“That it is better 100 guilty persons should escape than that one innocent person should suffer, is a maxim that has been long and generally approved.” - Benjamin Franklin
FreeZeke.org
Dedication
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Memories of Love
|
White Linen Suit
|
Flying
|
History
|
Masquerade
|
If They Ever Let Me Go
|
View to the World
|
Life
|
Sounds in the Wind
|
My Demons
|
From Afar
|
Sanctuary
|
His Loss
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Dedication
When I was small
She held me close, as if
I were part of her.
I was totally safe.
She held my arms as
I learned to walk.
She never let me fall.
She combed my hair
and tied my shoes.
She kissed me
and put me down.
She took me to school my first day.
I was brave on the outside, but
That’s all anyone saw,
except for her.
When I left for college
she was upset.
Her end of the job
was nearly done.
Making light of her distress,
I didn’t understand.
I had finished growing,
but only physically.
It would be a few years
before I caught on.
When I was little,
he seemed to be bigger
than he really was.
He carried me on his shoulders,
picked me up with one arm,
and taught me how to throw a ball.
While I was growing up,
he solved my problems,
taught me times-tables,
showed me boy scout knots.
told me the facts of life.
As I matured to adulthood
he gave me sound advice.
He helped me choose a college.
We talked about careers
and marriage.
In their younger days
they were quick and strong.
Now they are stooped and
tire easily. Health problems
used to be of little concern.
At some point, they took on
a new dimension.
There is no use trying to pretend.
Unless there is a world to come,
they cannot last forever.
I have no choice but to hope
that I will see them again.
The alternative is too painful.
Long after they are gone
I will see them.
Their loving smiles
grant me benediction.
White Linen Suit
Their first complaint
was diminished status.
After defeat in war,
sanctions were too severe.
Power would restore
their standing
among the nations.
Their insidious motive
was easy to see, but
only if one looked.
Few of consequence were willing to look,
not Kennedy, not Lindberg,
not even the Bishop of Rome.
Some supported
this moral compromise
to contain the eastern horde.
People with no strategic
consequence, lesser beings,
were a small price to pay.
In a Faustian agreement,
innocence was sacrificed
to secure “peace in our time.”
Those who warned against
the rising tide of Fascism
were called alarmists.
Fear of ridicule
precluded the use of wisdom.
The fatal tragedy
was easy to predict.
His “Struggle” made it clear.
Despite these clear warnings
it was dismissed as too extreme.
Few spoke up. The courage
simply wasn’t there.
The world turned a blind eye
to the slaughter of millions.
With no danger recognized
asylum wasn’t granted.
Plausible deniability
authorized a grand cover up.
Even the Red Cross
reinforced the charade.
When the pretense was exposed
phony excuses were contrived.
In the wake of
worldwide devastation
humanity recoiled, pledging
it would never happen again.
Embracing human rights,
the world created the UN.
History would never repeat itself.
Stalin was not called to account.
He was hardly challenged.
Those who did
lived shortened lives.
Mao conducted a cultural revolution.
Millions were annihilated.
For many years, a billion people
were lost to the world.
Papa Doc used the Ton ton Mahouts.
Pinochet made torture legal.
Argentina set a record
for missing persons. Yet again,
the world looked the other way.
Apartheid, so blatantly evil
survived for too many years.
Pol Pot slaughtered people
in the “fields.”
In the land of the free
separate but equal
was the law of the land.
An evil empire was invisible
because prejudice did not exist!
A white linen suit stood
in the doorway to exclude
a deserving black student.
On the news, experts told us
that intervention made sense
solely for strategic reasons.
People were worth saving, but only
in the name of “national interest.”
Human life alone never qualifies.
Repeatedly refusing to
acknowledge ugly events,
we find it easier
to delude ourselves
with flimsy excuses.
From cowardice and selfish motives,
the world always passes the buck.
Those who commit the acts
bear primary guilt.
There are monsters
who renounced their humanity.
Those who merely acquiesce
cannot avoid the sin of complicity
through silence and refusal to act.
Moral liability cannot be escaped
on a technicality.
The white linen suit
was late asked
the key to his long success.
With candor he replied,
“I always told them
what they wanted to hear.”
Shakespeare wrote of this man
and his kind,
“The prince of darkness
is a gentleman.”
History
From ancient times,
kingdoms were hereditary.
The first time around,
mistakes were allowed.
Caligula practiced excess.
Rome learned its lesson well.
The job was passed to Nero
Weimer surrendered to
the swastika. Il Duce
crushed the helpless.
Fifty year ago, we
should have learned
from our mistakes.
The Gulags sequestered millions
Mao “re-educated” billions.
Other malevolent leaders
exploited and plundered
the people they ruled.
The answer was bigger
and better guns
to keep the world safe
for democracy. Killing continued
in the name of G-d
and other self-serving causes.
