Writers in Chains: Sound Advice

By The Inmates

This book is a collection of writings written by five inmates within the federal prison system. Within its pages is an opportunity for all to share in their compassion, empathy, and perceptions and possibly to understand and empathize with their lives.

It is the hope of the authors that the people of the world will enjoy and benefit from the unique, unchained creative ideas presented within that are both timeless and timely.

Sit back and enjoy the unique inspirational beauty that exists everywhere around useven in prison, where the beauty of God and nature can never be locked down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524509002

The Inmates

                                                                    Derick Clemens Derick Clemens conceived and created this Writers in Chains series while incarcerated in the federal prison system. He taught courses in prison about creative writing and compiled these poems and writings as a way of increasing awareness about the lives being cruelly destroyed by America’s draconian justice system. In prison, Clemens learned of the tenfold increase in the American prison population just since 1980, caused by fear-feeding politicians who allowed a “war” to be waged on American citizens. His conviction was just 50 marijuana plants and 50 kilos given to a lawful California dispensary. His sentence? Thirty three months! Rampant gross medical and nutritional neglect reign where it can take 250 days on average just to see a real doctor and then treatment is usually denied, as happened to him for over 24 months when his shoulders rotator cuff tendons were torn... “wait till you get released” they told him (the tendons begin to atrophy 24 hours after such an injury making the repair impossible after the 2 year delay). The food was a cruel and unusual punishment in itself with no dark leafy vegetables except years old canned spinach every few days, a tiny measured portion of iceberg lettuce a few times a week and during this the cruel unhealthy guards pretend to be corrections officers. The worst part was the inmates know how to grow the nutritious dark leafy greens like kale, swiss chard, bok choy and spinach that provide a healthy diet and fight disease. That the war on drugs and the war on white collar crime is far, far worse than all the damage those acts cause is beyond any doubt. Europe has figured this out. When will Americans wake up and see that prison is not the answer for 80% of the people we are putting there. In fact we are destroying the fabric of our nation. According to former AG Eric Holder, 50 to 70 million Americans have done time. Families are being destroyed, assets forfeited, felonies branded on for life and valuable intelligent citizens thrown into the rubbish pile. It is a great crime against humanity. And it needs to end now.

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Copyright © 2016 by Heavenly Publishing.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Writers in Chains - Volume 1 Sound Advice, written by The Inmates has been Copyrighted in 2016 by Heavenly Publishing on the individual authors behalf.

For contact with the authors or submissions go to www.heavenlypublishing.com. Authors will individually evaluate whoever requests contact and will be subject to their personal decision as to whether or not to reply or license usage. We are always looking for new inmate submissions to our Writers in Chains series writing contest. Inmates and former inmates are all invited to make submissions. 3 cents per word will be awarded upon publishing to all winning entries. All submissions may be sent to Susan May, Heavenly Publishing, P. O. Box 4144, Arcata, CA 95518.

Ideas expressed in this book are exclusively the responsibilities of the individual authors and not the publishers. All the authors have retained individually their copyrights to republish these works where ever and with whomever they choose.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/24/2016

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

The Professor

Dream On

Ananda

Dad Ruskjer

Room with a View

If I Died Today …

Binky

Mom

LaVonne

The Bus

My Wrists

My Stomach

The Circus

The Plane

Funerals

Charlie’s

S. A. Ruskjer’s

Alice Loughman’s

Squeaks

The Mouse’s

Mariko

Ananda

Elaine

Alice

AIWA

Mobia

Camps

Deductive Reasoning

Birdie Hosford

Evelyn Tillgren

Bilda Lopez

Carmen Miranda

Lynda Ferguson

Oatmeal/Tupperware Flashback

I’m Free

Mohammed

Love

Aphrodite

Bengal Bay

Derick Clemens

Name and Number Please

Our Big Bruddah

I am Your Diamond in the Rough

Constitution Day

No More Bombs Bursting in Air Please!

