praises...
he's also an only-child,
abandoned by his mother and father,
raised by his grandparents...
   i'm half a man by not risking
to establish a family, a legacy,
by marrying?
you know... funny that...
i'd rather take my chances
with a grizzly bear than a woman...
at least me and a grizzly is
a 1-on-1 interaction...
no third party bullshitters in-between...
no bureaucratic stalemates,
no bureaucratic no-man's land...
no bureaucratic frustration...
                  me, grizzly:
either i skin the ******,
or? i get mauled... easy-peasy-japanese!
i like that absolute "conundrum"...

oh i still live with my parents...
england, housing shortage...
        this is probably the right time to "love"
your parents...
or at least mind them,
i don't mind them, i do most of the household
chores, then i drink at night...
they don't mind me drinking:
unless... unless i don't shower for more than
2 days... then i start to stink of a brewery...
well... either this or...
the forest floor, or homeless in loon'don...
not much choice... certainly no environment
for a girlfriend...
and, girlfriend, mind you...

    i like listening to all these vollmensch:
the full men...
   so wise, so wise,
with their wife and children,
always with the ideal prescription
for existence!
               taken risk, bounty,
result! boo y'ah!
              yes, when you already have
what you're prescribing others to take...
mind you...
again, to reiterate...
       kant was a bachelor...
                   i like that he completed his
adventure into "manhood" as less
an atheist: in need of people to be listened to
akin to chrissy hitchens...
   and more a solipsist...
              i guess i'm the child
of his thinking...
  so much for ******* i guess...
ugh... the anglophile world and its
fanaticism surrounding darwinism
and the big bang (bang, bang in a vacuum?)...
genes and i.q.,
what dry intellectual debates...
proper suited to a butcher's shop than
a cafe, and... god forbid a brothel!
give me a slab of raw beef meat
and an english tongue and i'll
cut you the same slab of something
worth satiating the hungry palette.

   h'america is still christ crazed,
sitting down congregation in easy armchairs...
armored to the **** with futility after futility
to mar the existence of the atom bomb:
more bullets, more guns, more money...
nuclear is the antithesis of warfare...
one drop, the end... who needs a war akin
to that?

                    i stopped looking toward h'america
a long time ago...
                   england is choking me as it is...
i'm looking toward germany come early 20th century
thought... ****... maybe i should be looking
toward to Moldova, anything but this,
any form of escapism will help...
   Greenland, the Faroe Islands...
          
i'll go as far as to say:
i'd quit drinking...
           if i was contracted a decent ****
from Tehran.

seconds tick by as angry faces look back in disgust
a smile passes over my lips as we all know nothing can be done
this is life in the corrections institution
while I leave at 5 o’clock each day to go home, we share these hours
quiet hostility
combined with the occasional splash of regret
this, however, is usually passed off as an illness
and they go back to their cells, or as I refer to them “their hotel rooms”
as an instructor, the anger is not directed at me
but instead pours out whenever the officers walk by
leaving me to wonder about the reality of after-hours treatment
I sit in a swivel chair watching light bulbs flash into existence
awareness coming into the life of a ‘lifer’
the realization that they too can be more than they imagined
better than they thought
different than the image the department of corrections would have the world believe
proud of themselves I sit humbled
watching the embracing of an experience
and the acceptance of something other than
what their parents, teachers,
and society
told them they were

So I picked up this gig trying
To enlighten the universe
And it's bad pay and long hours,
Benefits more intrinsic than
Bankable, but it needs doing
And just like my uncle Virgil,
When he retired from the Castle
On the Cumberland--the state pen
Where he'd worked since he was thirty--
Told me, there's not many vicious
Killers, not even among the
Lifers, just things that went bad wrong
And could have been to me or you--
Something you need to remember.

See, I wanted to
write a poem about depression.

I wanted to have these deep
moving lines.
These philosophical phrases.

I wanted to write a poem
about depression.

I wanted to write about
how when you cut open
your wrists
Flowers and glitter spill out
rather than blood and despair.

I wanted to write about
how when you drink yourself
towards blacking out
you throw up money and happiness
rather than shame and bile.

I wanted to write about how
when you put a bullet through your
jaw, flower petals and joy will
come out rather
than blood and a lifer ended.

I wanted to write a poem
about depression.
But there aren’t any pretty
words to go with depression.

