A Wake-Up Call for American Prisoners
Count Your Blessings Behind Bars
By Robert Haas
If you are an incarcerated individual in an American prison, you might feel the weight of your sentence like a stone on your chest. The monotony of cell blocks, the ache of separation from loved ones, the struggle for dignity – these are real. But pause for a moment and consider this: compared to inmates in third-world countries, you are living in a world of blessings most can only dream of.
From the food on your tray in your hands, the conditions you experience are a far cry from the desperation of jails in places like the Philippines, Haiti, or Russia. It’s time to reflect on just how fortunate you are – and let that perspective light a spark of hope.
Let’s start with the basics: food, water, and shelter. In American prisons, you get three meals a day, maybe not gourmet, but safe and regular, costing taxpayers $3.61 per prisoner daily. In Manila City Jail, one of the world’s most overcrowded lockups, inmates fight over scraps of spoiled rice, with over half suffering malnutrition. Clean water flows from your cell’s sink; in Haiti’s prisons, inmates drink from contaminated buckets, with cholera outbreaks killing dozens yearly.
Your cell has electricity, maybe a fan or heater, even if the A/C is spotty in places like Texas, where 70% of prisoners lack it. Compare that to India’s Tihar Jail, where power cuts plunge cells into darkness, and summer heat hits 100°F with no relief. You’re not just surviving-you’re living with necessities many lack.
Now think about the tablet you might hold or the TV in the dayroom. In states like California or New York, over 1.2 million tablets let prisoners call or email family, read e-books, or take courses. You can watch news, sports, maybe even a movie. These aren’t just distractions-they’re lifelines to the outside world, to learning, to staying sane.
In Russia’s Black Dolphin Prison, inmates get one book a month, if they’re lucky, and live in silence so thick it chokes. In the Philippines, where cells are packed at 600% capacity, there’s no room for TVs or hope just despair. Your access to technology, however limited, is a privilege that keeps your mind alive.
Then there’s the chance to grow. American prisons offer GED classes, college courses, and vocational training-plumbing, welding, coding-in over 80% of facilities. In 2022, 32% of federal inmates took educational programs, 15% earned job certifications. These are tools to rebuild your life, to walk out stronger than you came in.
In El Salvador, only 5% of prisons have any training, and in China, education means brainwashing, not empowerment. Your chance to learn is a bridge to a future most prisoners globally can’t even imagine.
And let’s talk about safety. The U.S. Constitution bans cruel punishment. If a CO crosses the line, you can file a grievance- less than 1% of complaints in 2021 involved phvsical abuse. and those were investigated.
In the country of Georgia’s Gldani Prison, guards were caught on video beating inmates bloody in 2012, with no consequences. In Thailand, 40% of prisoners face beatings as routine discipline. Your protection from violence, imperfect as it is, is a shield others don’t have.
I know prison isn’t easy. Overcrowding, understaffed mental health programs, and the sting of lost freedom hurt. But you’re in a system that, however flawed, gives you a chance to eat, drink, learn, and stay connected. You’re not fighting for scraps or trembling in unlit cells. You’re not forgotten.
Across the world, millions of prisoners would trade places with you in a heartbeat, not because your life is perfect, but because it’s possible. You have food to fuel you, water to sustain you, programs to lift you, and laws to protect you.
So, what will you do with these blessings? Will you let them slip through your fingers, or will you grab them-enroll in that class, write that email, learn that trade? The world outside these walls is waiting, and the tools to reach it are in your hands. You don’t need to wait. Start now. Reflect on your fortune, not just your sentence, and let gratitude fuel your journey to a better you.
Seed Under Stone
Count Your Blessings Behind Bars
The walls are gray as forgotten promises,
a shade that swallows light whole.
My shadow paces the cell’s eight feet,
tracing cracks where dreams leak out.
Time here is a thief with no face,
stealing hours, leaving only echoes.
I count the bolts in the door-sixteen-
each a nail in the coffin of yesterday.
