Looking out: How?

How?

My Charles, My Friend

What was perceived to be suffering and pain

Is now nothing more than memories

 Life's trials, often hard to bear

But now, a pain so deep, a hurt so real

 Cast a heavy shadow, a cloud so dark

Nothing, not even time can heal

A friendship with a simple beginning

A sincere, caring existence, blossoms

Now, a turn, a twist, and end.

All the laughter, all the tears

Building a bond over many years

Knowing each other's feelings and thoughts

Knowing the right things to say and do

A friendship woven with golden thread

A warmth more radiant than any flame

God fearing, God loving

Gentle, kind, caring, understanding

Loyal by nature, honest by intent

The day is near, the day I fear

Losing my Friend

Not by God, but by man

An injustice by man, that must cease!

I bid farewell, with a tear and a smile

A bond which cannot be broken

By friend or foe

We shall reunite in peace with God

To share our love eternally.

My Charles, My Friend.

By Maxine Rohrlach

I ask the South Australian poet who sent me this poem to forgive me
for having misplaced it last year. Please know that I, too, mourn the death
of your friend, Charles, who was executed in Texas, on August 5.

I was at a loss for words after reading your poem, therefore, I will
let others speak for me about capital punishment in general and Texas'
politics of executions in particular.

“Texas is now in the midst of a 15-day spree that will kill another
seven [prisoners] ... Texas politics ... degenerates into contests in which
candidates try to outbid each other in the number of [prisoners] they promise
to execute ... [George W.] Bush, however, a self-described 'compassionate
conservative' and a professing Christian, has been an especially happy
executioner”, writes Tom Teepen in the Atlanta Constitution, January
25.

The Texas governor, George W. Bush, would not know compassion if a dump-truck
load of it fell on him — but he would know a load of hypocrisy like it
was his brother.

Before I end this column with more of Maxine Rohrlach's insightful poetry,
I want to share the late Albert Camus' equally insightful words with you:

“If justice admits it is frail would it not be better for justice to
admit that it is modest and to allow its joyments sufficient latitude so
that a mistake can be corrected? ... There is a solidarity of all men in
error and aberration. Must that solidarity operate for the tribunal and
be denied the accused? No, and if justice has any meaning in this world
it means nothing but the recognition of that solidarity; it cannot, by
its very essence, divorce itself from compassion.”

How?

How can I heal

A wound so deep

Pain that goes on

Unrelenting and real

Months have passed

They say time heals

HOW?

A loss so great

An empty space

A photo, a gift

Only memories linger

How I long to talk

 To laugh and smile

HOW?

Disbelief, frustration

Anger and loneliness

A legacy of love

Left behind, for all

Unable to say goodbye

To hug or to hold

HOW?

Trust in mankind

The first mistake

Honesty and patience

The second

Rewarded by injustice

Move on with life

HOW?

A life taken

Innocence denied

Unanswered questions

Mountains of lies

Justice denied

I want to understand

HOW?

Our spirits connect

Our hearts entwine

The pain continues

The love still grows

We'll meet again

I will heal

HOW?

[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes
letters commenting on his columns (include your name and full return address
on the envelope, or prison authorities may refuse to deliver it). He can
be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G3-63, Georgia Diagnostic
& Classification Prison, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA, or e-mail
<BrandonAstorJones@hotmail.com>.]

From GLW issue 399