AS THE YELLOW TAPE DECORATED MY TOWN HOME
PEOPLE FROM ALL OVER WATCHED IN SILENCE
I FROZE MY HEART POUNDING LIKE THUNDER WHY
IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD FOR THIS MAN WHO
LIE BLEEDING AT MY FEET I HERE HIM WHISPER
FOR MERCY HE HELD OUT HIS HANDS WITH BLOOD
IN THE CORNER OF HIS MOUTH I FEEL LIKE MOTHER
THERESA AND JOAN LUNDON AT THE SAME TIME
MY MIND QUICKLY MOVES BACK TO COMPASSION
AND LIFE FOR HIS SOUL LORD I PRAYED WITH THIS
DYING MAN AS I WEEP SO TRAUMATIZED BY VIOLENCE
YET AGAIN THE MAN COVERED WITH HOLES
OF BLOOD HE REACHED FOR ME I COULDN'T STOP
HIS PAIN WHY WHY AND WHAT DOES HE WANT
WITH ME HE'S DEAD ALMOST HIS LEGS IS TREMBLING
HIS BREATH SHALLOW I TELL HIM I'LL GET HELP
I WAS AFRAID FOR HIM TO TOUCH ME AS I REACHED
OUT MY HAND THIS DYING MAN SAID NO PLEASE
STOP YOUR CRYING IT'S KILLING ME
WRITTEN BY MRS. YOLANDA NICHOLSEN 5-14-2004
2610 PROVIDENCE STREET FORT MYERS FLORIDA
AFTER WITNESSING THE KILLING OF MY ASSASIN
1211 ST ROYAL PLACE ST JAMES PLACE TAMPA
8-14-2003 MY KILLER GUNNED DOWN PURRED
AT MY FEET HE WAS KILLED FOR ARRIVING TO KILL ME
GOD BLESS AMERICA
blazing crimson sky
emerges over ocean
boat pauses to gaze
I asked the sun
rising slow over palms—
How much more
can a place bend
before it breaks?
The sun didn’t answer.
It just burned—
like truth
too hot for hands
that hide it.
I asked the courthouse steps,
worn smooth by pleading feet—
How many lies
have you carried upward
in polished shoes?
They said nothing,
but I heard the echo
of a thousand verdicts
whispering
not quite justice—
not quite.
Down by the water,
where the tide keeps time
better than men,
I asked the ocean—
How deep does corruption go?
The ocean laughed,
rolled back blue shoulders,
and said:
Deeper than your questions,
but not deeper than change.
And in the streets—
where the poor stand waiting
longer than promised —
I heard a voice,
cracked but living:
It becomes what we allow.
So I ask you—
not the sun,
not the steps,
not the sea—
How much more
can Florida become
before somebody
stands up
and says
Enough.
somewhere I stand
on a beach
white granules
wrap around base
blanketing me
from daily harm
with my wide fronds
I shade myself
from harmful rays
or thunderstorms
or even a
passing scared bird
that drops a gift
I'm a symbol
to travelers
welcoming them
to Sunshine State
great place for palms
The thing about frozen iguana,
It isn't like some kinda manna.
Both fall from the sky,
But one from less high,
And eat it, I really don't wanna.
He wears the cross upon his chest,
And speaks of heaven’s cure,
Yet turns the hand that ought to bless
To wield despair and death.
By dozens sent, they fall, they die,
Beneath his pious claim,
While God’s own life is swept aside,
And they live and bear no shame.
Can faith abide where blood is spilled,
Where mercy bows to might?
I do not know—but still I fear,
There, coming to the light.
For in the dark, their hands still try to reach,
Each soul now whispers true,
A fleeting thought, in quiet speech,
Breaks through the fecal stench the air.
Yet still I ask, with hard pressed dread,
Can we survive such sin?
I do not know, for they are wed
To hipprocracy and what inside it holds.
The Florida schools I knew—
Were fashioned to undo—
A Child—of unassuming Mind—
They tested—what was True—
They pressed my Thinking—into shape—
Too narrow for my own—
And struck me—when my Answer leapt—
Untethered—yet full-grown—
They bade me show the Steps I took—
Though Insight has no trace—
It blossoms—like a Lightning-flash—
Too swift to Keep my Pace—
And Bullies—stationed at the Doors—
Were given quiet Leave—
While Teachers—kept their knitted Peace—
As if Pain—might relieve—
I wondered—had great Einstein bent—
Beneath such daily Blows—
If Relativity—could of Bloomed—
Where Hostile Classrooms grew—
For Elementary—Middle Years—
Were Corridors of Trial—
And every Day—another Proof
That Learning—ment Exile—
So—long before the Eighth was through—
I slipped beyond their Chart—
Preferring Freedom—Hard and Vast—
To lessons—taught by Hurt—
And though their Purpose—was to break—
Some piece of Me—remained—
A quiet Sum—no Blackboard holds—
By the Suffering—I sustained.
