Sentences
From 2009 to 2020, I facilitated a creative writing workshop at Garner Correctional Institution, a maximum security prison in Newtown CT. Each year I edited and published a collection of the inmates' work called Sentences. In 2023, Woodhall Press published an anthology of these writings under the title Closer to Freedom. Here are some selections.
Art by IAN
Key Ring (by Ian C.)
You signify freedom. Not freedom—liberty.
You’re easily forgotten, left in coat pockets, purses, fallen in between couch cushions, left in the dish by the door or on the dresser with the spare change.
I had a set made of plastic dangled in my face as a toddler, bright, multi-colored.
When I got my first key ring, I sought out any key to call my own.
Errant padlocks became mine by virtue of their key on my ring.
A house key. Another house key, for the door no one uses.
It would be a few more years until you got your own car key, that true symbol of freedom.
By the time I was a teenager, you looked like something a school janitor would carry, laden with so many keys for so many locks, too heavy with keys to be practical.
But that bulk signified more . . . importance than pragmatism.
Locks sometimes protect secrets.
Locks for valuables, locks for doors.
A few short years later and I had lost you.
Not in a couch cushion.
I lost you as I lost everything.
Freedom. Liberty.
I don’t have a key ring of my own now, though I see them every day.
Ican’thave you, because you mean freedom.
And you keep me here.
Every day.
Forever.
In Relegation (by Veronica-May C.)
A window hides the night sky
A clock lies on the shelf
A chair made of plastic stands in the corner and cries
A rug lies dead on the floor
Junk food together with friends feels lonely
The ceiling separates the angry walls
Porcelain basks in the dark
A hot pot burns with desire
There’s a gender non-conforming spoon/fork combo
The bunk is afraid to admit she’s an anvil
Marks on the wall tell only those who know
The cell objectifies
There’s a pile of books forced into a life of hard labor
The T.V. constructs a new light saber
The door begs forgiveness for all it’s done
The blue pencil’s mad that the green team has won
Art by Veronica-May
Portrait of Ken
by Ian
Me, My Cell, and I (by Ken Marak*)
The anger erupts like a
volcano. Bile spews
from me as I sit
in my cell, my mind
spiraling down as
I feel the pain I’ve caused
my loved ones, like a tornado
that’s about to hit ground and cause
chaos to everyone I touch.
Like a hurricane landing on shore
causing tears to spray from my eyes,
the hurri cane tossing boats, smashing
them against houses, people yelling and
screaming in my cell,
tearing things apart. Like those poor people
I feel the sadness dragging me down
as I put my hands on my face and cry,
I feel the calm before the storm.
In it there’s losses all around:
my freedom, humility, time, the list
goes on and on. Then the storm hits
and I feel like dying, so I
curl up in the fetal position till the
storm rages past, as I try to let
go, as I shout out loud, “When is my
rainbow going to come?!”
*Ken was released from prison in April 2018
Untitled (by Jerrell A.)
The white-tee was troubled by the black face
The hoody’s hood begged, “Please, not today”
The belt was uptight, but the jeans liked to hang out
The J’s were the perfect match for so many different routes
The Mitchell & Ness was slightly depressed
Because the chain was a free spirit but stayed tucked to the chest
The timepiece read green
And the spec lenses looked wise
A mirrored disguise under a suit and a tie
Residence (by Marquis Jackson*)
I’m a prison cell. Look around, it ain’t hard to tell. When I’m unoccupied, I feel naked and afraid; but with company, I’m alive, well, and vibrant. My heart beats for you. The ’70s was when I became a hot item. I was the new “it” thing. Some people couldn’t avoid me, no matter how hard they tried. Some people just couldn’t get enough of me, and Connecticut couldn’t make me fast enough. I come in many shapes and sizes. Even when you leave me, I’m still on your mind. When I get you in my cobra clutches, I rarely let go. When I have you, I own your dreams, hopes, and aspirations. You can’t beat me, nor defeat me, so why don’t you just greet me with a hug. Come one, come all, ball till you fall. I was made not to discriminate. Take a seat, relax on my back, tell me your plans. Oh, you were the man? Not here. Cop a squat, tell me how much time you got to rot. Oh, three-to-five? Damn, I was hoping for at least a dime, or at the very least, twenty-five to life. But oh well, I’ll take what I get from you on this stint. Top bunk or bottom bunk, take your pick. Aren’t I so generous? Me, I’ll take the walls, floor, door, sink and toilet, and whatever else you want to call it. I wash my face with your tears. I gain strength from your many years. I run circles around your brain, my workout regimen is insane: laws. Like I said, you can’t beat me, so why don’t you just greet me. Trying to defeat me is an exercise in futility. Even if you are one of the lucky ones to escape my loving embrace, don’t worry—I’ll replace another with your same face. So when you receive your freedom clothes, with holes, just know I’m never close. Remember, I’ll be here, waiting, just waiting, waiting for that day to come: our reunion.