Outside, the world spins without me,
children grow, seasons blur to ash.
My mother’s voice, a ghost in my ear,
sings hymns I can’t recall the words to.
The bars hum with cold, their song
a monotone of regret, sharp and thin.
I carve my name into the bunk’s underside,
not for legacy, but to prove I still am.
The ink of my veins pulses, defiant,
whispering: you are more than this cage.
Night falls, a blanket of iron and silence.
I dream of rivers, wide and unchained,
their currents pulling me past these walls.
The stars, unseen, still burn somewhere.
I’ll find them again, when the locks rust.
My breath, a small rebellion, keeps time.
Each inhale a step toward something free.
The guard’s boots clomp like metronomes,
but they can’t march my soul to stillness.
I am here, temporary, a seed in stone.
One day, I’ll split this rock apart.
Hymns of Hope
By Robert Haas
The chapel smells of wax,
faint and holy.
We sit, a ragged choir,
voices cracked but bold.
The preacher’s gone,
but we sing anyway.
Hymns rise,
jagged, unpolished,
like stones smoothed by a river.
I believe in angels,
and I feel them here,
in the baritone beside me,
in the tenor’s tremble.
We’re thieves, liars,
broken men,
yet our voices climb,
past the stained glass,
past the walls.
A new guy, young,
sings soft, eyes wet.
I pat his shoulder,
say, “Keep going.”
After, he tells me
he wrote his mother,
and she’s coming to visit.
We laugh, plan his reunion,
our voices weaving hope.
In this cage we’ve found
a song that sets us free,
if only for a verse.
Horizon’s Curve
By Robert Haas
The clock on the wall is a liar,
its hands stuck in a permanent shrug.
I count scratches on the bed frame instead,
each mark a day I refused to break.
The air tastes of iron and routine,
meals slid through slots like afterthoughts.
My wife’s perfume lingers in my dreams,
faint as a flower pressed in a book.
Loss is a shadow, long and unyielding,
stretching across the cell’s small square.
But I wake each morning, jaw set,
my pulse a drum no guard can silence.
I write poems on stolen scraps,
hide them under the mattress,
each word a spark in the dark.
The yard’s razor wire glints like teeth,
but I see past it to the horizon’s curve.
I imagine running, not from here,
but toward something – her arms, maybe.
The walls think they own me,
but they’re just stone, dumb and temporary.
I hum a song she used to sing,
its notes slipping through the bars.
My defiance is quiet, a clenched fist
in my pocket, a vow to outlast.
I’ll walk out, head high,
carrying every word I’ve written,
proof I was never theirs.
From Behind Bars to Your Heart: A Plea for Redemption
By Robert Haas
Dear Society,
I write to you from behind these walls, a place where I’ve spent years confronting the pain I’ve caused and the person I once was. My hands tremble as I pen this letter, not from fear, but from the weight of my remorse and the hope that you might hear me-not as a number, not as a shadow, but as a human being who has wronged you and seeks to make amends.
I am one of many, an anonymous voice among the transformed, reaching out to the community I will soon rejoin. I ask for your time, your heart, and, if you can find it within you, your forgiveness.
I begin with the truth: I hurt you. My actions, whatever they were, rippled through lives, families, and neighborhoods, leaving scars I cannot erase. I carry the weight of that harm every day, and it haunts me- the sleepless nights, the faces I imagine, the trust I broke. I am deeply, profoundly sorry. No words can undo the past, but I offer this apology with every fiber of my being, knowing it is only the first step. I seek your forgiveness, not as an entitlement, but as a plea for a chance to prove I am more than my worst moments.
Incarceration has been both my punishment and my awakening. When I first arrived here, I was lost, consumed by the same flaws that led me to harm you. But within these walls, I found something unexpected: a path to change.
