FREE INDEED … a series

Images of Love


I want to capture this image forever….

Floating in my mind are your eyes,

beheld a desire to know me better.

Days stretch into eternity,

nights where I watched you sleep securely,

knowing you were protected.

Your presence fills the room of my unfrequented heart,

a force so offsetting, I hold on for dear life.

Never wanted to love you, doubted I’d ever trust someone;

like you blew through barriers to tuck yourself inside.

Tried to push you out of the nest you made,

but you were willing to battle to the death for this place.

Relentlessly showing me the jaws of life weren’t strong enough,

every attempt to pry you loose made you want to stay.

No matter how unattractive I made myself, you found beauty,

thought you had to be crazy to replace my broken wings.

Told me I deserved to fly, let time pass by

just so I could return to the sky.

Said I was special, counted me worthy of your affections,

blessing the paths I travel on this road to success.

Effectual prayers of a fervent nature,

petitioning for me to find comfort in your favor.

Abiding in the unity of love, everything I dreamed of,

while vying for something greater.

Even though a dream produced this vision,

I believe something like this exists for me somewhere.

Just don’t know where to look…..



More Time


I wish we had more time….

So many questions I never got the chance to ask,

too many conversations we’ll never get the chance to have.

But I count myself blessed by your presence for 35 years of my life,

and all the good memories keep me from being sad.

Angie, God had a plan for your life, finished before the world began,

and He that began a good work in your will perform it unto completion.

Until the day of Jesus Christ; until the blood washes you clean,

and passes you from death to life, I just wish we had more time…..

‘Cause this world’s a little colder without you,

but I know you’re home in one of the many mansions prepared for you.

No sickness withering you away, no pestilence flying by day;

healed and safe at the gates of Heaven, where our awesome God awaits.

A saint’s death is precious in the sight of the Lord,

but we think you’re precious too; adored,

every quality you possess collectively makes you special all the more.

I only wish we had more time….

More moments to discover what binds us,

but I think we’ll be just fine.

Your babies are growing into the amazing people you hoped for,

and we’ll continue your work to ensure you shine.

Just want to say thank you for driving across the country to see me,

for running across the visiting room to embrace me,

for putting an end to the difference that kept us distant,

because in that visit, I felt my sister returned to me!

My beloved friend, your purpose is complete, you’ve fought the good fight

finished your race, and on your head is the crown of life.

In a place where there’s no such thing as death,

so I’d be selfish to wish we had more time…We already did!


Rest in Heaven Angela Monique Jones, my Sister.






Why did a backlash blow the church doors open,

when it shouldn’t have been closed?

Shouldn’t be the last place to provide refuge

to those displaced from their homes;

Church is supposed to be a safe haven from the storms that rage,

where the manifestation of God’s love is shown.

Unfortunate that the world has to call the church

on its misguided perception,

forsaking precious moments to be a blessing;

had an amazing chance to show the world what service really is.

Unbelievers, racists, and people who don’t support our message

put their convictions to the side to give a helping hand,

while the church says, “Wait for the shelters to reach capacity”,

before they help their fellow man.

No wonder they see us, but don’t see who we reflect,

why the church is a building now, not a bridge keeping us connected.

Forever under the microscope, our steps have to be ordered by the Lord,

always ready to perform well with what we’re given.

Quick to jump on a plane and be a missionary while a mission

exists right at your doorstep, a door you initially refused to open.

Could’ve saved thousands, won souls for Christ,

risen above judgements placed on us had you used your 17,000 seats

to be a type of Christ and shelter people from the storm….



It’s His


When people slander you, subject you to the fruit of gossip,

talk about you behind your back like you possess no real gift,

smile when they see you like your best interests are first on their list,

Just know the battle is not yours, it’s His….


When friends abuse the loyalty you have towards them,

purposely make problems, knowing you’ll ride ’til the end,

blind to the truth that you’re no longer on a mission to remain stagnant,

Just know, the battle is not yours, it’s His…..


