Best Paroled Poems
How do you do it...
arrested again.
Paroled for awhile
then back to the pen.
We know you don't mean it.
We know that you care.
But when will you show it?
When and where?
As much as we love you
our hate runs that strong.
Why can't you stay with us?
What are we doing wrong?
Are your friends to blame?
Did they help cause this bust?
What should we feel?
Who do we trust?
Who do we love?
Who should we hate?
Why do you burden us
with all your stuff
on our plate?
It's too much to handle,
we're too young to deal.
With the heartache we have,
with the pain that we feel.
Your our Daddy, our idol,
our mentor for sure.
Our anger, our hope,
we need you here more.
Your smile, our tears
your our happiness found.
Our twinkle, our fears,
the reason we frown.
You want us to love you
you want us to care
But Daddy, how can we...
when your never there!
Lord, Lord
Lord, Lord come to me
your love is all I need
You’ve restored my soul and paid the fee
now grace and mercy is my greed
Lord, Lord You’re always on time
to straighten it out and untie the binds
Freeing me from the grim and grind
making all of Yours all of mine
Lord, Lord have mercy on my soul
from the time I was born until I’m old
Now from sin I am paroled
because You are the one in control
Lord, Lord heal my sick
and from temptation I will switch
Near or far You and I will clique
all that is good that You have picked
Lord, Lord me give me peace
and my love for You will never decrease
Through Your love I will increase
uncertainty and doubt I now release
Lord, Lord never leave my side
to You I am open I will not hide
Hold accountable the tongues that lie
with the strength that only You provide
Lord, Lord Your peace is still
across the land and over the hills
this could only be done by Your will
the love cup of beauty that You fill
Lord, Lord I am yours
from all You do I am floored
I am awed and it is You I explore
check in with the Lord I implore
Lord, Lord I can hardly wait
for You to complete the number eight
Lock evil away behind the gate
so that there will be no more hate
Lord, Lord God’s only son
Sun up to sun down all the good He’s done
Hands are tightly gripped and no one is shunned
away from the King, The Powerful One
Have a crazy brother-in-law named Dickie
At times Dickie can be rather tricky
At 90 years old
He's just been paroled
His crime... he asked a cashier for a quickie
© Jack Ellison 2015
In the winter of 1873, Alfred Packer was hired to guide a prospectin' trek.
In the San Juans of Colorady they'd heard of gold that they wanted to check.
Alfred claimed that in Colorady minin' camps he'd driven wagons of ore.
He guaranteed he'd show 'em the valuable stuff that they were lookin' for!
They visited sage old Chief Ouray and he warned 'em to wait 'til spring,
To cross those rugged tors, but no, they wanted to press on and do their thing!
So foolish Albert and five of the group decided to trudge on through the snow!
Of the blindin' snow, lack of grub and perilous paths, little did they know!
A few months later Packer appeared at an Indian Agency lookin' fit and well!
He said he'd been left behind due to injuries, one of many tales he was to tell!
His story changed several times sayin' one man went berserk and killed the rest!
There was evidence that cannibalism was involved but old Albert never confessed!
Packer was jailed in Saguache but later made his escape to Wyoming state!
He was nabbed and returned to Salt Lake City for a trial and sentencin' date.
"They was seven Dimmycrats in the county", pronounced the judge from the bench,
"But yah man-eatin' sunuvab**ch, yah et five of 'em, fer that yer neck'll wrench!"
Later the sentence was reduced to manslaughter and he was given forty years,
To be served at the pen in Canon City, Colorady, but no one shed any tears!
He was paroled in 1901 and moved to Denver where he hung around.
Now his molderin' bones rest in peace 'neath a grassy burial mound!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 7 in Carolyn Devonshire's "Legend" Contest - April 2011
A child hears a song on the radio
and the music sets his mind aglow...
at his age he’s too young to know
he’s being sucked in the black, black hole
of foul, filthy, phallic rap and roll.
Tuned to the beat that fills his ears
he merges with the sounds he hears,
he doesn’t know just how severe
the words that pulse play a role
in foul, filthy, phallic rap and roll.
Sex and surrender are entwined
in lyric beats of metered time
and as all decency is undermined...
verse by verse the words take their toll
through foul, filthy, phallic rap and roll.
As he is swept by carnal tides
religious values wash aside,
all moral binds become untied...
a beast within then gets paroled
by foul, filthy, phallic rap and roll.
So, entranced by the tunes he plays
song by song he gets dragged away
into the beat of world decay...
he’s in lockstep on a fatal stroll
with foul, filthy, phallic rap and roll.