The Seven Centers Song

Abracadabra

Ignorance Is the Only Sin

Our Love Never Went Away

Happy Solstice

I Hope You Get What You Want

I Set You Free

True Love Is Never Lost

Please Forgive Our Fellow Man

How to Make the RDAP Program More Fun

Fear

Wow

The Inheritance

The Results You Wanted

Ego

Forty-Six Thousand Reasons

Teddy Bear

Earplug

Turning Twenty-One

My God

God’s Measure

Grandma Or Grizzly

My King

My Gospel Shoes

My So Cute

My Dream

Freedom Gone

My Alien Angels

My Angel Is My Daughter

The Man

Space Bop Boogie

Gone So Long (From Me)

Find Yourself

Silent She Comes

Gifts Of The Spirit

Derick Clemens

The Master

Religion and Spirituality

Peace

My Love for You Everywhere

I Am with You Always

Thank You for Your Love

We Can Never Be Separated

We Are Connected Forever

Be Still and Know Who You Are

You Feel My Love

Surrender to Me with Ruthless Honesty

We Are the Light That Makes Everything

All Life Is Serious Magic

A Hint about Who You Are

I Am Everything

You Cannot See Me if You Think I Am Separate from You

To See Me You Must Become Me

Everyone Has What They Need to Realize Themselves

Marriage

A Meditation Poem

The Indian Style Lord’s Prayer

Meditations and Prayers

You Are the Author

When You See Me as You

Thank You

The Goal

Things Will Never Be More Perfect Than They Are Right Now

There Are No Accidents

The Mirror

Infinite Evolution

The Teacher Is Everywhere

You Are That—I Am That Also

Ruthless Honesty

The Secret Taboo about Who You Are

Community and Elders Help Raise the Children

––-Novel Section––-

SOUND ADVICE

by

The Professor

Disclaimer

FOREWORD

Writers in Chains is a series of writings from prisoners that hopes to end the cruel penal systems insanity. Punishment never makes man better. Diversion, restitution, therapy and love have been proven to be incredibly more effective than US cruel and debilitating prisons. This series of books showcases the wasted and valuable skill and the creative talents of the more than one million incarcerated persons who never committed a single violent crime. The Writers in Chains series allows these inmates to present their creative works directly to you. From poetry to short stories to novels, it’s all here.

Sound Advice, the full length novel at the end of this book, is based on scientific fact. This novel has already been adapted for screenplay. Interested parties for production into a full-length motion picture can make inquiry by going to www.heavenlypublishing.com.

We hope you enjoy Sound Advice. It’s a fascinating novel, replete with cliff-hangers, superb composition, and plot development supported by intriguing science that makes it all seem plausible. And the story is based on historical arrest fact surrounding the incarceration of the lead character and author.

PREFACE

Writers in Chains should be classified as poetry / historical fiction. It is based upon nonfiction, the truth amidst our lives today. These authors are all using pen names, but they are all, or were all, nonviolent offenders and inmates in the American prison system. The authors represent the 40 percent nonviolent offenders in America’s war on alternative medical approaches and white-collar debts, the victims of our barbaric system. The works reflect a Government Gone Wild that is brutally destructive to the spiritual and sovereign rights America was founded upon. The people are awakening to the inhumanity that is being committed by war and the terrible costs paid in destruction of citizens and families. This cruel and unusual war on the people destroys communities and families (creating even more job security for the Government Gone Wild!) The opportunity for restitution and counseling these nonviolent offenders deserve in their community is ignored in America’s endless addiction to war in spite of history proving war is a total failure to improve anything.

To contact the authors’ agents go to: www.heavenlypublishing.com

This book is a collection of writings written by five inmates in the federal prison system. Within its pages is an opportunity for all to share in their compassion, empathy, and perceptions and possibly to understand and empathize with their lives.

–––––––––––––-

It is the hope of the authors that the people of the world will enjoy and benefit from the unique unchained creative ideas presented within that are both timeless and timely.

Sit back and enjoy the unique inspirational beauty that exists everywhere around us—even in prison where the beauty of God and nature can never be locked down.

THE PROFESSOR

Dream On

It doesn’t matter anymore

Who’s right, who’s wrong, or what’s the score.

What matters now is, What’s for lunch?

Who’s the CO? I have a hunch

That he or she, while getting paid,

Is just as trapped (though getting laid)

As anyone who’s doing time—

In some ways worse, I think, ’cause I’m

No longer bound financially—

No bills to pay substantially,

I’m free to read or sleep or write—

No traffic jams. Secure at night.

A solid roof above my head—

Free medical—until I’m dead …

I’m free to muse, to think, to scheme—

In essence—to live out my dream!

Ananda

I’ve loved you more than life itself,

As facts go, I still do.

I’m sure it’s not a perfect love,

This love I have with you.

But it’s the best I’ve ever loved.

It’s honest and it’s true.

It’s heartfelt, maybe self less, though.

Not known by all but few.

It’s neither based on sex or looks,

More like a soul mate deal.