When family doesn’t paint a clear picture of being a support system,

and you’d rather go at it alone than to ask for assistance,

when you fight not to tuck back into your shell like that old man did,

Just know, the battle is not yours, it’s His….


When you fight, toil, lose, and try again,

when you are weakened by a struggle that has decimated your “land”,

when you fall on your knees, asking God for His strength,

Just know, the battle’s already won, and it’s His!!!



No Tomorrows


The younger brothers are shocked to hear I have Life,

wonder how someone who grinds like they’re getting out tomorrow

can be sentenced to die.

Try to tell them that despite the eons of time before me,

I have the same 24 hours they do, the same opportunity to import

the support I need to see my vision through.

Expressed that the actions are the true indicators

of the passions they want to produce,

and lip service dooms any plans from a procrastinator’s roots.

Have to honor your word, because at any moment,

someone can call you on it, and if unprepared,

the very shot you need can fly away.

I don’t want to compound my struggle by doing nothing,

allowing my life to amount to a waste.

Holding myself accountable for what I fail to accomplished,

I encourage these younger brothers to do the same,

because until they do a self-evaluation, see that all paths begin today,

nothing in their lives will change.

The younger brothers are shocked by my life sentence,

professing that I grind like I’m leaving tomorrow,

but then I ask the question, “Why aren’t you?”


The Fall of Man


Hear the wails of mothers birthing stillborns gone too soon,

fathers failing to present themselves as heads of families

entrusted to lead.

Children see communities they’re raised in

turn into hubs of fear, suburban life no different than the inner city,

hoping politics will change everything.

Silence erupts…an unwelcome presence enters,

disabling security measures guarding progress.

Prayer closets forgotten among the generations,

venturing through life unprotected like the sex

threatening to scar them forever.


Just another day in the life ….


Where normalcy is the next person’s tragedy,

a 14 year old aborts a fetus worth more than

all the money in the world.

Dreams not coming to term,

the carriers seen as waste cast in a barrel and burned.

Fumes of the consumed fill the noses of passerby’s

and the epidemic spreads,

where lives cling to violence in the name of self preservation.

Selfishness is second nature,

won’t even have six pallbearers at your internment,

suggest you make a couple friends.

Carnage so intense it would make Jeffrey Dahmer squeamish,

no one’s asking, “What about the children?”

No one cares…..The fall of man.



More than Belief


I stare out at the crowd of brothers, release dates soon approaching,

wondering do they understand what’s at stake?

Much bigger than just going home,

the familiarity of stolen time,

a fabrication of freedom permeating in their brains.

In my lonely corner,

desperately desiring to admonish them to pay attention,

listen to the fading voice of their childhood begging to be heard.

Too much to experience outside of the box,

far more opportunities to knock on the hearts of people

having the audacity to search.

Hear dreamers speak on their release,

while refusing to work towards anything now.

Won’t move when time has slowed down,

accommodating seamless transitions into new visions,

knowing without preparation, life is certain to knock them around.

Praying these men return to the seeds capable of forming roots,

a ground rich and fertile for growth,

flip a light switch on to see the need to clean house.

Belief gets them to the door, pursuit opens the floor,

the day comes where they beat the odds,

becoming free forever, a future filled with promise.



Key to Destiny


I’ve found something to fight for,

more important than my own wishes,

Treasure something more colorful than prisms

basking in the sun’s glow.

Blessed beyond my childhood pinnacles,

I silently dream from the world to be without limits,

but what limits me?


I’ve found something to strive with,

more valuable than my own pride,

hold unto the pain of my struggle,

eyes overcome by rising tides washing over the despised.

Crickets chirping in the wee hours of the night,

I find myself comfortable with their constant pursuit of life,

but am I comfortable with mine?