*Marquis was exonerated & released from prison in May 2018.
Art by Lex
Still Life with a Door, Two Windows, and Three Walls
(by Lex M.)
A steel door weighing
As much as all the doors in your house would weigh,
Protecting in value what you would put on the curb
With a “Free” sign on it. With the exception of family
Photos, which we hold dear, sort of like the family heirlooms
You keep locked in a safe.
Two windows, yet still no view,
Just like I wrote my last line without my “eyes.”
No, for real, without the letter “I”!
Three walls that sweat in the summer
And freeze in the winter like something left outside,
Like that bum you step by on your way to get high.
They claim to be painted white, but white is bright,
So that ain’t right. It’s more like the color of depression
With a splash of hate, as if hate and depression had
A color! But hey, welcome to Cell A-123.
The Truck (by Nathaniel C.)
The truck that initially passed inspections flawlessly
The truck that was totaled and was rebuilt
The truck that turned from daily driver to daily drifter
The truck that had its power rack swapped out for a manual one
The truck that had its air conditioner removed for less clutter weight
The truck that had all six windows open during summer and spring
The truck that took a hit of the Go Fast crack pipe and was never the same
The truck with all emissions removed
The truck with assorted vinyl vacuum caps in place of OEM ports
The truck with ceramic coated pacesetter open headers
The truck that didn’t have a catalytic converter
The truck with DEI titanium exhaust-wrapped headers
The truck with a 2.5-inch bottle style resonator and straight pipe
The truck with a 2.5 Mandrel bent driver-side exit exhaust
The truck with blue polyurethane eBay exhaust hangers
The truck with 12-point chrome ARP intake and exhaust studs
The truck that ditched its stock carburetor
The truck that replaced it with an outlaw 38/38 Weber carburetor
The truck with an electric choke
The truck that had its grille hacked in order to fit a velocity stack with integrated intake tube from Weapon R
The truck with a universal open element breather on the valve cover
The truck with Blue Dash-6 Push-Loc hose plumbed into the intake manifold
The truck with a Jegs 2-row aluminum Ford-style radiator
The truck that used a folding KHE BMX tire to snugly mount the aforementioned radiator
The truck with its Mashimoto blue stainless steel hose kit
The truck that advanced its timing
The truck with an MSD high vibration blaster coil
The truck with NGK ceramic spark plugs
The truck with a cad-plated blaster coil bracket
The truck with Lucas oil additive installed with a funnel each gas pump
The truck that should have had an oil cooler installed
The truck that drifted in front of a state trooper and only received a warning
The truck that would hit its 110 mph top speed frequently
The truck that beat both a third generation Eclipse owner and his pride
The truck that out-cornered and outpaced an Acura RSX
The truck with a cracked windshield and equally cracked owner
The truck that lost on the highway to a Toyota Tacoma
The truck with no cup holders
The truck with soiled carpet from spilled milkshakes
The truck with S5 RX7 black and gray bucket seats
The truck with an FB RX7 Sport 3-spoke steering wheel
The truck with a Pioneer CD head unit with a detachable faceplate with SD card, USB, and AUX slots
The truck with an eBay black, weighted shift knob
The truck with its 15-inch OEM six-lug, six-spoke chrome Nissan Pathfinder rims
The truck that tucked 225 wide (fusion) tires front and back
The truck with an 18-pound Braille racing battery
The truck with Apex carbon fiber brake pads
The truck without its Blue Gates performance pulley belt
The truck with its imperfectly perfect four-color patina
The truck with its smoked corner lenses and taillights
The truck with a black bed liner
The truck with a silver pinstripe
The truck that was sold.