The handlers laugh at all of those
who think that they have smelled a rose...
but it’s just the thorns shoved up your nose
by agents into mind control
with foul, filthy, phallic rap and roll.
When we learned our elderly, kind granddad had died,
All paternal cousins traveled, gathered and cried.
Later, the ‘reception drive’ offered varied rides;
In Rachel’s auto, they shared a liquor-filled flask
And in Rob’s ancient van, a joint or two was passed.
If any cousin did not seek a high that day,
Terry drove sober now that she was freely gay.
At the reception, we all loved, giggled and shared.
Funny, that the sober car was the last one there!
In time, we caught up using our familiar flair.
Rob, Rachel and Rita’s Father had been paroled.
Rob still refused to pay taxes or live controlled.
Rachel lost her job when her flask fell out and rolled.
Rita found Jesus after holding marigolds
And walking naked down a long suburban road.
Mark was racing fast cars, playing music in bars
And had built a planetarium to view stars.
His maternal grandmother supplied the dollars
So why not avoid wearing a working collar?
Terry shared the same dollars-aplenty, flow-jar.
She had just graduated college with honor,
Moved in with Sue (who then quit work as a mauler),
And now barely left their home built near water.
I shared my struggle to work a forty hour week,
Make sure my special needs child never feels defeat
And bear my third spouse, who keeps a petulant heat.
When a toast or a toke to Granddad was complete,
Mark grabbed his guitar and set a steady, good beat.
Each cuz, in turn, sang their made up line which was neat:
“We’re from the family tree of true dysfunction.
What others call stupid, we see as brave gumption.
We do not take kindly to outside instruction
Stalling our families’ chaotic production.
If we pass loud gas, we won’t care if others laugh.
Now, just like real life, our song has gone off track.”
Wrongful Imprisonment
I am bowing again, in prison, no advocate to plead my case;
Forcefully constrained: by years and years of hardship and lack.
Believing, this was meant to be; this was all I was meant to be;
Who will render help to me? Who will compassionately deliver me?
Who!?! Who will relieve me of these chains? Who will set me free?
Who will truly inspire and influence my ideas to flow freely again?
If not you, who? If not you my psyche; who, who will ease this strain?
And revive, reactivate, reinvigorate and re-energise this slothful brain.
It has been a long sentence; the longevity of this imprisonment has expired;
Psyche, you have to arise, rekindle the fire; for betterment, wholly desire.
Divorce the priceless treasures of bronze shackles and the iron chains;
A new day dawns; a better purpose awaits; visualise beyond the boundaries.
No limits! None! No limits to my imagination, no limits to my life’s ambitions!
I have been paroled, I have another opportunity; I must fulfil my destiny.
I must fully reverse the effects of African degradation and slavery!
I must transform by renewing my mind: when I think liberty, I will be free!
End
By: Dion Penville
As dusk their line visibly bows
Cropped heads beneath mounds fold
Glum shadows through addle fields row
Listless turrets sprout o'er demarcated woe
Sallowed eyes in bleary sockets rolled
As dusk their line visibly bows
Shocked ears to concussive barrage close
As sighs from clogged lungs are paroled
Raspy shadows through addle fields row
Smoldering smoke in singed heavens glows
Vaporous cloud o'er scout binoculars scrolled
As dusk their line visibly bows
Each rifle into a sterile stack goes
Rumbling caissons to dark corners doled
Steel shadows through addle fields row
The fog of war o'er dazed minds flows
An eerie wind curdles each silent mold
As dusk their line visibly bows
Wispy shadows through addle fields row
Tonight, save me and wife and child from thee
Haunted horror our home assumes to be
Enchanted with evils, souls hell has freed
Oh God, thy neck is tired and hard to hold
Tyra...my wife, and child walk old of cold
Hath they, the dark; homeless, grotesque and bold
Entered at ease our evenings to ahold
Reaping our grand estate as ghosts paroled!
Vanish thy presence, hither not, visitor
Ill souls, why bring forth this inquisitor?
She speaks to me a low and lurring breath
I notice now the fog below my breath...
To be or not to be, I question death!
Oh God, must I travel her telepath?
Reciting how death of sick wife and child
Seduced a rope that my neck so beguiled
The equanimity of the day reached beyond my solitary realm,
As if the tune of demise fathomed the doleful heart of mine;
Escaped from the autistic aftermath blamed by mordacious charm,
Healed beyond charade of some credulous bonds -
As if the tune of avow choired with the tune of demise,
Crowning an arena slewed by the tune of ravine;
Vehement boo outstayed by the tune of shush,
I composed the time with the music of lenience -
Odes so lined are tuned with feigned mash.