I didn't choose this.
I didn't choose these crushing walls around me.
These walls that "protect" me are just another source of my pain.
I stand at the doorway and watch as a lifer is swept away.
I hear a crack;
My heart it throbs.
I didn't choose to be this way.
My ideas, my worth, forgotten.
My skin defines my future.
Keep your eyes down, don't speak up,
Don't seek pity and NEVER disobey the law.
I didn't choose this country.
Bombs and gunfire fill the sky as kids scream.
We huddle in a building, praying.
Not knowing if we will get clean food for tomorrow.
I didn't choose that night.
The night that he touched me.
I tried to escape, but he hurt me instead.
The bruises and the scars ache as I remember.
The pain, the aggression, have forever tainted me.
I didn't choose this world.
The pollution, the divide.
A masterpiece burned, scarred, destroyed.
Family and friends **** each other.
The issues stack up until they crush us.
I didn't choose this mind;
Plagued by self-hate;
Debating if it's worth it.
Truly it must be better than this.
Right?
We didn't choose these things,
but we can choose to break free of boundaries.
You do have a choice.

Ma’am

I remember the first time I met her
At the orphanage.
I was a lifer
who wants to adopt fourteen
year old boys?
Apparently no one.

She was so beautiful
and had the most angelic face.
Oh! her smile
it was like bright sunshine.

Unsure of how to address a Nun
I always called her Ma’am.
She did not seem to mind.

I think that was when I realized
she was the only friend I had.
What I did not know was
I was falling in love with her.

I have never seen as much kindness
before or since.
It flowed from her.

She stopped me running away again,
and taught me how to read books,
great books by important authors.
To learn poetry and talk about
its meaning.

At this point I knew I loved her.
That confusing rite of passage
between boyhood and manhood.
She took me to the mission where
the homeless lived and we served
in the free kitchen.
I would follow her anywhere
to be by her side.

She was relocated
after a couple of years
to a mission in Africa.
I was desolate
Begging to go with her

I even  asked her to marry me.
She smiled and said
if she was free
she would marry me
in a heartbeat.

But explained gently
to my young heart.
that she was already
married to her faith.
Showing me her gold ring.

She died a few years later
her letters stopped coming.
It was a bout of malaria.

Now when I feel alone
or sad.
I open an old shoe box
and read her stacks of letters

one by one.
Always in the order
that she sent them to me.
And as usual
I feel warm and safe  again.

Ma'am
A Story
By
Jude Kyrie


Ma’am

I remember the first time I met her
At the orphanage.
I was a lifer.
Who adopts fourteen
year old boys?
Apparently no one.

She was beautiful
and had the most angelic face.
Oh! her smile,
it was like sunshine.
Unsure of how to address a Nun
I always  called her Ma’am.
She did not seem to mind

I think that was when I realized
she was the only friend I had.
What I did not know was
I was falling in love with her.
That confusing rite of passage
from Boyhood to Manhood.

I have never seen
as much kindness
before or since.
It flowed from her.

She stopped me
from running away again,
and taught me
how to read books
great books
by important authors.

To learn poetry
and to talk about
its meaning.
At this point I knew I loved her.
She took me to the mission where
the homeless lived and we served
in the free kitchen.
I would have followed her anywhere.

She was relocated
after a couple of years.
To a mission in Africa.
I was desolate
Begging to go with her.
I even asked her to marry me.
She smiled and  said
if she was free
she would marry me
in a heartbeat.

But explained gently
to my young heart
that she was already
married to her faith.
Showing me her gold ring.

She died a few years later
her letters stopped coming
It was a bout of malaria.

Now when I feel alone or sad.
I open an old shoe box.
the only thing I took
from the orphanage.
And read her stacks of letters.
one by one.
Always in the order
that she sent them to me.
And as usual
I feel warm and safe again

But I always called her Ma'am

*I remember  like it was yesterday
the first time I met her
I was being punished  for running away
from the orphanage yet again.
I had used up my warnings and this time
I was going to be caned.
I knew the rules 12 strokes on the bare bottom
applied by matron.
I shrieked in agony begging for mercy
but they were all delivered with full purchase
mercy was in short supply in that place.
That’s when the door opened
she had heard my screams in the corridor.
and I saw her for the first time
so beautiful with clear pale blue eyes
she looked so kind. She walked up to me
what have they done to you? She cried.
Put on your pants young man she said.
I did not know how to address a nun
so I called her Ma'am.
She did not seem to mind.
I sobbed I can't ma'am I am too sore.
She hugged me as I sobbed
holding my head to her breast.
Even through her habit
I could feel her softness
like that of the mother
I never knew or held.
The tears flowed and flowed
not just from the pain and shame
of my beating.
But from all the abandonment,
loss, pain and sadness
of my young life.
she said softly cry
let it out tears are gods
safety valve purge the pain.
I cried for twenty minutes.
I was a lifer who adopts 14 year old boys
apparently nobody.
She placed ice packs on my caned bottom.
Then she prayed for the saints to bless me.
She met with me every day caring and kindness.
so lovely her face radiant her heart so kind.
She stopped me from running away again.
We Read great books by important authors.
Learned poetry and discussed its meaning.
It occurred to me she was my only friend.
What I did not know
was I was falling in love with her.
In the foggy corridor that joins
boyhood and manhood.
I was lost and confused.
She took me the mission where the
lost and homeless came and we served free food.
I would have followed her to the moon.
I have never met anyone before or since
so pure and beautiful.
She was relocated three years later
to a mission in Africa.  I was desolate.
I begged to go with her.
I even asked her to marry me
she was gentle to my young heart.
if I was single I would marry you in a heartbeat
she said.
But I am already married to my faith.
Showing me her gold ring
i am a bride of Christ.
She died a few years later
her weekly letter stopped coming.
It was a bad case of malaria
but I know that God needed her in heaven
to light up it's dark corners.
Even now after all this time
long passed the college days
I owed to her.
I know her prayer to the Saints
that she said for me was answered.
I met a beautiful lady at college
we are married with two wonderful children.
At last my own family.
On the holidays we all serve food
at the mission.
When we get home on the portrait wall
at the center of all our pictures
is a black and white framed portrait of
a nun with the most beautiful face.
My daughter ask who is the pretty lady. Daddy.
I say its Sister Angelica honey.
But I always called her Ma'am.