We still face
ethnic cleansing and rape
as tools of war.
We are getting better
and we are getting worse.
If They Ever Let Me Go
If and when they let me go
I won’t know what to do first.
To get it right
I must retrace my steps
from many years ago.
To move forward,
the past must be relived.
While painful, there is
no alternative.
If they ever let me go
I want to choose my own clothes.
If they ever let me go
I want to cook for myself.
If they ever let me go
I hope to fall in love.
If they ever let me go
I will be a pilgrim
exploring a new world,
a little boy at
the candy counter,
deciding how to spend
his last dime.
But by the, my last dime
will barely be worth a nickel.
If they ever let me go…..
Life
For other prisoners, each day they do
gets them closer to their next life.
Each day I do get me closer to the end
of the only life I have.
Others think about hat they will do
when they leave.
They plan.
They hope.
They think about girlfriends and wives.
I just grow old.
The sentence was life.
The exact words were,
“the balance of your natural life.”
Since that day so many years ago,
my life has been anything but natural
The judge’s words left me numb.
At first, the true weight of his words
was beyond my grasp.
I wasn’t ready to understand.
Appeals and a different political atmosphere
left room for credible hope.
Then politics and the courts slowly changed.
The historical clock began to move
counterclockwise.
I woke up one morning
and the pretense was gone.
Surrender was not complete
but I know.
The told me I was lucky to be spared.
What do they know?
They are not wrong.
They are dead wrong.
That morning, I woke up
to discover the truth.
I am buried alive.
My Demons
Confinement means
a life along.
Contact is limited
with family and friends.
Visits are short, even
for the lucky few.
But your main partner
is conscience.
Learn to like him
and tolerate him.
He won’t be ignored
and you cannot kill him.
He’s always in the mirror
calling you a fool.
Alone at night,
in my little box,
I am forced to recall
my many mistakes.
I am made to review
a lifetime of regret
and lost opportunities.
I’ve learned to lessons
and reviewed them repeatedly.
I will never forget.
I ask them where they were
before the fact. They
watched the whole time,
as events occurred.
They mock my criticism.
Smiling, sardonically,
they imply that I
should know better.
Demons never warn.
Their main job is to say,
“I told you so.”
Problems arise
that defy resolution.
I try to ignore them
But I am overruled.
Then I try to flee, to
drift into painless rest.
It doesn’t work. Want to
or not, I ruminate.
These thoughts refuse eviction.
I ask them to leave \and they laugh.
They tell me,
“Spectators get no say!”
Sanctuary
I was in a meadow near a stream.
The flowing water produced
steady, soothing music,
keeping me at ease. There was
a sweet scent of flowers
making me feel fresh and clean.
Avery old self likeness
entered my view.
I don’t know how he got there.
he simply arrived.
The music stopped.
He scolded me for coming here
so often. I claimed
my need for release.
He answered that escape
is mere idleness, that
I was in my private world
far too long.
I need this imaginary paradise
to escape my conscious world.
My House is not a cheerful place.
It is a way station
people pass through, going
from one life to another.
I am a permanent resident
Of this loud, busy intersection.
I’m on a train that never leaves.
When I first came to purgatory
I was young and spry, but
they kept me here too long.
My hair turned gray
like wood consumed to ash,
my face lined
with sorrow and pain.
In this room I became old
waiting for a real life
to recommence.
My soul needs sanctuary.
He challenged my reasoning,
assuring me
that my sun
will shine someday,
that the wind
will dissipate my grief.
But I know the rain
will not erase the pain.
If only I could
turn back the clock.
The pleasant images
are so enticing. But
I cannot escape reality.
Painful memories are part of me,
producing sadness and regret.
I come to my meadow
as long as my dreams allow.
I spend my time
by the calming creek.
So, consider, old man,
if I am to reach your age,
I must continue these visits.
My soul needs sanctuary.
He left and the music returned.
Memories of Love
After all these years
I still summon
your lovely vision.
I see you in
Your alluring youth.
Long absence has left me
with this last picture.
Most likely
you are still beautiful,
In a different way.
But I never imaging
the effects of time.
I recall my last memory.
I used to miss you as a partner.
But, I’ve been alone too long.
I am satisfied to reminisce.
Intense feelings
do not continue
after the fact. But
affection never recedes.
It lasts a life time.
There was a time
when I missed love.
But being alone
made life simpler
a habit I won’t renounce.
Friends tell me
that when I leave here
my feelings will change-
that desire will reawaken
I don’t think so.
Memories are enough.
Flying
I saw him in the yard.
Sitting in the stands
he gently smiled at the sky.
When I asked him
what he was doing
he said he was flying,
and offered to show me how.
At first I declined.