I seized every opportunity to rebuild myself, not to escape my guilt, but to ensure I would never again cause pain. I enrolled in academic programs, earning a high school diploma and taking college courses that challenged my mind and broadened my perspective. I participated in vocational training, learning skills like welding and computer literacy, determined to contribute meaningfully upon release. I attended therapeutic programs, where I unraveled the roots of my choices, confronting anger, addiction, shame, and fear. I found solace in religious and spiritual programs, which taught me humility, love, compassion, and the value of service.
These opportunities were not just programs-they were lifelines, pulling me from despair toward purpose. Through this journey, I’ve learned that transformation is not a destination but a commitment. I’ve worked tirelessly to become someone who values others, who listens, who seeks to repair rather than destroy. I am not perfect, but I am changed.
I dream of a life where I can give back-through honest work, volunteering, or simply being a neighbor you can trust. I want to contribute to the world I once harmed, to be part of the fabric of our community, not a tear in it. But I cannot do this alone.
I write to you, society, because my transformation is only half the equation. I need you to see me-not as the person who failed you, but as someone striving to be better. I know the stigma I carry. The word “prisoner” conjures images of danger, of irredeemable flaws. I ask you to look beyond that label, to see the human heart beating beneath it. I am not an outcast, not a monster, but someone who has stumbled, learned, and grown. I ask you to build bridges instead of walls, to choose rehabilitation over retribution, to believe in second chances.
The prison system, as it stands, often feels like a machine designed to punish rather than heal. It
warehouses people, stripping away dignity and hope, making it harder for us to return as better versions of ourselves. But there are models-like those in Scandinavian countries-where prisons prioritize rehabilitation, education, and reintegration. Inmates there are treated as humans, not numbers, and the results speak for themselves: lower recidivism, safer communities, and lives restored.
I dream of a system like that here, one that prepares us to rejoin you as contributors, not burdens. But this dream requires your support. You, society, hold the power to shape this future. You can advocate for prison reform-more funding for education, therapy, and more relevant job training: policies that prioritize rehabilitation over endless punishment; and systems that hold both inmates and institutions accountable.
You can push for laws that make reentry easier, like “ban the box” initiatives that give us a fair shot at jobs, or housing programs that ensure we have a place to start anew. Local businesses, you can open your doors to us, offering employment that restores dignity and purpose. Communities, you can welcome us, not with suspicion, but with the belief that people can change.
During my time here, I’ve seen men and women transform alongside me-people who’ve earned degrees, learned trades, and found faith and purpose. Yet, when we leave, we often face a world that sees only our past. This rejection fuels despair, making it harder to stay on the path of change. I ask you to break this cycle. See our potential, not our mistakes. Offer us a hand, not a closed door. By doing so, you build a stronger, more cohesive community- one where collective welfare triumphs over division.
I know this is a lot to ask. Forgiveness is not easy, especially when trust has been broken. But I believe in the goodness of humanity, in your capacity to see beyond fear and judgment. When you support us- during incarceration and after-you invest in safer streets, stronger families, and a society that heals rather than fractures. You show the world that redemption is possible, that no one is beyond saving.
As I prepare to rejoin you, I carry both hope and fear. I fear rejection, but I hope for acceptance. I dream of a day when I can look into your eyes and see not judgment, but possibility. I pledge to honor that chance, to live with integrity, and to give back to the community I wronged.
I ask you to meet me halfway-to advocate for a system that lies us up, to offer opportunities that let us prove ourselves, and to believe that transformation is real.
Dear society, I am not the person I was. I am someone who has faced his failures, sought redemption, and worked to become better. I ask you to see me; to see all of us who are striving to change.
Let us build a future together-one of bridges, not walls; of healing, not hate; of second chances, not second-class citizens. Together, we can create a community that thrives, not just survives.
With all my heart,
-An Anonymous Prisoner-
Scraps and Stars
By Robert Haas
The kitchen smells of grease and bleach,
where I work, scrubbing pans to a shine.
There’s a kid here, barely twenty,
eyes wide as a deer in headlights.
He’s scared, jumps at every clang.
