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Prose of a Con

Poetry and Prose by Russell Wardlow

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Love

Real Paradise

August 6, 2020 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

Within our SPIRITS

Flowing throughout our bodies

Which we can express thru our hearts and minds

Paradise is not in this world

It’s within us

Which we express outwardly to the world

Identifying it as a place

But that place is us

Therefore paradise is where you make it

Where YOU choose

Paradise, like all things, is a matter of perception

Most of our thoughts, customs, wisdoms, morals, values and traditions

Have all been occupied and saturated

Any display of difference is met with indifference and intolerance

If not violence

As if it is a threat against, instead of, an opportunity to coexist with

But outside of what has been determined for you

Is what you have determined for yourself

Despite and against all odds

Even if what is odd, is You

See your Paradise

Embrace your Paradise

Become your Paradise

And then take it with you everywhere

So that peace and freedom may be with you always

Asé

Filed Under: Culture, Love, Spirit

Fight or Flight Fright Night

August 5, 2020 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

You fight or flight change

I fight or flight for change

Though my fright of heights may fight my flight

Because this fight I flight is fright of change

But even if I’ll never get this right,

I’ll fight my fright instead of flight, for a change.

Filed Under: Culture, Inside, Love

Color’dBlind

August 4, 2020 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

Stop saying you don’t see my color

You are NOT colorblind

Nobody is

Why would I want you to be

I want you to see me

I’m looked passed, through, and assumed too often

My protests go largely unheard

I’m acknowledged most when I fit a stereotype

When you hear of crime, you see me

Even if just a mental picture

When you hear me get excited, you see me

But not as a normal person

Rather a rambunctious untamed animal

When I’m angry, you see uncivilized aggression

You don’t see a person allotted emotions

You see validated yet quieted implicit biases-

Plausible deniability-

So my cries of fouk are shunned

You see a prison as answer for me

Frankly, I can’t be a regular human being in your eyes

My sobering human moments

You see less a person and more a ‘thing’

A beast with too much terrain to roam-

Needing to be reeled in and controlled

You tell me to calm down

Chill

Don’t be so loud

You talk to me like child therapists

With a “1 2 3 breath intonation”

As if training a wild animal

With your superior logic and reserve

Believing I’m genetically incapable

You’re even more outraged at my wrongs than that of others

When I do wrong, it makes sense to you

You aren’t colorblind

My color makes you blind

Filed Under: Culture, Love, Trauma

Black Lives Matter?

August 3, 2020 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

It’s hard to remind black people

That their lives matter

So when it comes to each other

They engage in self hate

Expressed outwardly as violence

Because our world has not created

A reality where black is not a weaponized concept

Our consciousness is conditioned

To perpetuate the hate against ourselves

That has been acted out against us

And so we lash out at the mirror

Which results in drug abuse

And gun violence

That only makes the world say, “see?”

But they don’t see

Because they’ve all been complicit

In our self destruction

Gentrification, redlining, gerrymandering

Disproportionate education, funding, healthcare, job opportunities, imprisonment

Oh and the media images of our aggression

Which only teach fear

I can actively protest my immediate oppressors onslaught

While I lose sight of the oppressor above them-

Pulling both our strings

Black lives matter

But I don’t feel I matter

…and I’m black

Filed Under: Culture, Love

My Mom is Harriett Tubman

July 6, 2020 by Russell Wardlow 3 Comments

She created her own underground railroad
alluding abusive persecution
sacrificing dark man for son
escaping the enslavement of toxic love
the chains of loss
the raping lies
the beatings of regret
the whippings of judgement
the lynchings of abandonment
and at the risk of her own life

She came back time and time again
rescuing her own heart
throughout the sentences of character and place
transcending the imprisonment of emotional turmoil
an insurrection all of her own
breaking down the walls that barricaded her freedom
she came back time and time again
rescuing her heart
even when others told her to let it go
to move on and start over
that she’d be better off without her heart
her heart may be better off without her
still she trekked
and journeyed further and deeper than most will ever voyage in a lifetime


