Dec. 12, 2023

The Light of an Ark

by Robert Outman (author's profile)


The Light of an Ark

Through the years I chronicle the inhumanity towards elderly in prison, witness my peers surrender to a lonely death by state SENICIDE and wonder if anyone cares.
Then an act of random kindness (ARK) shines into the darkness. On 17 October 2023, $100 appeared in my prison trust account naming the benefactor, Ken Navarre.
Mr. Navarre, your ARK, like others have gone to indigent elderly who truly are forgotten souls. Because of you, 81yr old "C."... who has been unable to read at night due to his old lamp without a bulb, now has an LED longlife bulb to light his way. Because of you indigent elderly who have to watch other fortunate prisoners eat pizza bought during an on outside food sale, this time shared a large hot pepperoni pizza, and others who still have teeth enjoy real toothpaste not state powder. Your ARK assures them someone outside cares about them.
Thank you Ken, your ARK brought some tears of happiness to some lonely aged faces.

20 November 2023
Robert H. Outman
Prisoner P-79939


Replies (1) Replies feed

Julia Posted 1 month, 1 week ago. ✓ Mailed 1 month ago   Favorite
Dear Robert,
I hope this note finds you well. As I have been late on writing by snail, I thought I send you a poem or two. Or three. Have you heard of Christian Morgenstern, who lived from 1871 till 1914? Here we go:

The Pike
Converted by St. Anthony
a pike and all his family
embraced with moralistic zeal
the vegetarian ideal.

Henceforth the pike would only eat
sea grass, sea roses, and sea wheat.
But wheat, grass, rose did reappear
abominably from his rear.

The pond turned wholly poisonous.
Five hundred fishes perished thus.
But Anthony, called in distress,
said nothing but, "God bless! God bless!"

The Seagulls
The seagulls by their looks suggest
that Emma is their name;
they wear a white and fluffy vest
and are the hunter's game.

I never shoot a seagull dead;
their life I do not take.
I like to feed them gingerbread
and bits of raisin cake.

O human, you will never fly
the way the seagulls do;
but if your name is Emma, why,
be glad they look like you.

A Werewolf, troubled by his name,
Left wife and brood one night and came
To a hidden graveyard to enlist
The aid of a long-dead philologist.

"Oh sage, wake up, please don't berate me,"
He howled sadly, "Just conjugate me."
The seer arose a bit unsteady
Yawned twice, wheezed once, and then was ready.

"Well, `Werewolf' is your plural past,
While `Waswolf' is singularly cast:
There's `Amwolf' too, the present tense,
And `Iswolf,' `Arewolf' in this same sense."

"I know that--I'm no mental cripple--
The future form and participle
Are what I crave," the beast replied.
The scholar paused--again he tried:

"A `Will-be-wolf?' It's just too long:
`Shall-be-wolf?' `Has-been-wolf?' Utterly wrong!
Such words are wounds beyond all suture--
I'm sorry, but you have no future."

The Werewolf knew better--his sons still slept
At home, and homewards now he crept,
Happy, humble, without apology
For such folly of philology.

Warm greetings, Julia

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