I’ve been here three years, learned the rhythm –
survive, but don’t let it eat you.
One day, he drops a tray, shards everywhere,
and braces for a guard’s yell.
I step in, sweep it up, say nothing.
He looks at me like I’m a miracle.
We start talking during breaks,
about his girl, his dreams of a shop,
fixing cars with his name on the sign.
I tell him about my son,
how I’ll see him graduate someday.
He starts smiling, small at first,
then teaches me to sketch engines on napkins.
I show him how to fold origami stars,
each one a wish for something better.
A letter comes-he’s getting out early.
He hugs me, leaves a star in my hand.
I keep it, taped to my bunk,
a reminder: we can still make light.
I’ll get out too, see my son’s cap soar.
The kid’s shop will thrive, I know it.
In here, we save each other,
building hope from scraps and stars.
Feathers of the Mind
By Robert Haas
Through iron bars, I see a bird take flight,
Its wings sliced on with strokes of golden hue.
In boundless skies, get dances with the light,
a fleeting dream no chains can hold or rue.
Its feathers gleam, kissed soft by mornings glow,
Each are, each soar, a taunt to my confined-
I yearn to break these walls, to rise and go,
to leave this shadowed cell and grief behind.
The Sparrow weaves through clouds, unmoored, untamed,
While here I sit, bound tight by stone and steel.
Yet as I watch, the truth begins to flame:
The heart can soar we are flesh can only kneel.
No bars can cage the spirit’s boundless grace.
No lock can dim the minds unyielding spark.
Within my soul, I find a sacred place –
A freedom fierce, untouched by dungeons dark.
Let walls confine my hands, my feet, my frame.
My thoughts take wing, no warden can restrain.
Through inner skies, I carve my own acclaim.
My spirits free, though flesh may wear the chain.
The bird outside knows not this deeper flight.
Its wings are frail compared to will’s true might.
In dreams, I’m vast as stars that burn the night.
My souls release- true freedoms holy rite.
The Library Cart
By Robert Haas
The cart squeaks down the block,
books stacked like bricks.
I wait, palms itching,
for the old man pushing it.
His hands shake,
but his eyes are steady,
offering stories like keys.
I take a worn novel,
pages soft as whispers.
In my cell, I read,
words building worlds
beyond these walls.
A forest, a ship,
a lover’s hand in mine.
The ink smells of freedom,
fragile but alive.
He comes every week,
this quiet librarian,
his smile a small rebellion.
We don’t speak of sentences,
only of characters,
of endings that lift.
He tells me, low,
he’s leaving soon,
parole like sunrise.
I gift him my sketch,
a bird in flight.
He nods, and I know
We’ve both found wings
in these pages,
and one day, I’ll fly too.
The Clock’s Teeth
By Robert Haas
Time bites here,
its teeth jagged, relentless.
The clock on the wall
grins with no hands.
Days blur into nights,
a smudge of gray light.
I count meals instead,
trays sliding through slots
like apologies no one means.
My reflection in the sink
is a strangers face,
eyes hollow as promises.
I remember the river,
its current pulling at my ankles,
freedom in its rush.
Now, only drips from a faucet,
each one a second lost.
I pray sometimes,
not to a god, but to memory-
the smell of rain,
my mothers’ voice.
The walls listen,
but they don ‘t answer
Still, I speak,
because silence is surrender.
My heart, caged,
beats a rhythm they can ‘t chain.
I am more than this number.
In the dark, I rebuild myself,
piece by stubborn piece.
Letters From Cell 47
By Robert Haas
In a small county jail in rural Georgia, Officer Clara Thompson was known for her no-
nonsense demeanor. She patrolled the cell block with a steady gaze, but her heart softened for the inmates who showed a spark of humanity. Once such inmate was Marcus, a young man in Cell 47, serving time for a non-violent offense. Marcus was quiet, always sketching in a worn notebook he’d been allowed to keep. Clara noticed his drawings-intricate landscapes of places he’d never seen, like mountains and oceans, filled with hope.