I rest upon the shore, waves flowing briskly,
Sipping Margaritas where palm trees glow.
Hollywood Beach, where rhythm's alive,
Cheerful dancers make the bars thrive!
Calamari fried with oceanic spritz
Sunset pouring down on my beach bliss
I'm having Margarita moments in such golden lights!
Floridian hearts fill me with delight!
From Atlanta's roads, I drove one day,
Escaping the city's rat race, getting away,
On to the Hollywood shoreline, where the ocean called,
Then sailing in my dreams to meridionals.
A savory salad of fun, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, full of glee!
Colors of the beach, as wild as I'd foreseen.
To be myself, free of chains, no spies,
Just Floridian skies in premium Atlantic Paradise!
they strap him in like a free bank toaster —
leather belts immobilize the limbs,
the priest muttering fairy tales
while the switch man cleared his throat.
rectum stuffed with cotton--
next comes the electric hum —
Seventeen hundred volts--
a deep, angry silence —
then every nerve throws up
at once.
eyes cook and bulge behind the mask,
tongue swells like a drowning rat,
flesh jerks against the state’s approval
and no one flinches —
some of them are aroused.
the room smells like pennies and pork
and still —
some hack writes in the logbook:
“justice is served on a silver plate.”
Alligators break the dark circular water,
later, a guy with a big belly and low belt
will grandstand while throwing half-frozen
chickens at them.
This early I’m still surfacing,
last night my legs got jailed
behind lidless dreams; the back of my neck
tingles now, as old sweat refries itself.
I’m waiting for the ‘man’.
A breeze combs damp hair
while I make-out with a Michelob
inside a soda bottle.
He’ll show-up in sockless Crocs,
baggies bulging
from the pockets of
his camouflage shorts.
I and Frick and Frack over there
fake an interest in the egrets
as the morning sun flickers through
snowy spread out, translucent wings.
The ankle-deep mist rises
revealing clearly
that we are simply here
as another form of park life,
waiting to be fed
one more far-out evening.
the walls sweat like old drunks
union correctional, they call it—
correction my ass,
this place was built for breaking.
men bleed here, quietly,
a shiv under the ribs,
a mop bucket wheeled by,
nobody looks too long.
guards strut fat on overtime,
pockets heavy with side deals,
they sell cigarettes like gods
and laugh at the rest of us starving.
chow hall—if you can call it that—
thin stew, one slice of bread,
you walk out hungrier
than when you walked in.
nights are worse.
screams in the dark,
steel on flesh,
the silence after.
the air hums with rot,
paint peeling off like dead skin,
even the cockroaches look tired,
like they’ve seen too much.
and you think—
maybe the world forgot us here,
maybe that was the plan.
The sea is still, a painted glass,
Its breath a hush upon the shore,
As golden light begins to pass
Through skies that blaze and burn no more.
The herons call in liquid cries,
Then vanish in the amber haze,
And clouds drift low like lullabies
Composed in fire for end of days.
A sailboat waits—its canvas furled—
As if it, too, would pause and dream,
While orange melts to rose, then pearl,
And stars awake in quiet gleam.
The palms lean close as if they yearn
To kiss the sun’s last glowing thread—
O heart, how often must we learn
To love the light before it’s fled?
they chain you up
strip you down
the lights never go off—
just the screams shift
to new throats.
the guards play blind,
or worse, they bet
on who breaks first.
some poor bastard
bleeds in the shower
and another one
learns not to cry too loud.
this place doesn’t correct—
it cultivates.
grows men like tumors
full of rage,
their names erased,
but not their pain.
you let them rot
in filth and fire,
then send them home—
like matchsticks
snapped and ready to burn,
now all they want is revenge.
he didn’t blink
when the light caught his face—
just stared like a dog too long in the rain.
no prayers,
no cries,
no family on the concrete bench.
he killed for sport,
like swatting flies—
and still the world made room for him.
the guards were tired,
the chaplain bored.
death smelled like disinfectant and steel.
he coughed once.
then again.
then silence.
nobody wept—
not even the devil.
Hip to a choice life
green flags and emerald waves,
that vacation state.
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