A dear friend of my son wrote this. His name is Jason. Quiet and sensitive guy. 'Did a great imitation of Peter Seller's, "It's not my dog.". I would laugh. He's in prison. He's a fine poet.

they found him hanging dead you know
in the cell where he had lain
through many a day a restless woe
and night of sleepless pain
the heart had ceased it's beating
the little hands ewre numb
and the piteous voice entreating
in death at last was dumb
no doubt it was a painful fact
for them to contemplate
they felt the horror of the act
But felt it rather late
There was none to lay the blame to--
that, each one understands;
and, the Jury found - he came to
His death by his own hands!

Poor Little hands that should have Known
No Subtler arts than these-
to seek for Violets newly blown
Beneath the April breeze
or gainly bind unchidden
the daisies into sheaves
or reach the birds nest hidden
among the budden Leaves

Poor Little hands and Little heart
that ached so long alone
with none to ease it's Secret Smart
and none to hear its moan
as he lay where they had cast him
in the dark upon the floor
and heard the feet go past him
outside his prison door

think of him, you, whose children Lie
soft sleeping over head
all day he could not see the sky
all night he had no bed
Four walls of brick and mortar
to shut the child soul in
and starving on bread and water
for - some Little childish sin

So in the darkness there he Lay.
While the hours CRawled ALong
awake with the robins song
and thought of. the green grass growing
and the boys at play outside
and the breath of heaven blowing

over the Country far and wide
perhaps he saw his mother's face
Bend over him in the gloom
But when he leaned to Catch her dress
She Vanished from the Room
and though he tried to remember
The prayer he used to say
in a pitiful broken stammer
on his Lips it died Away.his LIttle hands had naught to do
but beat against the wall
until at last too tired the grew
Poor Little Hands - So Small
and so he lay there voiceless
alone upon the ground
if he wept his tears were noisless
for he feared to hear their Sound
at last perhaps the Silence grew
To deep it dazed his head
his Little hands had nought to do
and so they found him dead
In a christian town it happened
in a home for children built
and god knows whose soul shall answer
for the burden of this guilt.
But he who bade the children come
and not be turned away
Has Surely taken the homeless home
and we need not mourn to-day
for our Lives are all god given
The poorest to him are dear
and the father has room in heaven
for the children we don't want here!


Jason (friend of mine through my son, Tim)



Jane Noponen Perinacci