It’s kinda hard to put in words,

The way I really feel.

If we don’t ever meet again,

It’d be a cruel fate—

But not important though because

Your soul—it’s still my mate …

Dad Ruskjer

Donovan Latimer Ruskjer—my dad

Was a rather unusual display

Standing six-foot-six in his stocking feet,

Wearing coveralls most ev’ry day.

Although serious by nature—quite focused was he.

He could smile. He had twinkling eyes.

You would have to be near him for quite a long while

Before you would then realize

Just how deeply he thought about most everything,

Yet with wonder—an innocent child—

Grand Canyon, of course; and the heavens above,

But a crocus could keep him beguiled!

Things like justice and fairness were high on his list

(Helping little ol’ ladies was too!)

Making sure that his mother was cared for and loved

Were some things that he often would do.

Having patience was not in his makeup—it’s true

Not at work or at home or at school.

Answers came to him rather routinely it seems,

Which he thought should be everyone’s rule.

If he had just one vice, it was ice cream—for sure

He could eat it nonstop by the hour—

Which he did in Bemidji one late afternoon,

Each five-gallon cold carton to scour!

In Battle Creek, weekends meant Wildlife—of course

Stan Midgley and such, rain or snow.

No matter the temp’rature, once traffic cleared,

Off to Sullivan’s we all would go.

Grand Ledge ev’ry night was campmeeting—two weeks

Took an hour or so, it would seem.

In Charlotte we’d stop every trip without fail,

’Cause that’s where they served soft ice cream!

If he knew of a place that intrigued him, we’d go.

He couldn’t wait to take everyone there—

Be it Jackson’s Cascades or to Kalamazoo

For an iced track toboggan sled scare!

The King and His Court (Eddie Feiner and team)

Beat softball teams made up of nine,

With three other players he pitched underhand.

He became quite a fav’rite of mine!

A trumpeter—Raphael Mendez by name,

Amazed me the way he could play.

He could breathe through his nose while

he played through his mouth

For four minutes nonstop, so they say!

Busch Gardens, the fireworks there in D.C.,

Epcot Center, to name just a few,

Helping Art meet his deadline on CVC signs,

Were just some of the things we would do.

Clearing limbs from the roads Friday evening—the storm

After winds from tornadoes had past,

Getting shovels, us boys cleared the San’s heavy snow,

These are memories that can’t help but last.

Did he ever play catch in the backyard? (That’s no.)

Or teach us to shoot or to drive?

No, he didn’t. But I don’t miss those things, inasmuch

As he taught us just simply to strive—

Strive to be a bit better than yesterday’s goals—

Strive to learn everything that it takes

To accomplish your goals; and to finish your tasks

For others and for goodness’ sakes.

Building houses or fixing a bird’s wing, himself

He taught by example, not rote.

You can do anything you aspire to do.

He’s not asking, but he’s got my vote!

Room with a View

I visit this room, oh, at least once a day—

Not a temple or shrine, but it does have a way

Of enticing my spirit … to come out to play …

From the hallway there’s nothing I see by the door

That would cause me to think there was stuff to explore

But methinks to this story there’s probably more …

I knock on the door, though I know no one’s there.

There’s been no new activity … no one to share

The day-to-day banter, each day-to-day care …

Still the room exudes magic, a presence I feel

It’s dark. I’ve got goose bumps. It all feels surreal—

Not scary at all, rather mostly appeal …

It’s totally dark as the room starts to freeze

Or, at least, I perceive it’s dropped sev’ral degrees

Not uncomf ’ter’bly cold, just a cool, breezy breeze …

First a f lash. Then a boom! Then a starburst so bright

That it fills the whole sky with gold, sparkling light!

Somehow sky in a room doesn’t feel quite right …

As the sparkles descend (I would think they’d go out.)

But they don’t. They, instead, seem to f licker about—

But with purpose. They’re headed towards me—there’s no doubt!

The first ones approach me—they glow different hues—

Some pink, others purple—perhaps these are clues

To some thought or some feeling from yesterday’s news.

They’re aiming, but missing—still coming so close!

This colorful autobahn—tends to engross.

I’m almost in overwhelm—near comatose …

Then sudd’nly one hits me f lat square in the face

It’s instantly blacker than black in this space.

I get the impression it’s some other place.

It is. I’m outside on the sidewalk with you.

Hawaii, Kauai, down south toward Poipu …

There’s something, you say, that you’d like me to do.

You ask, Would you be—, then you pause for a beat—

Willing to have, as you shuffle your feet,

An ‘honest’ relationship? Serious. So sweet.

