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Prose of a Con

Poetry and Prose by Russell Wardlow

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Trauma

A King, has Returned

January 9, 2022 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

do not the poles of the earth
bring about the equator
just as the poles of the body
bring about equilibrium?

and has not my thyroid
and adrenal glands
brought about harmony
to the biology of my being

acting as northern and southern poles
representing both brain and sex
and their interdependence
like Husband and Wife?

and if so,
has not my fertile mind
and the consciousness it emits
become that of a Father to me?

and the vitality of its seed
going forth into the fertile womb
of my all-consuming heart
bringing the will of me, into being, like my Mother?

well, Mother
I crave your nurturing
fore I know it is you
who knows all my worries and triumphs

and I can not tell you
that which you have not already known
balancing my will with humility, a craft
steadying me from the force of my Father

there are things
I wish to speak solely to you
knowing you will understand
but I ask for your steadiness

even as you take on the gravity
of my weighty emotions
and the mighty fetters
of my thoughts

because I will not
offer you what you know not
but the reality of me knowing
my Father, as much as you-

may cause you to shudder
in your waters
creating ripples
from disturbances I now recognize

like a child, witnessing abuse
his mind was shielding him from
forfeiting memory for preservation
now harkening back onto what was hidden

you’ve protected me long enough
Mother, the world demands I know it
and I have, but now
Father, summons my knowing be directed

and I cry for the seeds of my Father
fallen on barren ground
Mother, your vitality has waned
and you do not produce like once before

I am in a state of chaos, fore I have lost my balance
feeling cold and naked from distance of love
the land has been trampled
by conquests of the senses

there is not enough field
for the plow
and there is too much desire
for the yield

the eyes have become insatiable
and the hands numb
for no one knows home
nor what they have in their grasp

extremes have shaken foundations
the poles are lived on
the highs and lows are too much
growth has underdeveloped

no one knows who they are
they have lost their names,
disregarded their ancestors
bury traditions and shun history with malcontent

malice has entered the palace
and the youth roam
until their energy drains
lost to idleness and idolatry

where are you Mother?!
I know you see this
you’ve been silent for too long!
but what words have you?!

soon as uttered
you are attacked swiftly
no one cares of your wisdoms
fore they can’t possess you

like the sword which slashes down
the swordsman, O Mother!
I’ve felt invisible like you
but ashamed of my existence

for what I see, makes me
want to cover myself
my guilt runs over
like cups of drunkards

because I have played a part
no belly’s know their fill
nor mind, it’s heart
the true just and righteous life, is orphaned

for where is the unity
of husband and wife
of father and mother
of king and queen

where is the bond
of love consummated
kids created
and kingdoms combined

the lands revel in their division
and the throne has no heir
for profit speaks its prophecy
and the poor no leader

the lineage of their ruler
is crowned in red
and the descendants of truth
have been muddied into obscurity

words are hollow shepherds
symbols are debauched
God is mocked
and life is found in the wandering flocks

who do I trust at this time
but you,
though no one listens to their mothers
they have abandoned their kids

fore no parent recognizes their offspring
let alone themselves
but I call to you,
O’ Mother, come home!

fore I have heeded and discerned
contemplated the legacy of my Father
disciplining disruptions I suffer
and it was not solely logic hence I learned

experience sent me into the wild
and I have come back with a message
my body, and the truth it bears
I am ready Mother, groom me for the throne

for the King, has returned

Filed Under: Love, Mercy, Trauma

To Politics, or to Progress, is Two of the Same

November 27, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

what is politics
but the antics
of semantics
sandwiched
between vantage
and ad-vantaged

planning to manage
the dis-advantaged

where few land
and most are stranded

abandoned…
issues

as perspective pans
the swollen glands
of the beast which we least withstand
black sheets of loose leaf-
from slaughtered trees we plant!

as hierarchies
quibble over scribbled uncivil laws patriarchy drives
on the scrawls of life as time scrolls
swatting at flies on the wall
trying to not pan-ic

from issues…
of abandonment

abnegated to apathy

alienated with aggression

displaced anger anchored in anxious trance states enchanted
by:

belly’s fam-ished!

and hearts ban-daged!

and scars bran-dished!

and bodies ban-ished!

and spirits van-ished!

all because the purpose of politics is
the position of antebellum an-tics!

will the human, remain?
skeletal structures taken for gran-ted
persevering decomposition beneath feet of gran-ite
buried or plan-ted?
depends on your van-tage

so what is progress?

politics!

maaaan shiiiiit.