When he smiled at the sky
I wondered where he was
whether he hear anything,
or just saw silent visions.
At first I thought
he was odd
that he was losing it.
We all worry about
how much we can take.
We just don’t know
where that point is.
He found perfect release.
His fuse never burned.
He described his voyages.
He floated among
large white clouds.
He traveled to foreign lands,
rode horses with Mongols,
danced with Cossacks,
and walked along the Seine.
He knew how to go
wherever he wanted.
He had no limits.
A man ended his life.
Falling four stories
his body was mangled.
Blood was everywhere.
A riot took place in the yard.
Several were injured. Again,
blood was everywhere.
We were affected deeply
and very upset.
Not he. Smiling,
He looked away.
The next day
I started flying lessons.
Masquerade
Your world is full
of countless treasures,
locked away from me.
They are old photos,
dim in my memory,
that become harder
to remember with time.
I pray for deliverance,
for a complete life.
But that can’t happen.
Nothing grows in this ground
but sadness and despair.
Since my diet consists
of these elements,
I survive, but
I cannot live.
The fences form
a continuous shadow,
created by the glow
of the tower lights.
These dark sentries
keep me secluded
on my small island.
I know of beauty.
I read about.
I see it on TV. But
I never touch it.
I suffer like the
blind and deaf.
I wear a mask
to hide my sorrow.
There is no reason
to infect others
with my misery.
The mask helps most
When I look in the mirror.
Better to pretend
Than face reality.
This pretense has
served me well.
It got me from
yesterday to today.
And maybe, even,
to tomorrow.
View to the World
I take it all in from my window.
Where my view ends imagination begins.
I am not always sure where that line is.
In the yard the activity is redundant.
Men lift weights, play basketball,
job around the track,
or mill around and talk.
At the edge of the yard
a double fence keeps us in.
The loops of razor wire remind us
that our days are endless circles
always returning
to the same beginnings.
Beyond the fence are young trees
swaying in the wind.
Further out and higher up
older trees blanket the hills.
In the distance
the towering mountains
touching the sky
pay homage to the beauty of nature.
Climbers take up the challenge
to get closer to heaven.
Above the mountains cotton clouds
travel freely across the sky
coming and going as they please.
From behind my porthole
I observe the parts of life
beyond my reach.
I close my eyes and imagine.
I hope that when I open them
I will be somewhere else,
beholding an open landscape.
Sounds in the Wind
Just before they mow the lawns,
the grass is long enough
to bend in the wind.
It is pleasant
and allows me to imagine.
There are trees beyond the fence.
I love the sound of the wind
whispering through the leaves.
In winter, the whisper becomes
a relentless how.
Inside, the concrete sameness
offers nothing, sidewalks and buildings,
all made of the same hard materials.
They make no sound in the wind.
From Afar
Far away tree tops
create interesting silhouettes.
Their distance allows me
to fill in my own detail.
In winter, the skeletal frames
describe the plight
of the poor and homeless.
In lighter moods, I travel back
to Mickey mouse and dancing brooms
favorites of a little boy long age.
In spring, the trees are blessed with renewal,
and become vibrant again.
Buds preceding the leave
recall the energy and vitality of youth.
In summer, the leaves create fuller images.
Their abundance restores me.
The top branches tilting slowly in the wind
are the pious praying at the wall.
They bend rather than break.
In autumn I witness the beautiful colors.
Playing in the leaf mounds raked up by my dad,
I collected the yellow and red ones.
This memory sustains me.
Before my fall I noticed trees
for only a moment here and there.
They were close at hand,
a smaller part of a bigger life.
Now the opposite is true.
Far from me on the other side,
their distance gives me an insight
I never had before.
His Loss
We clean the windows together every day.
It’s our little ritual.
Rituals are important
to old men doing forever.
Recently, he lost his sister.
She was loving and loyal from the start.
For more than thirty years
She was always there.
He always talked of spending time with her.
They would sit in her garden when he was free.
Lost time would be made up for.
As he told me his bad news
I saw his eyes were wet.
Then my eyes moistened too.
We stood there silently for a minute.
Then he started cleaning windows again.
So I did too.
Site by Big Dipper Communications @ 2007 All rights reserved.
"Clarence . . . Clarence Miller did this to me." George Wilhelm's dying declaration to police, February 9, 1976 (T.T. 1528).
". . . Goldblum was not the individual who inflicted the fatal stab wounds on Mr. George Wilhelm." Dr. Cyril Wecht, Coroner of Allegheny County in letter to Board of Pardons, September 1, 1994; Henry Lee, Ph.D., report dated February 25, 1997.
"This is the one case in 21 years [as a judge] which seriously troubles my conscience about the result." The Honorable Donald Ziegler as quoted in Michael Bucsko, Judge Haunted by Dying Man's Last Sentences, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, February 5, 1995.