King Rocky
By Ali Mattar
They whisper it soft through the cellblock hum –
a legend with claws and thunder in his drum.
A grey shadow stalks where the yard winds wide,
thirty-six inches of muscle and pride.
King Rocky, the ruler, the fur-clad beast,
whose hunger for grape candy never ceased.
A squirrel, yes – but don’t be fooled –
he’s prison yard built, carved, and too cool.
He struts on the gravel like he owns the joint,
biceps flexed at every point.
Convicts freeze, guards go pale,
when his bushy tail begins to flail.
For peace, his price is small and sweet—
one purple candy, a simple treat.
But woe to the fool who dares forget,
his majesty’s tribute, unpaid debt.
When weeks go by and his patience snaps,
He launches raids—no warning, no maps.
He leaps on shoulders, claws in shirts,
pockets turned out, pride in the dirt.
They dance, they curse, they shout, they spin—
but Rocky’s grip won’t give an inch.
He’s searching fierce, he’s sniffing mean,
the candy king in a silver sheen.
Then mercy comes—some trembling soul
produces the grape that makes him whole.
He takes his prize, calm as can be,
and perches high by the watchtower tree.
Silence falls, the yard exhales,
peace restored within the jails.
From lifers to rookies, the chant rings clean:
“All hail King Rocky—our candy king!”
Yard Bird
By Ali Mattar
A crow sits
Atop the barbed wire
of the chain-link fence,
watching over us—
convicts of the yard.
Like the guard
in the gun tower,
it tracks every move,
black eyes cold,
piercing,
almost judging.
It circles high,
swoops low,
hovering above the fallen
like it’s keeping
crowd control.
Sometimes it dive-bombs us—
for fun,
it seems—
a sharp-winged reminder
we’re not alone.
It caws nonstop,
a cruel laugh
or maybe a coded message.
We thought it mocked us,
but maybe
it sings
to keep our hope alive.
Now,
the crow is our keeper—
a winged sentinel,
a feathered God
of grit and survival.
Eyes on the Tier
By Ali Mattar
“In a dark time,
the eye
begins to see.”
Theodore Roethke
1908-1963
As I stepped through the steel-clad gate,
The air turned thick – too full of fate.
A toxic salad – sights and smells,
Of rust, and rot, and echoed yells.
A breathless weight upon my chest,
A warning whispered: Don’t protest.
So numbness rose, a shield of mind,
To leave the ghosts of pain behind.
And then –
There were the eyes.
Not the eyes of men, but something more,
Like silent watchers through a door
That led to hell – but colder still –
Where judgment stared and time stood still.
Behind the bars, in shadowed dens,
In rows of tiny, haunted pens.
The unforgiven housed like lore,
Along the mile-long concrete floor.
The eyes, they gleamed – like owls at night,
With knowing hate, hidden fright.
They pierced through the walls, they pierced through me,
As though they saw what I might be.
Not one was blind to who I was –
Not one ignored my silent flaws.
They watched. They judged. They knew my name,
And someone made me feel the same.
Unwelcome in their cursed domain,
A trespasser who brought no change.
Their gaze, a verdict left unspoken –
A mirror cracked, a vow long broken.
Sad but true, and hard to bear,
These are the lost without a prayer.
Forgotten souls, in time’s despair,
Left to rot in stale, cold air.
And I – just one who came to see,
Now walk away, not wholly free.
To Breathe in a World Without Air
By Ali Mattar
In a world without air, where breath is a chain
A prison of silence, a place of deep pain.
The walls close in tighter with each passing day,
A suffocating reality, dreams swept away.
Here, time moves like shadows, relentless and still,
A heartbeat in prison, no comfort, no thrill.
The air is a whisper, so shallow and thin,
Yet each breathe is a battle, a war fought within.
The bars are not metal, but memories of grace,
A soul once unfettered, now lost in this space.
They try to break spirits, to crush what’s alive,
To silence the will that dares to survive.
Yet even in darkness, there flickers a flame,
A whisper of courage, unbroken by shame.
For though the air’s stolen and hope feels worn,
The human spirit is never fully torn.
In a world without air, the breath still remains,
Though muffled, it pulses, despite all the chains.
In prison’s cold grip, the heart beats its fight,
Refusing to vanish in the stillness of the night.
Concrete Circus
By Ali Mattar
In the heart of the city, behind iron walls,
A circus unfolds where the steel bell calls.
The clowns are dressed in uniforms tight,
Correctional staff, putting on their fight.
Beneath the harsh lights, where shadows creep,
The animals stir, the silent ones we keep.
Behind bars they pace, their lives on display,
AIC*, the performers, their spirits at bay.
The animal handlers, the guards in their post,
Whip and command, they give what they boast.
With steely eyes, they crack the whip’s sound,
Leading the creatures in circles around.
The audience watches with e y e s full of glee,
From the sidelines, their faces are free.
Fans of the spectacle, they cheer, and they jeer,
But behind all the noise, we live in fear.
The arena is concrete, the stakes are high,
No acrobat’s flips, no trapeze to fly.
Just cages and walls, the silence and sound,
A circus that traps us, all the way down.
The clowns laugh and juggle, their tricks all the same,
As the animals tremble, but none speak the name.
The public, they cheer, as the show plays its part,
But behind every act, a broken heart.
So here in the circus, where shadows run deep,
We dance in the silence, we beg and we weep.
A show in the concrete, for all to behold,
A tale of the trapped, the forgotten, the cold.
*AIC= Adults in custody.
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