I’ve found something to rest in,

more fulfilling than perfect poetry written with fluidity,

challenge my shattered think tank by rebuilding a new one

more collected than my thoughts on a rainy day.

I hate nothing that separates me from the quicksand

that tapered into a pit of flames, either drown in mire or burn by fire,

either way, it’s better than my former days.


I’ve found something truly special, key to my destiny,

now, I just have to find the doors…….





There’s too much legalism in Christianity,

unwritten rules designed to trip people up,

keeping them shorter of a mark they’ll never reach.

Leaning on their own understanding,

decreeing how person think or speak,

standards so rigid, Jesus wouldn’t move to their beat.

Misapplying certain slang vernacular

like they don’t know what the words means,

applying negative connotations to innocence,

wondering why people aren’t running towards the mercy seat.

It’s not God who is restricting the airspace;

it’s the representatives that close in the space.

Telling you to walk on a tiled floor

without stepping on any cracks,

instead of teaching we don’t walk by sight, but by faith.

Never would’ve made it without God’s grace,

making up for my errors by stripping my old life away,

now watching people take salvation,

making it a series of woes and incarceration.

Our people fold under their guidelines for change,

never appreciating the process of the layer peeling back;

looking back seeing how far we’ve came.

Legalism doesn’t exist in the world God framed for us;

it’s the thing that keeps a man from seeking God’s face,

from experiencing the joy of transformation

cleaning ours lives day by day…..



My Worth


Since birth I’ve been searching…

Just like a cat, curiosity has been killing me,

filling my bloodstream with uncertainty,

too many questions, but the answers seem far from me.

Blessed with the gift of objective reasoning,

longing to relate these lessons to me,

Just want to belong to something……

Learning to be still, non-reactive to adversity,

doesn’t mean I’m void of feeling and things don’t affect me.

My light has to shine in the midst of darkness as a beacon,

Guiding those who can’t see.

Anxiety breeds unbelief, leading to unfulfilled dreams

and the hopelessness of a life incomplete.

The seeds under me can’t be able to see these traits in me…

I’m obligated, no matter the frustration,

to will myself to be great.

Fear of failure can no longer be my resting place,

suppressing the death of my goals,

speaking life to my aspirations by faith.

Saturating myself in this maturation process,

oblivious to any who aren’t running this race.

Forward progress wins the crown, so why are many running in place?

Reflecting when I was headed nowhere fast,

submersed in a lifestyle, aware it wouldn’t last.

An outcast redirected frequently, became a statistic,

because I had no vision, blasted others for living.

Went on existing, becoming deaf to the voices

calling for me to listen.

Drifted through one ear, sure to make a hasty exit;

missed messages, burned bridges,

overlooked everything positive.

Lost sight of my identity, turbulence became my sanity,

stability was always an unknown concept,

Recognizing the blessing in being able to look back.


My worth comes from God,

standing solely upon His promises,

experience and wisdom have been close friends,

needing both to grow and prosper as a man.

No longer bound by others’ perceptions

because of my awareness of what lies within.

I savor my return to my promising beginnings

because I now know my worth….


Open Casket


He grieves …

Purges his spirit of loss,

chalk lines of stolen time,

finds himself between a mountainous sea

and a tree with a lonesome leaf.

Screams of a bluejay’s confusion pour into his deflated ego,

too many holes for air to hold, holds his breath instead,

imagines the fallen remnants of his quiet struggle

going to his head, attacking him in his bed.


He grieves…

Tearfully building a kingdom amid people who would never enter,

saw the foundation and drifted away safely secure in his success.

He’s blessed, bled dry of toxicity, rearranged his heart’s contents,

now Christ is the center of his process.

No longer grieves for people,

the delegation of angels left behind their mantle,

a roadmap to their power,

an example of service.


He grieves …

The victimizations, poor self relation,

the times his reflection brought sorrow,

time wasted chasing ghosts complicit to his suffering,

scoffing at his weakness.

