THREE NEW POEMS

Editor’s note: While Charlie was in solitary in April (for no reason), he took some productive breaks from writing grievance forms and appeals and climbed that poem tree, putting voice to several he found there. We hope you enjoy them.

Libby

#1  WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

One morning when my mother was busy tending the baby

I slipped a butter knife from the kitchen drawer for protection

while I took a forbidden walk in the deep woods behind our house.

At first it was fun, exploring narrow trails, picking ripe berries,

listening to birds calling and squirrels chittering, getting thirsty,

bending down and sipping from a clear stream, startling a resting deer.

Imagining myself to be a brave warrior hunting to feed my tribe,

making noises and slashing bushes with my shiny dull knife,

scaring off any creatures before I saw them, I thought this was paradise.

Among the tall pines, wide oaks, hickories, sweet gum and persimmon,

knobby crabapples, I could play forever without a care,

until my stomach grumbled and I worried I’d be late for lunch.

When I turned back, the trees all looked the same: dense, uninviting;

instead of being my friends, they seemed to hem me in.

I was lost in the dark woods with no idea which way was home.

I told myself I was a big boy, though at six I fought the urge to cry.

wandering, confused, I turned this way, then that, afraid at last

that I might never be found, condemned to starve or be eaten by bears.

Then I heard a quick rustling of leaves, sounds coming nearer, I feared

the worst, but instead appeared my dog, “Little!” I cried, while

he wagged and twisted and licked my face of tears of joy.

He kept looking back as he led me home, as though concerned I might

wander off again, but soon our yard and house appeared, my mother

at the back door, asking, “Where have you been? Are you hungry, boy?”

#2  NEXT YEAR

I twiddle the heart-shaped seed,

turn it lightly, study the black stripes

that define it, debate whether to crack

it open between my teeth. Instead,

on impulse I bend down, shove the seed

into the warm soil, and walk away.

Soon a struggling green sprout emerges,

awakens to the bright sun, and every day

I pass to mark its growth until, like

Jack’s magic bean, the husky stalk with

its billowing leaves reaches my height

with little concern for the attentions of men.

At first a meager closed head atop

a massive leaved trunk, facing the earth,

the bud begins to swell. In days it

rises toward the eastern sky, enclosing

petals open, revealing yellow glory within.

Before long it becomes a mighty sunflower.

Outshining every garden bloom, the queen

summons humble bumble bees to attend her,

sharing pollen and nectar with the swarms

who seek her bounty, seeds fattening with oil.

Tired now, weight too great to hold up, the

head turns again toward the ground beneath.

One day I see a sparrow gripping a dry

leaf next to the bulging cache of seeds, hanging

upside-down, pecking, pecking, heart-shaped

striped seeds raining to the soil, where other birds

gorge themselves. I tickle some seeds into my

hand, enough to save for sunflowers next year.

 #3  FOUR WHITE WALLS

Four white walls

            surround you,

                        enclose you.

This is no time for claustrophobia.

            Get over it.

                        Be strong or give up.

There is no air.

            You run your fingers over the grill

                        that passes for a window

Seeking light.

            There is none,

                        Only a bare whisper of warm air.

The sliding steel door

            slams shut. Clang!

                        You are locked in.

Only a sliver of bulletproof glass

            allows a look out at the other catacombs

                        of the living.

Why is the glass bulletproof?

            you wonder.

                        We have no guns.

They do. Get off the door!

            someone shouts,

                        Or I’ll write you up.

What does he mean, get off the door?

            Don’t let them see you

                        looking out, someone whispers,

Don’t let them hear you

            talking.

                        It’s against the rules.

Nurse is coming

            to see if you’re still alive.

                        Sitting upright is proof enough.

Don’t look at her!

            Forbidden fruit

                        well past its sell-by date.

They shaved your head

            when you came in chains.

                        Dehumanization process began.

Don’t talk, don’t look,

            Don’t do nothing,

                        one tells you.

How long do I have to stay back here?

            you ask. Someone answers,

                        Until you die.

PHOTOS AND A NOTE FROM THE PAST

from June 1, 2014

While sorting through legal papers, I discovered the following note and photos that my dearly departed  Uncle Junior sent me in July, 2000, from the Walker family reunion in Texarkana, Texas. Junior (Floyd Walker, Jr.) was my mother’s younger brother, and we had been close since my earliest memories. He was one of my strongest supporters and encouragers throughout my imprisonment.