Music is the elixir to my soul
Lyrics make it feel better, after the world has taken  its toll
Songs written it seems about  me and my life
They make me smile and sing, while others cut like a knife

These sounds  may change as quick as a guitar riff
If it's rap, acoustic, or punk rock it makes no big diff
For me everyday I sprinkle in some Tony Sly
Lyrically one of the best, why'd he have to die

“ I need a beat, the sounds to calm me down
Lyrics that are deep that keep me a float while I drown
This world's so ******, it needs a cure, some type of mixture
Everyone needs to slow down, I've got the elixir”

A few of them even use a catchy metaphor
About, how their ex walked all over them like a linoleum floor
These songs bring out the suffering and joy of the people
They all flock to concerts like churchgoers to a steeple

Only a few actually take the time to actually decipher
And once injected with knowledge  of a song  they become a convicted lifer
So turn up the sound and flip over the records
Let the music dispense with all of life’s discords

“ I need a beat, sounds to calm me down
Lyrics that are deep that keep me a float while I drown
This world's so ******, it needs a cure, some type of mixture
Everyone needs to slow down, I've got the elixir”

I always called her Ma'am
A Story poem
By
Jude Kyrie


Ma’am

*I remember the first time
that I met her.
It was at the orphanage.
I was a lifer.
Who adopts fourteen
year old boys?
Who are always running away.
Apparently no one.

She was beautiful.
and had the most angelic face.
Oh! her smile,
it was like purest sunshine.
Unsure of how to address a Nun
I always called her Ma’am.
She did not seem to mind

I think that was when I realized
she was the only friend I had.
What I did not know was
I was falling in love with her.
That confusing rite of passage
from Boyhood to Manhood.
Full of emotions that
I had never felt before.
Or maybe I just needed
someone of my own to love.

I have never seen
as much kindness
before or since.
It flowed from her.

She stopped me
from running away again,
and taught me
how to read books
great books.
by important authors.

To learn poetry
and to talk about
its meaning.
At this point I knew I loved her.
She took me to the mission where
the homeless lived and we served
in the free kitchen together.
I would have followed her to the moon.

She was relocated
after a couple of years.
To a mission in Africa.
I was desolate
Begging to go with her.
I even asked her to marry me.
She smiled and said
if she was free
she would marry me
in a heartbeat.

But explained gently
to my young heart
that she was already
married to her faith.
Showing me her gold ring.

She died a few years later
her letters stopped coming
It was a bout of malaria.
But I believe that God missed her
As much as I did.

Now when I feel alone or sad.
I open an old shoe box.
the only thing I took
from the orphanage.
And read her stacks of letters.
one by one.
Always in the order
that she sent them to me.
And as usual
I feel warm and safe again

My little daughter sometimes
Says who is the pretty lady daddy
I lift her up to look at her picture
closely on the family room wall.
And I say to her
That's sister Angelica honey
She was daddy's best friend.

I remember the first time I met her
It was at the orphanage.
I was going through rehabilitation
after running away for what
turned out to be last of many times
I was a lifer.
Who wants to adopt fourteen
year old boys?
Apparently no one.

She was assigned as my counselor
I don't think I have
ever seen anyone as beautiful as her.
That lovely angelic face.
Oh! Her smile,
it was like sunshine.
Unsure of how to address a Nun
I always called her Ma’am.
She did not seem to mind.
Her heart was so full of kindness
She had me hooked.

I think that was when I realized
she was the only friend
I had in the whole world.
What I did not know was
I was falling in love with her.
That confusing rite of passage
from Boyhood to Manhood
left me dazed and confused.
Or perhaps I just did not know
how badly I needed
someone to love.