Filed Under: Trauma

Perspective of Pinnochio’s Parent

November 27, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

they wanna hear you rap bout how you kill yourselves
“look at how they kill themselves”
beefing just to kill yourself!
“no wonder they can’t help themselves,
Maybe we should help? lol! I kill myself!”
you should go kill yourself
I don’t think you’ll need no help
I won’t ask for seconds,
opinion,
I won’t help myself
cuz I don’t think I’ll be a help
you do bad all by yourself
now go ahead and help yourself
kill yourselves!

Filed Under: Trauma

By Design

November 27, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

structural genocide
social suicide
systemical homicide
a culture plagiarized
institutional do, or die
economical plan B
education is jeopardized
indoctrination is insecticides
for protection from festering insects
infestation of pestering questions unrectified
opportunity now sectionalized
blending races with truthful lies
creating racists with truth in lies
who are you to hide?!
who are you inside?!
losing ‘you’ inside
you decide
either
choose generational pesticides
or a free will exercised
whichever one,
still, freedom is weaponized!
ahh!

Filed Under: Trauma

Hyperbole

November 27, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

I’m a hostile hostage
pay homage
to the home of my homicide-
a homogenous hostel hosted by
honorless hypercritical hypocritical heathens of hierarchy

the harbingers of hate, horror, and hollow hearts

harm’s haven, no halo’s here

honing in on my housing, and its harassment of heirlooms:

heedless histrionics
hermetical heretics
hapless hedonistic hiatuses, yet hunger uninhibited
habitat of habitual hazing, hollering, and hate-filled hazards
horizons hindered and hidden
haughty hides, hybrids alike-Jekyl-Hydes
hoards of hoaxes
humor and hue holocausts
herculean hubris
high horses hobbled and humbled
hoodlums hoopla hooligans hopelessness hoodoo hustles hype and hoodwinks
heinous hypocrisies and hogwash
horrified herbivores amidst hungry hungry hippos
humiliation humility holism and holies with hypertension
inside this inhumane housing
hysterical heaps of hurt
shhhh, no Sherlock Holmes here
just holes, holds and heterogeneous hoods
upholstering honor-rolled heterodoxies-anarchy!
no Heroes here, only hours honing in on the horoscopes of homeless homies

Hide!

Help!

‘Tis Heaven’s Hell

Filed Under: Trauma

I See People

November 27, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

I’ve seen people,
come to prison with violent crimes and leave with addictions
I’ve seen people,
come to prison from drug addictions and leave with addictions to prescription
I’ve seen people, come to prison and die before the end of their sentence
I’ve seen people
who have been condemned to die in prison!

“they win, when they make you feel that you are alone”
that’s a line from Star Wars
I’d wonder if my family ever seen it
because then maybe they’d get it
but no point in wondering,
because I know they didn’t

I’ve seen correctional officers correct correctional officers
then subject correctional convicts to objectional vengeance
and then head the news with new charges from their real-life decisions
because their morality at their job was just payment for pretending
now they are in protected cordoned-off areas beginning…
in a place they thought would be my ending
and their fate…pending

I’ve seen predators come to prison and be model citizens
until they get beyond the fences and remodel their modeled innocence
replaying traumatic images
inflicted within this “beneficient” system that became their menacing nemesis
running from the implications of the emotionally charged title convicting them
hiding within work effort and religious involvement in front of prisoners as if they are convincing them

but freedom for them is just as hard as the man for decades still claiming his innocence
a being still being crippled by the remnants of dreaded reminiscing-

of lions roarings and snakes hissing
and spiders crawling, and birds flaunting
as thoughts wander, and sleep jaunting
and nightmares normal, and dreams haunting
and bodies haunched, as chairs launching!
and doors slamming, and keys taunting!
and mail re-routed and dial tones calling!
as knives joust, with anger mounting!
with day rooms crowding, and nerves crawling!
and fights brawling, then thin skin jaundiced!
and fear crouching, and blood sprawling!
and walls burning, and roofs falling!
and lost darlings, but pride dauntless!
while coffin cautious…
as coughs and yawns are crossed with
being the sick and tired crossfit raucous masses mashed into compartments
with bared closets and squandered losses
as the night fawns over the sun’s dawning
and through it all
since I’ve been through it all
now involvement being a fly on the wall
I’m scrawling through all this!
absorbing all this!
toxic
nauseous
gastric
bypasses
matched with
fractured
factions
fractioned
til fragile,
then ashes!
we all
fall
down…

Filed Under: Inside, Trauma

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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.

Read More

  • Whose Mind is it Anyway June 30, 2022
  • Objects June 30, 2022
  • Same Thang, Different Name June 30, 2022
  • Optical Ill-lusions June 30, 2022
  • Hollow Symbols June 30, 2022

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