Honest? I question. Like, how do you mean?

Some honesty’s probably close to obscene.

You show me a book that you doubt that I’ve seen.

Here, read this. Then Monday I’ll ask you again.

The book, titled Honesty, looked rather thin.

I reached out to take it. Your hand brushed my skin …

Suffice it to say, I was hooked. We were on.

It was shortly thereafter we talked until dawn.

The scene fades to black. I’m alone. You are gone …

Each burst starts the same with a colorful hue—

Different colors each session—all facets of You.

If you asked me to stop, I wouldn’t know what to do …

The time at your brother’s (you know, with the Wii)

Or north at your parents, when you let me see

Your drawings—self-portraits—you gave one to me …

The time that we got back the CDs you lost,

That couldn’t be replaced, no, regardless of cost,

Would have probably ended eventually tossed …

Or the time we went boating with out-of-town friends

I had met on a cruise and the guy gets the bends

Or the heaves or the heave to’s—bad times it portends …

In Berkeley the evening we spent on the town Window shopping. (Remember the diamond we found?)

Going nowhere, enjoy’ng just walking around …

At Hayward’s. You kissing that poor poodle. Oh no!

I’ve got pictures to prove it. The dog says it’s so!

Maybe Smooches kissed you—that would be apropos …

In Japantown (in San Fran), karaoke ’til ten

You and Mari-chan dancing, each sporting a grin

Hitting Apple stores (plural), those slick goods within …

I’ll never forget when you uttered the phrase

From The Wizard of Oz, with her broomstick ablaze—

Witch scaring the Scarecrow who sees his last days …

Each sparkle produces a moment in time

I can savor anew—especially when I’m

Needing comfort and joy while I’m doing my dime.

This room’s in my heart and it always will be

Exclusively there just for you and for me.

Maybe make an appearance … We’ll just have to see …

If I Died Today …

If I died today, I couldn’t complain.

It’s been a fun-filled ride!

I’ve lived three lifetimes, maybe more,

Before I fin’ly died!

The times I’ve cried are few and far—

Can count ’em on one hand—

There’s Binky, Mom, LaVonne, the bus,

My wrists, my stomach, and—

I guess that’s two hands counting now.

Oh well, on with the list—

Oh yeah, the circus. After that?

The plane—what have I missed?

Some funerals—dry tears, but still,

The thoughts and feelings there.

And poor Mariko, there in court—

That surely wasn’t fair!

Binky

Well, back to Binky—she’s our cat—

The first pet—Hold that thought.

I just remembered little Squeaks—

The day he fin’ly bought

The farm, that is, and that poor mouse

Ron blasted into space …

And both of those to mourning blues—

Now back to Binky’s case.

She’d just had kittens—five or six.

We watched the whole ordeal.

Was kinda gross, as I recall,

Each latching to its meal.

I don’t remember how it was

I happened to have change—

It could have come from A. Tait Buck—

That wouldn’t have been so strange.

For quite some time on Saturdays,

At church—our day of rest—

Well, after church we brothers three

Were waiting to get blessed!

Methinks ol’ Tait was waiting too—

At least for Mom to show.

What better ruse than bribe her kids

With monetary dough!

Of course the topic ’mungst us kids

Soon focused on, How much?

Inquiring minds have need to know

The this and that of such …

So go direct, I always say,

And so I did that day—

That ended change from A. Tait Buck

(To all of our dismay!)

I tell you this to tell you how

I prob’ly had my stash—

Enough to sneak out to the store

With my small hoard of cash!

I was almost giddy with the thought

As I went out the door,

I didn’t want Bud or Ron to know

That I went to the store.

They’d talk me out of all my stuff,

Or, yet, a better plan

Would be to borrow half my stash,

While saying, You’ the man!

But if that money all got spent,

Its purchases consumed—

I’d have my cake and eat it too!

Their plans—they’d all be doomed!

The store was half a mile away.

My mom would have said No!

A three-lane highway must be crossed,

Sometimes with heavy f low.

But I had managed that—no sweat—

When something up ahead

Had caught my eye—a furry lump—

’Twas Binky. She was dead!

I turned and ran a quarter mile—

My eyes were filled with tears.

I burst in through the kitchen door.

My voice couldn’t quell my fears …

Binky’s dead! I wailed loudly

As I sank into a chair.

Many questions followed quickly.

Then I led them back to where

Binky lay all crumpled in a pile.

We