Starting with my grandfather, Floyd Walker, Sr., (Bebaw), the Walker men always called me Hoss. Junior was the last one to call me that. I asked Libby if she could scan the actual note for this message, so you could see the actual handwriting. I imagine that the “Arkansas State Reading Council 1995” notepaper was left over from my Aunt Glenda’s teaching career.

This photo shows Junior at left with the hat and blue shirt. Uncle Israel Walker, center, my grandfather’s youngest brother, and Aunt Bonnie Thornhill, at right, his youngest sister, pose with Junior. Aunt Bonnie’s son, Richard, is behind her, and grips her right arm. All four have passed on.

The second photo shows Aunt Bonnie’s youngest daughter, Linda, and her husband, Ricky Willett. Linda and I were in first grade together at Redwater, all twelve grades in one school. Our class had 16 boys and 4 girls. I always wondered how their senior prom came out. Linda has also been one of my most stalwart supporters, since the beginning of this life in Hell. Sadly, Ricky also passed away.

Linda recently sent me a letter with photos she took of the old home places where we all used to live, several centuries and lifetimes ago, it seems. Brought tears to my eyes. Thanks, Linda.

Charlie

SMALL VICTORY — SOME GOOD NEWS

May 31, 2014

  

For over two years, since I first arrived at this prison, I’ve been subjected to countless incidents of harassment, retaliation, and reprisal from the prison mail supervisor, Linda Moser. It first began when I tried to mail the latest edits of a short story, “Neighbors,” to Libby for typing and corrections. My friend and literary mentor, Stephanie Riggio, in New York, had been editing and critiquing that story for two years at the time.

Libby and I place log numbers and dates on all our letters, to keep track of the mailings. Good thing. When she hadn’t received the letter and corrections in two weeks (normal — 3 to 4 days), I filed a complaint against the mail room. The battle began. The next day I got the un-mailed letter back, with a “Post-it” note attached — “Inmates Can Not write Short Stories!”

Did she mean we weren’t capable of writing them? No. But we weren’t going to mail any short stories on her watch. Since I had been teaching classes on short story writing for years with prison approval, and the First Amendment — freedom of speech and expression — hasn’t been repealed — yet — of course I had to fight it.

She stole postage stamps from my mail. A couple dozen letters disappeared, never delivered nor returned to sender. In her anger, she fabricated three false disciplinary reports, one of which caused me to spend thirty days in solitary. Still I fought. I wasn’t the only one. Many others complained of postage stamps missing and undelivered letters, cards, and magazines, but none documented every incident like I did. What choice did I have, even though one false d.r. could cost me three more years in prison?

Finally someone listened. She was investigated. The U.S. Postal Service was involved, I heard. While I was in solitary, I heard, officials notified her that she was fired, and was escorted off state property. In her office, they found eight bins of undelivered mail. All my allegations were confirmed. She is gone.

You would think that would result in the dismissal of the false charges from 2012, when I spent January, 2013, in solitary, for her lies, so I discussed these issues in a phone call to my attorney. Those d.r.s written by Linda Moser could add more years to my sentence, and they needed to be addressed. After that phone call, a high-ranking official informed me that I could tell my attorney that those 2012 d.r.s had been removed from my record, since my allegations of retaliation and wrong-doing by Moser had been confirmed. The official said, “it was the right thing to do.”

Further, this latest false accusation that sent me to lock-up from April 13 to May 11 was overturned, and I was released early. I believe that was due to the letters and e-mail of support sent to the warden from my friends and family, and  all the prayers for my benefit. I am humbled by your efforts, and I send heartfelt thanks to each of you. God is awesome.

The only blemish on my record that remains on the table is the 2010 retaliation d.r. written because of the publication of “To Protect The Guilty,” the memoir excerpt about my run-in with KKK prison guards many years ago. That false d.r. was the cause of the increase of my release date from 2014 to 2017. If Attorney William Sheppard works his magic in federal court, my release date could be sooner. Thank you for all your support, encouragement, and prayers, and please keep at it. Sometimes the good guys win one.

