The Prison Yard
From the author...

The State prison culture is unique. The felons live by their own code and set of values. There is no better place to observe this than in the Prison Yard.

The following poem, My Yard, was initially published as Taking a Walk in My Yard This Morning, Teach. Write. A Writing Teachers' Literary Journal Spring/Summer 2020.

There have been several updates and versions since 2020, but this free verse poem best captures what it feels like in the Yard. The prison 'pecking order' is complex and fluid.

Everyone (with very few rare exceptions) belongs to and is part of a group or gang. This is necessary for survival. As you probably can imagine, some hard people are on "the inside." The prison Yard is an integral part of prison life.

It is the place where reputations are made and lost. It is where leaders are crowned and dethroned. It is where all social activities have their origins and their endings. This is where individuals and gangs have their battles and wars.

Trips to everything necessary in a felon's life: visitation, mess hall, chapel, etc., all pass through The Yard. This poem was inspired by a real-life person, an exceptional student, an exceptional man, and a lifer, Antonio Johnson.

My Yard

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
My Yard isn't anything like your yard.
My Yard has no trees or flowers.
Only an occasional greenish-brown-stain of trampled
grass.

The early morning sun exposes the points
of the barbwire, that surrounds my Yard.
It glitters yet somehow looks beautiful
which terrifies me.
My Yard is two football fields squared.
I share it this morning with 800 men.

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
Where, I have acquired a unique and special gift.
The ability to perceive all the men in my Yard, from 360 degrees.

I can sense who is following me
without turning my head.
Approaching from my left is The Con Man.
His pockets bulging, full of broken promises, and unfulfilled schemes.

His eyes dart from face to face.
Never still, just like his mouth.
He makes me feel drained and weary.

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
Approaching from my right is The Strong Man.
The one who never ceases lifting things.

He is forever pushing, pulling, and twisting his muscles.
Struggling to exercise away his demons.
But no matter how huge his muscles become.
It doesn't alter the fact that he is still inside.

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
Approaching too fast from behind me is,
the Baby Man.
He hasn't discovered the rhythm of my Yard yet.
He was delivered here, direct from Juvey.

He strains to be a tough guy.
But his eyes give him away.
I can smell the fear on him.
He wears it like a strong cologne.

Taking a walk in my Yard this Morning.
There is a swelling crowd.
Striding on the blacktop and the concrete pathways.
Alongside and all around me. Like a stream of angry ants, dressed in blue denim.

They are all present now.
I can sense them all with my special gift.
The Always Angry Man, The Fighting Man, The Stoned Man, The I Am Innocent Man,
The Religious Man, and all the others

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
I utilize my unique ability.
I can feel him now- he is coming slowly.
Straight at me.
The one they call the Old Man.
Also known as the Lifer Man.

Shuffling his feet, rarely gazing upward.
Instead, staring, downward at the top of his,
scruffy prison shoes.
Mumbling to himself continuously about,
the poor decisions that brought him here.

He is so near to me now, coming closer and closer.
With each step I take, he matches my pace step for step.
He is too close.
He should break away.
Now he is just inches from my face.
I could reach out and touch him.
No, wait-
it is only my reflection in the glass . . .

END

*****

From the author...

Poetry is powerful. Poetry is universal.

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END