The truck that was a Mazda
The truck that was my Mazda.
Art by Nathaniel
The Love of a Rose (by AndrewT.)
Your love for me is like a rose
Beautiful and sweet-smelling
Tall as forever goes.
My love for you is like the soil
Dark and rich
Your roots deep inside me.
Your love for me is like a rose
The thorns on which I grab
And there on you I bleed.
My love for you is like the rain
Cleansing and refreshing
Hydrating you drink me.
Your love for me is like a rose
Your petals bloom in glorious life
Your petals fall in glorious death.
My love for you is like the sun
Bright and shining
Warmth without a fire.
Your love for me is like a rose
Your roots reaching far underground
Sucking the life of all it can bear.
My love for you is like a rose
It grows and it wilts
It blossoms and it folds.
My love for you is perennial
Your love for me is pristine.
Our love is together forever
Our love is our own.
Holes (by William)
There is a hole in my heart,
A leak that leaves me a couple of
Degrees cooler than warm,
A bell with a crack making a dull sound,
A hole once filled with belief,
A wound sutured with logic
And objectivity.
There is a hole in my hope,
Cut for a bigger man,
A soldier waiting for a battle
Worth dying for,
A hole in my soul where it
Once had a mate,
Driven away by a heart off its
Leash and running wild.
There is a hole in my heart I filled
With drugs and delusions,
High performance, running over red-line
And leaking coolant.
Seize.
Meltdown.
Repair—
And repeat.
This hole in my heart almost put
A hole in my head.
Children and dogs, sensing
Something alien, kept their
Distance.
The adults were less circumspect,
Reminding me that I didhave a
Hole in my head, staples in my skull,
But no bullet holes in my brain.
They tell me I’m lucky.
Perhaps.
Art by Nathaniel
King of Hoarders (by Solomon B.)
You got a cold, I got a pill,
Got a rag for every spill,
You want to blow your nose, I got a tissue.
What’s the issue?
I’m the King of Hoarders.
I got every baseball card from 1951,
Even got the gum.
This guy here, like most of them
His rookie year he was a bum,
His second year, though—50 home runs.
After millions of dollars he’ll now tell you
Steroids is dumb.
His name is Mark McGwire.
I’m the King of Hoarders.
I went hunting because I want a deer on the wall,
And a bear on the floor,
And a bear on my back.
But I can’t bear to see all this meat go to waste
So I bought three freezers—
And I’m a vegetarian.
I’m the King of Hoarders.
I may be broke, but that’s a joke,
I got a house with a junkyard in the back yard,
Old cars look like junk,
Got trunks in the trunk,
Inside the trunks more junk, like boxes,
Inside the boxes, bags,
Inside the bags, rocks—
You know, the shiny ones you hold onto forever.
I’m going to send my daughter to university,
She’s going to be a doctor.
Yeah, I’m the King of Hoarders.
The Soothing Bowl (by Tadd L.)
The bowl that looks cool
The bowl that was cheap
The bowl that was new
The bowl with no meat
The bowl that served Gerber’s
Or stuff, so to speak
The bowl when she’s up
The bowl when she sleeps
The bowl that she breaks
The bowl that I fix
The bowl that make cakes
She loves chocolate mix
The bowl to be cleaned
The bowl that she licks
The bowl I re-gift on
Her sixth birthday wish
The bowl that she used
When she needed a dish
The bowl that she used
To help save her fish
The bowl that was empty
With no Cap’n Crunch
The bowl left alone
As we went out for brunch
We had to rush home
The bowl she had missed
We walk in the room
And there the bowl sits
The bowl filled with Cheers
When she made a friend
The bowl filled with tears
When he made a friend
(There the bowl goes as
it soars through the wind)
I pick the bowl up
And fix it again
She studies the bowl
And thinks while she ate
She has to sneak out
And escape to the lake
She pulled the bowl out
And poured Frosted Flakes
She confessed to the bowl
Of her late night mistake
If the bowl talked it’ll say
“Damn that boy Jake”
(With a new bundle of joy
the bowl cannot wait)
Hi, Mr. Bowl
I am the plate.
m handwriting. It’s sure to grab your reader’s attention, especially in short paragraphs.
