How?
By Brandon Astor JonesMy Charles, My Friend
What was perceived to be suffering and pain
Is now nothing more than memories
Life's trials, often hard to bear
But now, a pain so deep, a hurt so real
Cast a heavy shadow, a cloud so dark
Nothing, not even time can heal
A friendship with a simple beginning
A sincere, caring existence, blossoms
Now, a turn, a twist, and end.
All the laughter, all the tears
Building a bond over many years
Knowing each other's feelings and thoughts
Knowing the right things to say and do
A friendship woven with golden thread
A warmth more radiant than any flame
God fearing, God loving
Gentle, kind, caring, understanding
Loyal by nature, honest by intent
The day is near, the day I fear
Losing my Friend
Not by God, but by man
An injustice by man, that must cease!
I bid farewell, with a tear and a smile
A bond which cannot be broken
By friend or foe
We shall reunite in peace with God
To share our love eternally.
My Charles, My Friend.
By Maxine Rohrlach
I ask the South Australian poet who sent me this poem to forgive me for having misplaced it last year. Please know that I, too, mourn the death of your friend, Charles, who was executed in Texas, on August 5.
I was at a loss for words after reading your poem, therefore, I will let others speak for me about capital punishment in general and Texas' politics of executions in particular.
Texas is now in the midst of a 15-day spree that will kill another seven [prisoners] ... Texas politics ... degenerates into contests in which candidates try to outbid each other in the number of [prisoners] they promise to execute ... [George W.] Bush, however, a self-described 'compassionate conservative' and a professing Christian, has been an especially happy executioner, writes Tom Teepen in the Atlanta Constitution, January 25.
The Texas governor, George W. Bush, would not know compassion if a dump-truck load of it fell on him â but he would know a load of hypocrisy like it was his brother.
Before I end this column with more of Maxine Rohrlach's insightful poetry, I want to share the late Albert Camus' equally insightful words with you:
If justice admits it is frail would it not be better for justice to admit that it is modest and to allow its joyments sufficient latitude so that a mistake can be corrected? ... There is a solidarity of all men in error and aberration. Must that solidarity operate for the tribunal and be denied the accused? No, and if justice has any meaning in this world it means nothing but the recognition of that solidarity; it cannot, by its very essence, divorce itself from compassion.
How?
How can I heal
A wound so deep
Pain that goes on
Unrelenting and real
Months have passed
They say time heals
HOW?
A loss so great
An empty space
A photo, a gift
Only memories linger
How I long to talk
To laugh and smile
HOW?
Disbelief, frustration
Anger and loneliness
A legacy of love
Left behind, for all
Unable to say goodbye
To hug or to hold
HOW?
Trust in mankind
The first mistake
Honesty and patience
The second
Rewarded by injustice
Move on with life
HOW?
A life taken
Innocence denied
Unanswered questions
Mountains of lies
Justice denied
I want to understand
HOW?
Our spirits connect
Our hearts entwine
The pain continues
The love still grows
We'll meet again
I will heal
HOW?
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns (include your name and full return address on the envelope, or prison authorities may refuse to deliver it). He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G3-63, Georgia Diagnostic & Classification Prison, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA, or e-mail <BrandonAstorJones@hotmail.com>.]