A ho-hum of hilarity hemmed in beyond my soulful eyes,
As if the malign sang by the oneirisms couched yearses;
Once paroled from the time, that seemed so dour, by the unforeseen lies,
Parroted beyond acme of agape love –
As if the song of idiom sinned by the song sung by malign,
Ceased a chronicle defied by the song of revival,
Eyeses esteemed bequeathed by the song of rash,
I composed the journey with the song of lenience –
Odes so lined are sung with bereft gush.
Topic: Tolerance
Cold.
It's the only word that seems to fit your mold
But my heart is as young as your heart is bold
I beg to fly, I beg to go-
This land is old.
The shimmering dust, your ice-capped lust
That keeps its hold.
I can't contain the sheets of ice beneath my eyes
I love the chill but never wanted your black ice-
Vice-
It seems the word, the main component of your heart
With just enough of love to tear my own apart,
I’m letting go, this daily dance is getting old
Just let me, once, escape the onset of this cold.
Here-
The warmth of summer comes offering gowns of gold
With shadows skitting quickly, struggling towards the cold
Warmth-
Your being crumbles as the light comes dancing o’er
The questions hanging, asking what I’m still here for-
Then you come near, frostbite my ear
And whate’er I’m told
I’ll follow you back to your dark lands of…
Cold.
The silver clouds, they whisper secrets untold.
My fingers frozen- melting? - in your hold
I feel the sleet, the silver snow
But I just want that gold.
(I close my eyes, which you despise,
My dreams unfold),
But dreams can’t live while frozen in your ice-caked arms
No, nothing warm can live when trapped in winter’s charms
It harms
The warm, dark depths of me I try hardest to conceal
But the glacier of your body crushes my ideal
My feet can’t run, my sentence begun
I’ve been paroled.
This land of black (or is it white?) my prison hold.
Cold.
For god so loved the world that he gave his one
and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not
perish but have eternal life. John 3:16 NIV
…the great street of the city was of pure gold,
like transparent glass. Revelation 21:21 NIV
DON’T SETTLE FOR FOOL’S GOLD
You wear that blindfold like
it’s fool’s gold. In merriment,
of excessive drink, the age-old
predicament, a curse retold -
‘tis cold within your heart,
unpatrolled by Holy Spirit.
Lift up the golden leaf, unscrolled.
Pages, let words mold to your lips.
Be bold in exaltation lift.
Fold your hands as you hit your knees;
thus God will hand you manifold
blessings. Close that centerfold - its
wage is sevenfold-sin:
the stronghold of pride,
lust, greed, envy, sloth…ice cold
gluttony and wrath. Take hold
the undersold Word, uphold light.
Does God withhold anything good?
To be controlled with patient right,
no need for scold nor scalding fire.
Better to be enrolled - the wise
fight to be paroled…nay…redeemed,
foothold on solid ground with sound
mind. Wait ‘til you behold Christ’s face,
caroled with the saints. I told you
so…heaven’s streets are solid gold.
Take hold of an inheritance
out of slavery…you are sold.
Don’t stay white-washed, stone-cold sinners.
Remold your life - believe the cross.
Behold the resurrected Christ!
5/12/2022
Some Loves are Made of this and No-thing More
David J Walker
It was never meant to
Last even one day longer
Some loves are made of this and
No-thing more
And I knew it would become
my museum
when I entered the door
and returned to pretend
again and again
it could have been my prison
if I let
it could be the cell that
I pace and fret
it could have been
a paroled portion
of my life in debt
to another
some-days love becomes
a sacrifice
some-times a monument
to dispensation
clemency amnesty
forbearance remission
vindication
Some loves are made of this and
No-thing more
Oh, those days of a Midnight Son
Of wild abandon
Love on the run
When sunset goals invade the brain
And hijack thoughts
A one-way train
For life begins at 12 am
At clubs and bars
No rules to stem
In rendezvous, in tryst of love
Where lusts prevail
Affairs thereof
Alas, a Midnight Son grows old
Yet, memories stand
In thoughts paroled
Into the wild scatter your docile dreams,
Like animals from rusted cages freed,
For seamless years hunchbacked by low-slung beams,
Now through ceilings of boughs can boldly feed
On oracles hung in the new-glimpsed sky,
Telling of the courage of late-fledged wings,
Paroled from pauses and a fearful sigh,
Bound for air so sapphire, the heart’s eye blinks.
Unbend those yearnings, lest they die craven,
For too long have they been told, it’s too late;
Let them be by this world unforgiven,
Or with waiting destiny at last mate.
Retake the time when life’s freshness thundered,
Before youth was by dreamless toil plundered.