Beacons led him from soul trafficking to perpetual freedom,

seeks a better covenant, it’s promises sealed in bloodshed.

Stares into the casket flooded with memories of iniquity,

troubled by pain, damages extensive.


He grieves …

Because there are so many imprisoned just like he was,

but nothing sets them free.




Some say I’m just a number …

A thumbnail on a manual of offenses too forgotten

amid 23,000 men and women.

How can I measure up to the Scarlett letters,

perpetual judgements of people,

obscene sentences with no incentive to be positive?

Who sees life imprisonment as a corrective measure

when there isn’t a second chance given?

Just pitched into the prison system,

a key broken off until we’re used in some tough-on-crime initiative.

I wonder what my judge would say

if we had a conversation 17 years later…

Would he be adamant to cast me away forever,

would he attribute my change to the same prison system

that tried to break my spirit?

Would he admit he was wrong about his analysis;

calling me evil incarnate,

deeming there nothing salvageable within?

No one sees me ripping at success in daily expressions of love,

counseling the downtrodden,

convincing brothers there is hope in their breath.

Statistics say my recidivism rate is less than

people with a month left, yet,

who broadcasts my Compas Report and Legacy Assessment?

Our nation is in need of prison reform,

but it begins in our homes, continues through education,

extends to our cities and bleeds into our state.

Can you hear the can being kicked by timid politicians

too afraid of their constituents to push for change?

Rather admit in hindsight that things

should’ve been handled differently than to do something substantive,

while people like me watch them drive with no engine,

headed nowhere …

Some say I’m just a number, 3-6-6-2-3-1,

relegated to a lifetime of prison,

where the sun will never rise again.

If they only knew the truth …


Glass Ceiling


Felt like a movie playing the day he sentenced me …

Time stopped as I laid my head on the table,

tears battered the carpet beneath.

Tears laced the face of my brother,

told me “Don’t cry”,

like life imprisonment wasn’t a good reason.

Still remember that day…

Glad to say the memory still follows me,

words conveyed, but construed as “expedient”, strangely,

everything I promised, I completed.

You see, I’m nothing similar to the miscreant I used to be;

I can be seen engaged in Bible study,

counseling brothers, mediating conflict,

appealing to their humanity.

Questioning the ingrained skepticism

rendering a prisoner stagnant,

combat the pundits who don’t believe opportunity exist.

I sit with them until they envision their own lies diminish

from the war against truth,

until they boldly defy statistics.

The prison system “needs” people like me

as a balancing point,

managing the temperaments they don’t understand.

Entrusted to discreetly calm these wounded spirits,

to help transform the thoughts of these men.

When asked, they pat themselves on the back,

taking credit for my efforts,

all while telling others I’m still a threat.

Every morning presents a challenge;

a decision to wrestle freedom from my captor’s hands,

look beyond the razor wire fences to what truly lies ahead.

A forest, dense with life,

growing unrestricted,

affecting the viewer with limitless pictures of blessings replenished.

Endless fuel for my journey over ranges of mountains;

some climbed for preparation, others for restoration,

yet others mastered for the purpose of strengthening my legs.


Cause I’ll never tire …


20 hour days struggling to reach others before they suffer,

some days I feel my harvest hasn’t reaped enough.

Reaching after the goals I’ve set

while battling disappointments,

proudly admitting this grind gets tough.

Drawing from the inspiration of people that broke through;

the Roderick Bankstons, the Alice Johnsons,

the Myon Burrells, the Cyntoia Browns,

all found themselves crashing through their glass ceilings.

What did they do when their own strength couldn’t accomplish it?

When assistance seemed so unlikely?

How did they fight when they were too tired to swing?

What kept their hearts from breaking?

Tearfully fatigued, I remember the day he sentenced me,

“Don’t cry” echoing, the haters retreating,

because I’ll never stop beating until shards of glass fall upon me.


