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From Prison Pages to Peace
My Story at 84
I didn’t set out to be a poet, and I’m still a novice at formal poetry. The truth is, I didn’t start writing until I was forty-five in the eighties, sitting in a prison cell with time on my hands and not much else. Then again in the late nineties, when I foolishly decided to “do what I was doing again.” Insanity, right?
What started as a way to pass the time turned into something more when I realized other inmates needed words they couldn’t find for
themselves. I wrote letters in poem form for girlfriends, mothers, and sisters—anyone waiting on the outside. In return, I received what little a man could use in there but had to buy from the prison commissary: stamps, paper, toothpaste, and—my favorite—Little Debbie pies. I needed a snack now and then. The wait from 4:30 P.M. to 6 A.M. felt long, but it was enough. More than that, it gave me purpose.
Along the way, I also picked up drawing. At first, I’ll admit, it wasn’t very impressive. But like my writing, it grew over time. Both became outlets for expressing things I had spent years hiding. And, for once, I was honest with myself and others. I started by trying to write a book. With no formal education, only a GED I earned in prison at age fifty-three, the task was intimidating. And what I didn’t need was stress.
After I got out, life didn’t magically fix itself. I had to fight for it—hard. Thirty years of drug and alcohol use wasn’t the best road to travel—no direction, no roadmap. Sobriety became the line I would not cross again. Through AA and NA, I learned how to live without running. I built a business, worked hard, found love with a good woman, and stayed the course long enough to retire. (Modestly)
These poems are more than just words. They serve as a record of my journey—through addiction, regret, survival, and finally, finding some peace in my retirement. I want to emphasize that my cravings still haunt me to this day.
I started putting these collections together in my later years, not fully understanding why. Maybe it’s age, or maybe it’s a desire to leave something behind—something real and honest. Or perhaps, the thought of disappearing and being forgotten isn’t the best answer to “my end.” The reason doesn’t really matter, does it? I’ve found peace in my life and reconnected with my family and friends. That’s what life is all about for me now, and I try every day, all the time, to “walk the walk.”
My brother Billy saw value in this before I did. He created a website for my work, organized it, and encouraged me to share my material, believing it was worth it. Without him, this site wouldn’t exist. My words… lost and forgotten to most, but thanks to his love and expertise, they will be preserved in the digital world forever.
This may not be a perfect story, nor do I claim to know everything about writing one, but it probably resonates with more families than one might think. The scourge of drugs and alcohol stains most family histories. But it is mine. For my children, Raph and Renee… so you can understand the road I walked and the man I worked to become. And for my brother Billy, who believed these words mattered when I never thought they could.
Peter 2026