A NOTE: Everyone Laughed

I lost thirteen pounds in 29 days in solitary, and the elastic waistband style pants they issue us hung loosely. Tonight they had the weekly “chicken leg” supper meal, the only time we can identify the species of meat served.

Because a lot of men attempt to take their chicken leg back to the dormitory to sell, usually for something sweet, the guards pat down and search everyone, confiscating any food found.

I was in a long line, it was hot, and a female correctional officer was subjecting everyone in my line to a very thorough search. We stand with our hands in the air while she searches. After she made sure I had no chicken stashed under my arms or under my waistband, she ran her hands down my legs and yanked my loose pants way down. “Oops, sorry.” My hands were in the air, so she pulled them back up. She didn’t find anything. Everyone thought it was funny. We can’t talk, but we can laugh.

Charlie

OUR WEDDING DAY MAY 24, 2014

Saturday, May 24, 2014, in Crestview, Florida, began as a sunny, mild day of cloudless blue sky with a light, refreshing breeze. Lucille Norman, Charlie’s mom, Alice Walker, Charlie’s aunt, Justice Catrina Carroll, and I were ushered  through the gates to the accompaniment of smiling faces and friendly wishes. In just moments Charlie came through the door, we all gathered together in the visiting room, and our wedding began.

The ceremony was brief and basic: will you Charles, take Elizabeth…I do;  will you Elizabeth take Charles…I do; an exchange of traditional Irish Claddagh wedding rings, a brief first kiss as husband and wife, and here we are: Mr. and Mrs. Charles Patrick Norman!

It may have been brief and basic, but the ecstasy, love, and God’s presence were intense. 

God’s divine intervention has been quite visible from the very beginning, fourteen years ago when Charlie and I first began our friendship and intensifying over the last several weeks. 

Prayers are being answered, miracles are emerging, and all of it thanks to our many friends, family, and supporters who have been praying for us and sending out their best. Now we continue the struggle as “one,” and we ask for your continued prayers and support. 

We are grateful, and we continue our prayers for you, too.

In love,
Libby and Charlie

          Mr. and Mrs. Charles Patrick Norman, May 24, 2014

            Libby and Charlie May 25, 2014

            Alice, Libby, Lucille, and Charlie   May 24, 2014

TILL EVEN ETERNITY

Editor’s note: Once again, a flower has bloomed in spite of the storms and darkness: here’s a new poem from Charlie, written while he was in solitary, and it’s a beautiful blossom. I hope you like it as much as I do.

Thanks for your support.

Libby

TILL EVEN ETERNITY

When I die sprinkle my ashes

On a river that flows to the sea.

Let my words live on in this little book,

No earthly monuments for me.

I’ll say what I say to you now, my love,

And trust you will know it’s from me.

Never regret the love we both shared,

Nothing more, nothing less, could it be.

Tell them about my life, if you will,

How I faced evil with bravery.

Tell them of two things I sought, I gained,

I found a great love, now I’m free.

Say what you will from your heart, sweet girl,

Tell them about you and me.

Tell them I loved them all, always,

Till even eternity.

Charlie

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT — AN INJUSTICE ODYSSEY — DAY SEVEN

Dateline: Saturday, April 19, 2014

Today marks numerous momentous days in American History, from April 19, 1775, Concord, Massachusetts, the Ruby Ridge -ATF -Weaver shooting, and the Oklahoma City bombing, among others. Politics aside, for some Karmic reason, April 19^th has been a flashpoint commemorating the struggles of outcast underdogs against repressive governments or their heavy-handed agencies.

Coincidentally, today marks my seventh day of solitary confinement, facing a fabricated disciplinary charge of “disrespect” from a bullying prison guard known to be a liar, seeking to “pad his résumé” by locking up unsuspecting prisoners for little or no reason, in hopes of advancing his chances of promotion to sergeant, ten percent pay raise.

At the time that he took out his anger at being “chewed out” by his supervisor against me he obviously wasn’t thinking. Instead of selecting some brow-beaten, intimidated, uneducated prisoner who would take the abuse without a defense, fearful that any challenge would “make them mad” at him, correctional officer one Patrick Walsh mistakenly chose someone who is NOT intimidated by authority, who knows the rules and laws regarding prisoners, and who had the presence of mind to notice and recall the names of inmate and staff witnesses, and remember it all in his defense. Bad move, Pat. This is not a game, and his tantrum could have far-reaching consequences, jeopardizing my release date. I have to fight for what is right.