One day, they’ll ask how I disgraced the impossibility,

how I’ve been set free …


The Climb


Saw a frog climbing a wall, so I stopped to watch it,

amazed by its blending in with its surroundings.

Gave me its history, how it previously almost made it to the top,

but plunged to the ground, but here it is, still climbing. . . . .

Saw two other frogs sitting at ground level, content with being stationary,

happy with people feeding them, but they weren’t attractive. . . . .


Saw the profundity in this moment,

correlated it to my life and reassessed my own movements.

Inspired by this amphibian who never gave into its predicament,

never gave up when it was knocked to the ground, after all the effort it put in.

It just rested and hopped back to the wall, and began to climb again.


The frog’s unwillingness to accept its current position lit another fire under me,

encouraged me to keep climbing,

keep rising,

keep fighting until I’m one day free.


If I never see the top of what I fought so valiantly for,

then at least I can say I died trying.

In some ways, that frog is me!



Front Lines


All my life, I stood on the front lines ready to fight….

For a family that fractured before I was 5, a disaster by the time I was 9,

my pillow became the dam that didn’t flood my mattress,

so that became victory in my eyes.

Challenged authority as I battled the majority of those around me….

Composed of people hating my guts for striving to achieve excellency,

battered me mentally for being smart, 

then physically for being meek.

Fought my way in and out of the neighborhoods I inhabited;

it was either play rabbit or rabbit punch,

sometimes I’d punch and run, 

maybe stomp one before they jumped in.

Befriended the enemy, became dependent on safety,

so I relented just enough.

The fight for dominance became a chess match,

so before we moved again, I went from bottom feeder to leader,

from hated to loved.


All my life, I stood on the front lines, ready to fight….

For love that abandoned me, 

gave me inferiority issues, overcompensating so they wouldn’t leave,

tried to be everything so they’d see I’m worth keeping.

Tattooed my low self-esteem to my sleeve,

wondering why they mistreated, 

unaware that my body language made me open season.

Felt if I fought and forgave, if I’d travel barefoot in the desert,

they’d care enough about sacrifices to stay.

Mistakenly thought a war fought for the name of love

would grant me my soulmate,

but it only stood in my way.

I learned that love isn’t the battle I thought it was,

real love is gifted, not something I had to jump off a cliff

to prove I’m worthy of it, nor is it something that will leave me stripped.

It’s the presence of God manifested through interactions of his people,

something that’s freely given, 

but here I stood, ready to fight for it…..


All my life, I stood on the front lines, ready to fight….

Until the word of God showed me that He’d fight for me

if I shall hold my peace,

If I’d seek His kingdom first, He’s add everything I desire unto me.

The battle was never mine to begin with,

so how could I have victory when I haven’t trusted this war to him,

or receive a promise in a land He hasn’t sent me?

Seeing my folly made me stop fighting for family and love, 

because I never had to fight for these.

He ordains family to spring forth,

welcoming me into their embrace, 

not something I have to climb out of holes to receive.

I stand on the front lines,

my heart open, glad the war has ended….




His potent flowage of thoughts begin to siphon his focus,

glow where darkness has led him into unknown lands,

where demands upon his patience command him to stand silent,

he learns the terrain around him.

His eyes behold the treacherous motives of lonely hearts,

desperate overtones of growling tummies,

becoming a chorus of only the gifted in solitude,

box of emptiness in their hands.

He plans but he’s out of touch with his inner man, so he fails,

hailed a hero but the nails that have driven him into the earth

have failed to give him peace.

He sees grief, he sees dying, 

he sees the eyes of his comrades lying inside 

of darkened lids of fatigue.

Doesn’t see the blessing under such misery, 

question the fairness of him being released.

So many are afflicted permanently,

so what makes him more deserving of healing?

Everything he prayed for is happening,

but he’s looking at the ones that aren’t as fortunate….

A melody of a flat line sends shivers down is spine,

a message of a white flag lifted in defiance.

