The Whistler
hears from the Old Morgue Dungeon, tx prison, December 20, 1941
Hark! again that doleful whistle,
like a caged bird's soulful missile.
On sunny days for three years past,
I've heard this haunthing, mounful blast.
Like the bird's song, from cage.
The tune is not of hate or rage.
It swells of hope and Faith that's fair,
Then sinks to Sorrow's deep despair...
Yea, touching aching cords and strings,
it lifts the heart to better things.
Then drops it back, as if t'were hurl'd,
to shater on this boodstained world.
This whistled symphony is sound,
in wich no single word is found.
No need, when the strains so plainly tell,
of heaven's height and the depth of hell.
I know thw tunw, but not a word,
for man ne'er such a story heard,
'tis the plaint of an aching heart,
mean but for God, not words of art.
As a sad story sweetly told
wells up tears from a heart of gold,
so this tune, from a heart that bleeds,
brings sad joy to him who heeds.
oft I ponder, "who can it be?"
but it's ever hidden from me.
I'm like a book with missing pages.
For I can't look in other cages.
God knows the whistler and his song,
of love and Hope, and loos and wrong;
but I must bide the day of doom,
to hear in words, his story bloom!
My Plea
Written in ice, May 18, 1941
To judge me as your felloman
impartial, fair and true.
To know me as I really am
is all ask of you.
Could man, like God, but understand
and read ahuman's chart,
he's feel the sting of prison's brand
that sears into the heart.
He'd read the message forged within
the heart that beats alone
"let him be first who has no sin"
to cast a deadly stone.
O God, now that I am sincere
I seek my fellow's hand.
Oh, grant me words to make it clear
that men may understand.
I only ask a brand new start,
a life of Christian grace
unfettered I shall do my part
and meet the face to face!
The Turks Say - About the wops
A limerick composed November 26, 1940
The man was our dearest neighbor,
but with the sword he did leighbor;
and now we don't speak
'cause he kill'd the Greek
with a mean thrust of his seighbor!
The Tower and Clock
Demolished in remodeling of Texas Prison Administration building after 100 years, Spring of 1942
O Tower, towering Tower!
which told the time; whence tolled the hour!
your life is fled;
your heart is dead
withing her bower!
She died, as all things must, for crimes.
No more we hear her throbbing rhymes.
An hundred years
she mocked men's tears
(Those inwalled) with chimes.
But now, towering Tower high
workmen have wrought,
your time is by
no more your spire
with lighting fire
graces the nigth Sky!
Her heard did break, nor was it bound,
nor knell her death to tell did sound!
but we who wait
on time and fate
partake of her wound!
O Spider
Written June 3, 1972
O Spider, peaking in the looking glass!
set, at thyself to make a pass.
Your antic actions do astound!
say, what a big bad bugger you have found!
Up you caper, your shadow to tamper,
whirl around, away to scamper!
when at yourself you've come to bay,
Ah, me, what does your little brainstorm say?
The Wish
Composed for Gladys, an invalid, August 29, 1944. This wheelchair patient friend who wrote to me from Canada died at age 22 years from arthritis. She lived to read the poem
O Clouds that pass me by
and leave me with a sigh,
with you please let me go
to lands of sun and snow.
Your racing wings I'll mount,
and off we'll go to count
the ships upon the sea,
the good men brave and free.
Then on to lands afar
where fields and flowers are.
we'll kis the thirsty earth
and give her verdant birth.
I'll be a fairy Queen
and ev'ry passing scene
will receive the blessing
of my wand's caressing.
we'll linger but a while
to give each one a smile
a word, or tender kiss
for all the things they miss.
And ev'ry one who sees
us ride upon the breeze
a blessing will receive
if only they believe!
we'll dip them one and all
who on our savior call.
And then we'll speed away
to soldiers the fray.
To wounded on the field
our tender care we'll yield
and Christian love I'll showw
to all the lorn and low.
Yes, all whom we may see,
the Bond men and the free,
we'll look upon with love
reflected from above.
Oh, may my wish come true
when I become the dew
upon the rose's lip
the sun for clounds dost sip!
Springtime
April 17, 1945
The sporting breeze goes by us
to lands and towns afar;
these prison cells deny us
with mortar, brick and bar.