She never forgot that she was a mother
no matter what she went through
no matter how heavy the weight she bared
she came back for us
each of her four kids
the four chambers of her one heart
knowing the possibility of a chamber or two rejecting her
but she weathered each eventual heart attack
because she’d become accustomed to the battles of heart
those once foreign and now all too familiar battles, made her

She had never knew true peace
embracing each war
standing tall after the dust settled as a Goddess of War
Like Harriet Tubman, but her name is Amanda Wardlow!
the last name sounds so fitting
My Mom was just as fierce brave and courageous as Ms Tubman
and her whole life has been an underground railroad
to which may not be properly appreciated until she’s no longer around
and they will be in awe of her strength survival and willing sacrifices

She is history embodied
and a story to be shared for the many women of past and future generations
but also as a testament to the extent of human capability and resilience
because her index of love knew no boundaries
however flawed she may be
or may have been
she was human in that way
audaciously flawed to perfection
humility amongst certainty
she knows who she is
accepting she may never live to be fully understood or appreciated
and that’s what Heroines are made of.

Filed Under: Culture, Love, Spirit, Trauma

This isn’t Over

July 5, 2020 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

This is a call
for more to be invited

This isn’t just
a moment of excitement

This isn’t even a victory
because a few indictments

This was overdue
a match thrown over a trail of gas once ignited

This is a kerosene lamp tipped over
in the midst of scurrying about trying to hide it

This is what it looks like when black lives matters
because all lives matter
proof in the streets with the mixtures of cultured colors united

This is what it looks like under an umbrella of oppression
with human leftovers protesting still trying to fight it

This is what it looks like when America has been the biggest party
but some of its architecturing residents are rarely invited

This is what it looks like when the guiltiest minds turn a blind eye
and hide their thoughts behind the guise of their eyelids
acting as if they never knew or seen, with faces full of surprises

This is what it looks like when people have lived a life of compromising feeling compromised and settling no longer for compromises

This is what it looks like when the status quo is riled
and the stood on people and their allies form a league of defiance

This is what it looks like when remedies have been substituted with vices
and all content is parental consent
saturated by subliminal advertisements
geared to keep our minds idle-
worshiping idols sex and violence

Distracted from our own trials
and the vile styles
constructed to profile and corral
nonconformists and urban crowds
viewed as hostile

And pile them single file
for miles
in the same aisles
of blame and maimed with aimed projectiles of bile
labelled as chow

And we eat up those spoon fed lies like a child
looking at how we live, with fear defeat and shame aroused
every attempt shunted until we throw in the towel
all the while

Being the caulk, holding together this country’s tiles
laboring just to afford a house
or high end textures for style
just for respite from people seeing how
we really live, so maybe we’ll feel better in “outfits” of denial

Preferred sleep to an awakened state, living in doubt
of change, in chains, insane, in shame
shrouded in dark clouds
running from the past and now
tears flowing like the Nile
unable to see, what the time is

This is what it looks like
when we’ve changed the climate

This is what it looks like
when imprisoned freedoms become a mass of noncompliance

This is what it looks like
when uproar broke out from a peaceful kneel in silence
to a murderous knee taken to obstruct a peace being forever silenced

This is what it looks like
when the once small alive voices
speak out in unison from their graves as one great giant

LOOK America!
this is what “WE” look like

Now Watch and Wemember America!
because this is what “WE”
looks like

Because this is what it looks like
when the silenced have broken their silence

This is what it looks like
when allies awake face and embrace the challenge

Filed Under: Culture, Love, Spirit

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Prose of a Con

Prose of a Con is a collection of Russell Wardlow’s prose and poetry written entirely behind bars. Through writings on family, spirituality, freedom, love, justice, redemption, and vulnerability, Russell seeks to show the humanity and hope of individuals like himself who are incarcerated.

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