Art by Tadd
Love Thy Enemy (by Exodus)
My archenemy, an enraged psychopath, was at death’s door,
Beating on it with the ferocity of a caged gorilla behind a steel door.
Never did I think I would have the opportunity to gloat over
Her being so close to being in a closed casket, life over.
I stood above her with a joyous grin, yet weighed down with a heavy heart,
For I believed when came the day of her demise I’d have a cold heart.
But as I looked on her frail condition, my emotions no longer frost bitten
Toward her—anger, rage, animosity gone—by kindness I was now bitten.
After all the years of trying to annihilate one another, being the other’s pain,
I found myself gravitating toward peace, wanting to ease her pain.
I grasped her hand and she looked upon me as a dearly beloved friend,
With a slight smirk—in that she acknowledged that I was the furthest thing from a friend.
With the end of a war we both hated to love, we came to grips,
Knowing at this moment that my hand may be the last she grips.
Georgia (by Thomas S.)
You’ll see a homie,
You’ll greet that homie,
You’ll remember after today why
Your homie was such a homie.
Every time you see that homie
You’ll feel that true connection
That not even combination could unlock.
You hungry, baby?
You long to hear those words
After a long day at the shop.
You’ll shower, then eat,
You’ll watch TV, then sleep.
When it’s time for you to wake up
You’ll know
By your homie’s speech
That motherly love,
Your homie,
Your peach.
Art by Ian
Taste Your Worth (by Kevin S.)
You bit a bite that was bittersweet and more forbidden than a bit of sweets,
Before you eat so before you ate,
You smiled a smile that was full of taste.
You embraced a world that’s uncursed while nature’s pearl spoke and conversed
And confessed on the Braille of your tongue that it’s worth
All the worth and worthless that lurks,
And the worst shall unspoken what it speaks till it hurts.
You opened your eyes ’cuz it opened your eyes,
And it opened the size of truth in the lies,
Designed to surprise but instead it deprived
You of your prize, so you chose a disguise
To hide, and you hid what was felt inside,
Tears drowned in your eyes but you don’t let them slide
Down a cheek, past a nose, to a corner of your lip,
’cuz your beauty can’t take those heartaching drips
nor drop, so you drop, disregarding if it rots
on a rock by a croc or gets eaten by a fox
or the flock that you saw and you watched from the top
of a hill on the way to this very same spot.
Your taste buds call and your eyeballs fall
To that shiny red ball lying next to the log,
You wonder if it tastes like it tasted before,
Before you taste more you wonder ’bout it no more.
You face it, grab it, taste it, have it, hate it, love it,
Can’t shake its habits,
It shows you he knows you,
He hisses and hopes you
Go and get Adam and tell him he can have it . . .
A Day Will Come (by Letroy)
A day will come when you talk with your mother,
and she’ll express her wishes for you,
stress the importance of patience toward your brother.
Your pancakes will come
and after you’ve lathered them with butter and syrup
she’ll ask for a forkful,
and it will irritate you because she doesn’t eat.
She’ll continue to talk, you’ll nod in agreement
and listen as she sips her coffee
and points out your sister’s dislike of her meddling.
She’ll say your sister can do better
and deserves true love,
and you will look up from your breakfast
and notice the wrinkles around her eyes.
Though you’ve noticed them before,
each time you look at her
it’s like seeing them for the first time.
She’ll tell you again, as if for the first time, that
your shirt is nice, that
you should stop partying and settle down, that
you’re not getting any younger.
She’ll say she’s sorry for not being more
financially stable when you were growing up
and that she feels she failed you—
as if she hadn’t shown up each time you cried,
you called for bail,
or when the principle requested her presence.
You’ll remember her younger
and feel guilty for stealing her youth.
You’ll proudly pay for the meal
and she’ll smile at you,
believing in you,
and you’ll hold her hand,
believing in yourself.
My Hands (by Rashad W.)
My hands, man, I see in relation to my father’s . . .
My hands, man, I see hope, prosperity and promise . . .
My hands, man, I see a way out these hardships . . .
My hands, man, I see motion pictures, television shows, and novels . . .
My hands, man, I see millions and millions of dollars . . .
