Sometimes I think prison ministry is
more beneficial to me
than it is to those I visit, whether
in person or through
letters. It has opened up a whole
new world for me, and I am
amazed at the creativity to
be found in the persons
I found there who have become my friends.
Two prisoners have given me
permission to share what they have written.
The first two poems were written by the same man
who gave me a story which I included in a
previous blog, “A Squirrel Goes to Jail.”
That article brought laughter and joy to those with whom
I shared it..But this poem is more poignant,
reminiscent of a happy childhood, and a longing for home.
It was the first creative piece he has given me, and I still treasure it.
SOUTHERN APPALACHIANS
The freshness of the morning, sun coming up, dew rising.
The warmth and beauty of the day, sunshine or rain.
Southern Appalachians and their old mountain ways.
The summer evenings, the smell of honeysuckle,
The taste of blackberry pie, and the feel of a cool mountain breeze.
Love that bonds the devoted family, with roots that run deep.
The wandering spirit in some, but before journey’s end will return,
For Southern Appalachians this is home where it all began.
So is inherited a deep respect and connection to the past,
Sassafras tea, and sweet Southern charm.
Precious memories, keepsakes, and stories pass from elders to descendents, Like pictures from the family albums found in the old dresser drawer.
Our home, our childhood, special times, heartaches,
the good times and the bad.
The past that traces for generations,
that makes us who we are, Southern Appalachians..
A painted sky, and gradually the sun goes down in Southern Appalachia. The family gathers on the front porch; the day surrenders. The sky grows darker as we settle in for the night. The moon and stars fill the heaven, while watching the magical lights of the fireflies and listening to the sounds of the night in Southern Appalachia
Looking back with pleasure, remembering those evenings on the front porch and the sounds of the night I value even more the simple life, W hat nature taught, when the world was smaller and I thought time would go on forever. i reflect back to the peace of the moment with family past and present and it warms me with we and deep respect of my Southern Appalachian roots till my journey ends. And I return forever, to Southern Appalachia.
Poem by Robert Foley, Death Row Inmate at Kentucky State Penitentiary, Eddyville, KY, Dec 1997. Those Saturday family nights on the porch were also a time for story-telling, and fiddle music.
When I first shared this poem with our poetry club at the monastery, there were quiet tears as we reflected that Bob will likely never get to see his beloved Appalachia again. For those who have worked in Appalachia, other memories surfaced, of the people they came to know and love, and serve
FREE by Robert Foley.
The peace pf the morning has come and gone.
The guards open my cell door, and place the chains above my feet.
The work of the day begins. With each swing of the hammer I crush the stones and the anger in my heart.
With each swing of the hammer Lord, I feel closer to you.
The sun upon my face and the sweat on my brow, I feel the straps across my back.
A cool drink of water refreshes my body and soul.
Work continues till the day surrenders to the evening, and I return to the 3 block.
The chains are removed and the cell door slams shut as I step inside and open your good book.
And as I read your words Lord, I know as long as I walk in your light, I’ll always be free.
I have a third poem, (haiku), from Joe Rickey Knight, a prisoner who was out
walking one day when he passed a new little building, constructed after they
retired the electric chair, to execute inmates using lethal injection
A poem suddenly came to him as he viewed it and the surroundings. He calls it
“The Joy of Springtime.”
Rosebuds break open
And white-throated sparrows sing
Outside the Death House.
Yes, I have been enriched, and I share these with you, as we reflect
on the lives of those imprisoned, who can give us something to think about.
Let us pray for these and others who have found, or will discover,
talents within themselves, and a worthwhile way to use their confinement.
Sr. Mary Carol Hellmann OSB
Dear Sister, thank you for sharing this quality poetic work. Poetry requires time to appreciate, and throughout the world, in all the schools, they give less time to reading and understanding poetry and more time to science, maths and economics. We do need sensitive moral and generous understanding. We need good literature teachers. Also in the prisons. Perhaps Robert would have been a good teacher. Amazingly, there are some people who will not read "religious" poetry because they were taught that poetry should be secular! How deeply ignorant. Our first languages in ancient days recorded the holy things in poetry -- it was a gift from God (in my knowledge) who allowed us that beauty in those diverse ways. You mean I can read and compare 100 different creation myths and see how God enabled us to find a parable of beauty? Are any of them as good as Genesis? Do you know the deeper meaning of Genesis 1-3? You didn't know what the legged serpent meant? God bless OSB Pray for me, amen
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