Even after all these years.
I have never seen
as much kindness in anyone
before or since.
It flowed from her
like honey.

She stopped me
from running away again,
and taught me
how to read books
great books
by important authors.

To learn poetry
and to talk about
its meaning.
At this point I knew
for sure I loved her.

She took me to
the mission where
the homeless lived.
And we served
in the free kitchen.
When some hungry lost soul
asked why she bothered them
they were all drunks anyway
She said sweetly
It is my privilege to share a meal
with you and your friends.
I would have followed
her to the moon
or anywhere.

She was relocated
after a couple of years.
To a mission in Africa.
I was desolate.
Begging to go with her.
I even asked her to marry me.
She smiled and said
if she was free
she would marry me
in a heartbeat.

But she explained gently
to my young heart,
that she was already
married to her faith.
Showing me her gold ring.
She whispered see
I am a Bride of Christ.

She died a few years later
her letters stopped coming to me.
It was a bad bout of malaria
that took her.
But I thought that Heaven
needed her more than we did.

Now when I feel
alone or sad.
I open an old shoe box
the only thing that I kept from
the orphanage.
And I re-read her
stacks of letters.

one by one.
Always in the order
that she sent them to me.
And as usual
I feel warm and safe again.

I am a receiver
A born unbeliever
Truth seeker
Story speaker
Pain reliever
The giver
The writer
The new right
To lifer
Poet of the people
And dreamer

Ma’am

I remember the first time I met her
At the orphanage.
I was a lifer.
Who adopts fourteen
year old boys?
Apparently no one.

She was beautiful
and had the most angelic face.
Oh! her smile,
it was like sunshine.
Unsure of how to address a Nun
I always  called her Ma’am.
She did not seem to mind

I think that was when I realized
she was the only friend I had.
What I did not know was
I was falling in love with her.
That confusing rite of passage
from Boyhood to Manhood.

I have never seen
as much kindness
before or since.
It flowed from her.

She stopped me
from running away again,
and taught me
how to read books
great books
by important authors.

To learn poetry
and to talk about
its meaning.
At this point I knew I loved her.
She took me to the mission where
the homeless lived and we served
in the free kitchen.
I would have followed her anywhere.

She was relocated
after a couple of years.
To a mission in Africa.
I was desolate
Begging to go with her.
I even asked her to marry me.
She smiled and  said
if she was free
she would marry me
in a heartbeat.

But explained gently
to my young heart
that she was already
married to her faith.
Showing me her gold ring.

She died a few years later
her letters stopped coming
It was a bout of malaria.

Now when I feel alone or sad.
I open an old shoe box.
And read her stacks of letters.

one by one.
Always in the order
that she sent them.
And as usual
I feel warm and safe again

I remember the first time I met her
At the orphanage.
I was a lifer.
Who adopts fourteen
year old boys?
Apparently no one.

She was beautiful
and had the most angelic face.
Oh! her smile,
it was like sunshine.
Unsure of how to address a Nun
I always  called her Ma’am.
She did not seem to mind

I think that was when I realized
she was the only friend I had.
What I did not know was
I was falling in love with her.
That confusing rite of passage
from Boyhood to Manhood.

I have never seen
as much kindness
before or since.
It flowed from her.

She stopped me
from running away again,
and taught me
how to read books
great books
by important authors.

To learn poetry
and to talk about
its meaning.
At this point I knew I loved her.
She took me to the mission where
the homeless lived and we served
in the free kitchen.
I would have followed her anywhere.

She was relocated
after a couple of years.
To a mission in Africa.
I was desolate
Begging to go with her.
I even asked her to marry me.
She smiled and  said
if she was free
she would marry me
in a heartbeat.

But explained gently
to my young heart
that she was already
married to her faith.
Showing me her gold ring.

She died a few years later
her letters stopped coming
It was a bout of malaria.

Now when I feel alone or sad.
I open an old shoe box.
And read her stacks of letters.

one by one.
Always in the order
that she sent them.
And as usual
I feel warm and safe again

slowly, I watch the second hand journey
around
and around
each minute taking me one step closer to death
each tick another lost instance
one more opportunity gone
eyes cross and vision blurs
at the mindless spinning
never ending swirl
capturing perfectly
the uselessness of this time
I am a babysitter
for grown men.
Working in prison
is all about time
line-movements
CB calls
and the eternal counting of bodies
every minute accounted for
each body forever monitored
authorized areas only –
I find myself doing time
not necessarily ‘hard’
but consistent…
I watch new guys enter the program
as old guys leave with degrees
the revolving door of college inside
yet, I remain constant as the tide
or the rising and setting sun
I am a voluntary lifer
a small, but important club.