My hands, man, I see wisdom, understanding, and knowledge . . .
His hands, damned, I see tenements and projects . . .
His hands, damned, I see rodents, roaches, and garbage . . .
His hands, damned, I see heroin and cocaine . . .
His hands, damned, I see life trapped in the dope game . . .
His hands, damned, I see old age and lost youth . . .
His hands, damned, I see pimps, hustlers, and prostitutes . . .
My hands, man, I see Egyptian pharaohs and black queens . . .
His hands, damned, I see indentured servants, slaves, and trap fiends . . .
My hands, man, I see palaces and Bugatis . . .
His hands, damned, I see calluses and used Caddies . . .
My hands, man, I see white sands on the beaches in St. Thomas . . .
His hands, damned, I see night stands on skeezers with the AIDS virus . . .
My hands, man, I see are those of my father’s . . .
His hands, damned, I see attached to the arms of my grandkids . . .
My hands, man . . .
His hands, damned . . .
Our hands, man, DAMN . . .
My hands.
Remember . . . Before She Bore U (by Shakur C.)
PEACE.
Remember . . . before she bore U I adored U,
Stressing on how we would support U,
Feeling the pain as I think of a name to call U.
Before U, liquor was my baby. It was all that I needed.
I would drink that poison until I felt completed.
I would drink that poison until I felt conceited.
I would drink that poison until, finally, I was defeated.
I would drink poison and rejoice in the choice to get bent.
Now babies drink poison without a choice, or consent.
I think it’s time we repent.
As I think of U now I’m reminded of the name Flint.
Remember . . . before she bore U I adored U,
Stressing on how we would support U,
Feeling the pain as I think of a name to call U.
Your mother’s womb is your home,
Now U wanna be free, my little refugee,
Free from the sounds of hand grenades,
Free from the sounds of helicopter blades,
Free from the sounds of 47-AKs that rattle off while people say
Alhamdulillah—translated, To Allah Be the Praise.
Man, what a phrase.
I know U would trade tyranny for security.
You’re welcomed to America.
As I think of U now, I’m reminded of the name Syria.
Remember . . . before she bore U I adored U,
Stressing on how we would support U,
Feeling the pain as I think of a name to call U.
It’s strange, living in a land that’s occupied by “The Man,”
Who needs to be forced to understand
That BLACK LIVES MATTER.
So I wonder what would be the MATTER
My unborn BLACK child will face trying to LIVE.
Will a hoodie get him killed?
For his safety, anything I would give.
Several shots didn’t make him stop,
He thought he did no harm.
As I think of U now, I’m reminded of the name Trayvon.
Remember . . . before she bore U I adored U,
Stressing on how we would support U,
Feeling the pain as I think of a name to call U.
Nine months have come and gone.
You’re here, my dear, optimistic as the sun brightly shining.
As I look at U now, I’m deeply reminded,
Reminded of the past so that your future doesn’t suffer the same fate.
So it’s important that I feel justice when saying your name,
Justice for their sake.
’cause now she bore U, and God knows I adore U,
forgetting all that made me stress on how we would support U,
feeling the pain as I give U this name:
Dhakara.
Yeah, Dhakara is what they’ll call U,
The Arabic word for Remember.
So remember, Dhakara,
That Daddy loves U, and I’ll do anything for U.
PEACE.
Lettering by Kevin
Flowers grow inside
Just as well if shown the same
Love and kindness
-- Veronica-May C.
Behind my masks you see
What you want me to be but
I don’t even know me
--Ken Marak
Endless days and nights
Trapped inside a bad dream
Helpless, dripping water spouts
-- Jeff P.
Waves gently crashing
the song of the bait runner
my keeper striper
--Terrance
Golden ticket
drive her wild, no wheels
wet sheets, honey love
--Shameek
Metal doors and bunks
Life peeks in through the window
The mind free to roam
--Kevin
60 yards, wall, two fences
so close,
yet out of reach
--Thomas
gasoline fumes and oil stains
mountain highways
caged soul’s last rest stop
--Patrick W.
Few drops trickle down my cheek
Oh, beautiful autumn day! Leaves of every color
and the reality of my cage.
--Felipe
Light fades, summer ends
Dark creeps across the prison
Shadows of darkness
--Christopher