We hear the crickets singing
their songs of sheer delight
a-tune to bells a-ringing
far out across the night.
We know the sun gives Springtime
its clothes and song and breath.
But here men pay for some crime
in prison's living death.
Three days the grave retained HIM
then, resurrection morn
tho' prison's grave remain grim
by faith new lifw is born!
- Refrain -
Oh, who can miss life's sweetness
till light has been denied him!
Can men know death's completeness
ere sorrow's woe betide them!
But, oh, that happy morrow
when prison's darkness ends,
and we comw forth from sorrow
to laved ones and friends!
Understanding
Written to comfort a friend who was being mistreated because he was trying to live a righteous life, on Wynne Unit Isolation, December 31, 1945
O friend of mine with heart divine
that loves both God and man,
please do not mind but be ye kind
and try to understand
that much of grief and disbelief
and hate of race and clan
is but because men do not pause
and try understand.
The one whose will is to your ill
is still a fellowman
and does not know he hurts you so
nor tries to understand.
So be a light to lead him right,
and help him if you can.
The golden rule may change a fool
and make him understand.
To Mother
Composed May 13, 1945
The mind of man the years may span
with thoughts of early days
when mother called him "Little man"
in tones of loving praise.
The Queen was of she of all the earth
the princeess of the dawn!
and none can ever beat her worth
tho' childish days are gone.
For she still lends those helpful hands
as in the days of yore...
her tender heart still understands,
as e'er it did before.
And she's the Queen of mother love
to little heart now grown,
who ask the blessings from above
on her good they own!
Youth And Age
April 17, 1945
The years go flying by
and age soon takes its toll,
but none should ever sigh
for fear of growing old.
'Twas nature gave us youth
and nature takes away;
but Jesus gave us truth
our againg hearts to stay!
Oh, happy is the heart
that puts its trust in God,
for truth preserves the part
that age cannot make sod.
New life we find in Christ
that does not age with time,
and they have died, yea, Twic'st
who find in age no rhyme!
Destiny
November 3, 1941
Why do write?
what urge makes me feel prone
to take up pen,
my kindreds or my own?
When but a child
not thinking aught of fame
I mumbled prose
for the soft Rhythm came.
My calling spurned,
I yet a writer spurned,
my duty broke,
my Dad I disobeyed;
Yet writing helps
to save my soul from strife
and guide me trough
this ever dying life.
Cheer Up!
Written to cheer a despondent friend August 31, 1946, Texas Prison Isolation.
Cheer up! Cheer up, and don't be blue
the best is sure to come to you
"the darkest hour's before then dawn",
but bright's the day when it is gone!
'Tis said that, "each dog has his day",
so surely good is on the way.
Tho' you are down you won't be long
if you can smile and sing a song!
So, Cheer up, friend, and don't be glum,
the best for you is bound to come;
and when life's darkest hour is gone
you'll see the glory of the dawn!
Love and Sorrow
First poem written in the old Morgue Dungeon, November 6, 1939
I know the field lark's cheerful song
I know why brooks so joyous sing
I know why stars all shine so bright;
I know why things get mute at night.
I know why flowers bloom along;
I know why chimes so gladly ring,
- For love has taught me ev'rything!
I know the call of mourning doves;
I know the windblown gallows tree
I know the rasp of hempen strand;
I know hunger and lonesome's band.
I know the sting of cruel shoves.
I know how ruthless hearts can be,
- For sorrow also spoke to me.
Following poem written a year later for thanksgiving
Let's be Thankful
November 7, 1940
For the stars that shine so bright,
for the moon that gives love light;
for the sun that gives us life,
and the earth that is his wife.
For the children sweet and gay;
for this good November day:
for the blessings great and small
God bestows upon us all.
To Julia
From prison, April 2, 1995
Are poems writtenby men who're smitten
by love, like me? the inspiration
is an elation to hearts that see.
We trust to heaven our love is given
to one who's true but years keep wearing,
and tears keep tearing the heart in two.
The artful poet plies words to show it
whithout excess of love he's dreaming,
and plans he's scheming. This is success.
I've often wonder'd why life has blunder'd
for men like me. No, single lover e'er can discover reality.
So heep my plaeding, and keep conceding
two hearts' are one. With love combining;
two souls entwining, my rhyme is done.
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