One rainy afternoon, Marcus slipped a folded note under his cell door as Clara passed by. “Miss Thompson,” he said softly, “could you read this? It’s a letter to my little sister, Lily. She’s ten, and I don’t want her to think I’m a bad person.” Clara hesitated-personal involvement was against protocol-but something in Marcus’ eyes made her take the note. It was simple, written in careful pencil strokes, telling Lily about a meadow he’d drawn for her, promising he’d take her there one day when he was free. Clara mailed it that evening, bending the rules just this once.
Soon, it became a ritual. Every few weeks, Marcus would pass Clara a letter for Lily, each one filled with stories of imaginary places they’d visit together. Clara, who had no children of her own, began to look forward to these letters, sometimes adding a small note of her own to Lily, encouraging her to stay strong. She never told Marcus, but she kept copies of his drawings, tucking them into a folder at home. Once, when Marcus seemed low, Clara slipped him a postcard of a real meadow, whispering, “This is where you’ll take her.” He smiled for the first time in months.
Years passed, and Marcus was released. Clara lost touch with him, but the folder of drawings remained on her shelf, a quiet reminder of the young man who’d trusted her. She often wondered about Lily, hoping the letters had given her comfort. One spring morning, as Clara neared retirement, a letter arrived at the jail, addressed to her. It was from Marcus. He was working as an art teacher now, living in a small town with Lily, who was thriving in high school. The letter included a photo of them standing in a meadow, laughing, and a note: “Miss Thompson, your kindness carried us through. Lily wants to meet you. Will you come?”
Clara drove to their town that weekend. When she arrived, Lily ran to her, hugging her tightly. “You’re the one who sent me those notes,” she said, tears in her eyes. Marcus handed Clara a sketch-a portrait of her, standing in a field of wildflowers. “You gave me hope when I had none,” he said. Clara, usually so composed, felt her eyes well up. She knew then that those small moments in Cell 47 had woven a bond that would last a lifetime.
Whispers in the Womb: Rust and Rebellion
By Robert Haas
In the year of ash where shadows reign,
The Iron Womb binds in pain.
Its walls of steel, with rust they weep,
Entomb the soul where despair runs deep.
No sun can pierce the concrete’s grip,
No hope survives where dreams are stripped.
Twenty-three hours, the cells embrace,
A coffin’s width, a lifeless space.
The air is thick with rot’s foul breath,
Each breath a dance with creeping death.
A tray of slop, too thin to sate,
Hunger gnaws at the heart’s locked gate.
The pipes cough rust, the waters brown,
The toilets stench a tyrant’s crown.
No books, no pens, no path to mend,
Just labors grind that knows no end.
In sweatshops dim, we stitch and sew,
For master we’ll never see or know.
The guards, with visors cold as stone,
wield batons that shatter bone.
Their laughter echoes, sharp as wire,
Fueling rage that feeds the fire.
Outside, the world’s a mirror’s curse
Each street a cell, each life rehearsed.
Drones hum low, their eyes like flame,
Seeking souls to brand with shame,
Children learn to fear, not dream,
Their futures choked by the womb’s regime.
Families break, their bonds decay.
While trust dissolves like acid rain.
The cost is carved in crumbling stone,
Hospitals gone, schools left alone.
The economy bleeds, a wounded beast,
Starved to feed the womb’s grim feast.
Crime festers, born of want and spite,
A cycle fed by endless night.
Yet in the dark, a whisper grows,
A rebel’s heart where courage flows.
Beneath the drones, in shadows deep,
The brave defy while others sleep,
They carve their truths on fractured walls,
Reform or fall, their anthem calls.
No key they seek, no gate to rend,
But minds to free, and chains to end.
Their hopes a spark in the endless gloom,
A dream to shatter the Iron Womb.
Though steel is strong, and drones don’t tire,
The human soul is forged in fire.
Each act of love, each whispered plan,
Rebuilds the heart of broken man.