The hospice he was sentenced to life in, slated to die in,

became the place he heard the most coveted word: Remission.

He departs conflicted, seeing a new world through old lenses,

blessed but discouraged…..





I am forgotten….

Among the people too weak or sickly to see me as special,

in the circles of toxicity, along the pathways of the diseased.

Amnesia becomes them, 

their presence becomes as thin as the air on these mountains I climb,

conditioned to breathe where others have died trying to reside here.

My tears recycled into the water I ingest,

the world is confounded….

I smile while the world expects me to be stressed,

I blessed when they curse me and pray for my death.

I comfort those who never held my best interests,

forgiveness is my weapon, a weapon that prosper them…


I am forgotten….

Among the forsaken, along the highways I’ve been saved from,

Separated from the tares the enemy planted,

my wheat can grow obstructed.

No weeds to choke out my success, of keep my bound to their disbelief,

no longer grieves me to destruction when people leave,

maybe, I’ll be better of without them.


I am forgotten….

Among the ones that have gracefully bowed out, 

along the avenues of wasted moments,

only at the beginning of gaining in the face of losses?

Placed my faith in the purpose of my Father,

Who both gives and takes away,

what remains is sufficient and well worth the cost.


I’ve lost nothing by being forgotten,

so why does it prick my soul sometimes, 

to walk around unacknowledged?


A question I wish was among the forgotten…..





Gunshots….Do you hear the gunshots?

Clotless blood floods the sewer, gets stuck in the drains,

the brains of many dead men washed away.

Dead men?

Men used to be the main victim, 

now women and children fill the pits as magazines extend…

10 extends to 17, 17 to 30, 30 to 50, 

depending on the fear that extends to every man.


Gunshots….Do you hear the gunshots?

Lots of bullets dislodge life from people,

projectiles litter our city streets, our passionate anger feeds the cemetery,

all while the gun has no enemies.

We kill, but our humanity dies with the murdered,

never knew it would unearth the existence 

of the walking deceased.


Gunshots….Do you hear the gunshots?

The progression of a child’s nonchalance to tragedy is damaging,

branding their brains to accept violence as reality.

Grow up holding the guns of their elders,

without the knowledge they possess,

made instruments of violence instead of pillars of success.

Fed lies as destructive as pistols tucked in the waistbands,

they fire at the wrong targets, innocence becomes another casualty.


Gunshots…Do you hear the gunshots?

Do you hear the souls drowning in the bloodbaths of mass casualties,

afflicted patients fill hospital beds,

a tearful shriek of a mother crying over her dead?

Does the sound echo into the hearts of men,

abound the the minds of them who are haunted by thoughts of death?

Caught between the crossfire of conflict,

the recipient of something unintended,

they question God’s existence, a funeral procession gets their attention.


Gunshots….Do you hear the gunshots?

Or have you gone deaf?

Marshall Jones is a 42 year old man on a lifelong journey of bearing fruit for the Kingdom of God. The author with Jessica Jones of THE PRODIGAL SON, Marshall's Biography includes his almost 21 years life sentence incarceration. THE PRODIGAL SON, just published January 2024, They married November 1, 2022. Marshall is also author of "A RAVEN'S MEAL" (RoseDog Books), a poetry collection, he aspires to target the grey areas and the people who are terribly misunderstood by society. Believing that everyone deserves a voice, he shares his testimony in his books and in their Red Granite Daily Devorionals (800 and counting). He also tries to use his gifting to share other people's experiences as well. Writing from the prison system that has now housed his body for almost 21 years, but also from the place that has been the catalyst to his freedom. As Jessica discovered in 2019, working as an employee in the Wisconsin correctional system, "Marshall lives more freely within the walls of that prison than any other person I’ve met in my life outside". Click on the YouTube Links below for these books and on the 'PUBLISHED WORKS' LINK FOR BOTH.