I want to share a revealing, spontaneous statement made by the confinement sergeant last night, as he and another officer were escorting me in handcuffs for a shower. We are allowed a brief shower Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. I’ve written about this before, but my policy and standard behavior when dealing with guards, prison officials, “free persons,” teachers and other prisoners is to be open, honest, and respectful, polite and courteous, to “hold my tongue” unless asked a question or have something to say, to smile, to maintain eye contact with my audience, whether it is one person or one hundred. The way I speak and the way I write are similar. First impressions of me generally describe an intelligent, open, well-spoken, friendly person. As part of that persona, many people, staff included, address me as “Mr. Norman,” which I find amusing, since I always think of Mr. Norman as being my late father, Eugene Norman.

As they cuffed my hands behind my back and opened my cell door, taking hold of my arms and walking me across the floor to the tiny shower, the sergeant said, “Now here’s Mr. Norman, never gives anybody any trouble. You know what he’s in confinement for? The officer got mad! He got mad! Do you know how many people I’d lock up if I locked up somebody every time I got mad? We don’t have room to hold them. Mr. Norman can tell you, he was there. One night I snapped on the whole chow hall. But I didn’t lock anybody up. That’s ridiculous, Mr. Norman.”

I agreed, but I was the one in handcuffs.

I appreciated that man’s comments, which speaks for itself. Since I’ve been locked up, a parade of officers on different shifts have stopped by my cell door, looked at me through the little glass, and asked, as one did, “May I ask what you’re doing back here? You don’t get in trouble.”

I keep my response brief. “I asked the dorm officer a question, was Officer Walsh going to call B-dorm to the canteen, since we were the only dorm he didn’t call on Saturday. She called Captain Teboe, he chewed Walsh out, apparently, and Walsh took out his anger on me. I did nothing wrong, but he wrote a phony d.r., said I used profanity toward him.”

One officer shook his head in disbelief, and said, “I don’t believe you’d ever cuss out anybody. That’s what stupid people do. You’re too smart for that,” and walked away. He was right.

Meanwhile, it seems suspicious, if not curious, that they took all my legal work, facing legal filing deadlines, my envelopes and my pens. How can I write or mail out papers to my lawyer without envelopes? I can’t. It took four days and great effort to obtain this pen, which is almost dry.

There is much more to tell of this test. I’ll keep you posted.

Thanks.

Charlie

In Memory Of Merry, The Wonder Dog

Friday, April 11, 2014, was a sad, hard day for Libby and me. Merry, her loyal and constant companion and protector, passed on peacefully in the vet’s office. She was fifteen years old. I’m not ready to write Merry’s story — even though we never met face-to-face — the prison doesn’t allow dogs to visit — but I knew her through her exploits with Libby the entire time we’ve been together. I loved her, too. Recounting the events of their daily walks in the neighborhood, and her sniffing friendships with Blue, Blackie, Marty, Fernando, Buddy, Bentley and their human escorts, and others, Libby frequently said, “Everybody loves Merry.” And they did. Just don’t get too close to Libby, or you may earn a growl of warning.

In 2003. while I was at Tomoka C.I. in Daytona, Libby took Merry for a jaunt from their home in Jacksonville to Flagler Beach. Merry loved the surf and the seabirds. On that day Libby took a photo of Merry, and in honor of her, I made a painting of the scene, “Merry at Flagler Beach,” so that one day, when Merry was gone, Libby would have something to remember her by. That day has come. A photo of the painting is below, so you can know her, too.

In the past months, I wrote two poems about Merry, from the frightened, injured pup who whimpered outside Libby’s church office door one cold night, on the brink of giving up for dead, to her healing and growth as Libby’s “Guardian Angel.” The point being that we are all guardian angels to each other.

The second poem, “Dog Heaven,” written in the weeks before Merry’s weakening and passing, was meant to lessen the pain of the loss of Merry and to show that there is, indeed, a better place.

I’m not one to assign human characteristics to animals, but in Merry’s case, if humans exhibited the qualities of love, loyalty, courage, and selflessness that exemplified Merry’s life, the world would be a much better place.

If you are a dog lover, you know what I mean. If not, I’m sorry.

Rest In Peace, Merry.

Charlie

April 17, 2014