The womb may stand, its shadow vast,
But hope’s a flame that will outlast.
AMERICA’S PRISONS ARE TRAINING INMATES FOR YESTERDAYS JOBS
We Must Fix This Now!
By Robert Haas
Imagine being released from prison, eager to rebuild your life, only to find your “job training” taught you to operate a 1980s printing press or use software obsolete before you were born. This is the reality for thousands of America’s 2.8 million inmates, trapped in a prison system that’s failing them-and us. With 60-70% of ex-offenders returning to prison within five years, our outdated vocational programs are a broken rung on the ladder to redemption. It’s time to modernize prison training, partner with businesses, and fund a transformation that prepares incarcerated individuals for today’s jobs, not yesterday’s relics.
The U.S. prison system’s vocational programs are stuck in a time warp. Inmates learn skills for fading trades-think offset printing or basic carpentry-while the job market races towards technology and innovation. The Bureau of Labor Statistics projects booming demand for software developers, healthcare workers, and renewable energy technicians by 2030, yet most prisons offer no training in coding, medical assisting, or solar panel installation.
A 2013 RAND study showed vocational training cuts recidivism by 28% and boosts employment by 13%, but only 30% of prisoners access these programs, and many are woefully outdated. Ex-offenders face 30% unemployment rates post-release, fueling desperation and crime.
We’re setting them up to fail, and society pays the price.
The solution? Prisons must teach skills that match today’s economy. Programs like The Last
Mile, which trains prisoners in coding, prove it’s possible-80% of its graduates land tech jobs. Imagine scaling this model: prisons offering certifications in web design, nursing, or green energy-fields desperate for workers.
Local businesses can make this real. Picture a tech company like Google donating computers and instructors to a prison coding lab, or a hospital chain training incarcerated individuals as medical assistants. These partnerships create win-win scenarios: businesses gain skilled workers, and prisoners gain futures. Companies could even build training facilities inside prisons, cutting costs for cash-strapped corrections departments while ensuring job ready graduates.
Funding is the hurdle, but it’s not insurmountable. Prisons spend $80 billion annually, much of it on security. Redirecting just 5% could modernize training programs. Businesses could invest in on-site facilities say, a logistics firm building a warehouse simulator-in exchange for tax breaks or hiring priority.
Federal grants, like those proposed in the Transforming Prisons Act, could jumpstart pilot programs, with rigorous evaluations to ensure results. Every dollar spent on relevant training saves $4-5 in future incarceration costs, a bargain we can’t ignore.
We can’t afford to keep training prisoners for jobs that don’t exist. Modernized vocational
programs, powered by business partnerships, will reduce crime, fill labor gaps, and restore dignity to those seeking a second chance. Urge your lawmakers to fund these new reforms and push for public-private partnerships. The alternative-perpetuating a cycle of failure costs us all. Act now, before another generation is left behind, clutching skills as obsolete as the chains that once bound them.
Cages of Tomorrow
By Robert Haas
In 2075, the cells still stand,
Cold steel and sorrow, a forgotten land.
No reform, no funds, just walls that confine,
Humanity’s hope left to wither and pine.
Mass incarceration grips with iron hold,
Young dreams and old, in darkness, grow cold.
No books, no skills, no path to renew,
The system discards what it never knew.
Rehabilitation? A word long dead,
Replaced by despair in the hearts it has bled.
No jobs, no chance, no bridge to the free,
Ex-cons return to the chains they still see.
Society frays as the cycle repeats,
Broken souls spill to desolate streets.
Crime festers fast where neglect plants its seed,
A wound on the world that continues to bleed.
The cost isn’t bars or the guards at the gate,
It’s lives thrown away, souls left to stagnate.
Each soul locked inside is a mirror of us,
A call to rebuild, to restore, to discuss.
Oh, reader, awake! See the future we face,
A land without mercy, a shared disgrace.
Demand reform now, let compassion ignite,
For freedom’s true dawn lies in justice’s light.
No Comments