We Believe Group supporting George Martorano
Help Free George Martorano
George Martorano's quest for freedom
poems, letters and short stories
Articles
suicide prevention
IVP Designs
 These people are the force behind the shirt. A friend at IVP stopped to eat at George's cousin, Steve Martorano's  famous restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, Cafe Martorano-got talking with Steve about George and was inspired by what he heard. George teaches "Creative Writing" classes within the walls at Coleman Federal prison.  George copes with the "caged" world by teaching, others caged with George cope by being taught. 
Ahoodie
 These shirts are currently being featured on the Ahoodie website. They too just ran a contest with the "Coleman Creative Writing" T-shirt as a prize. 
 JOHN FLAHIVE/DIRECTOR
 DOLORES FERRARI/ASST. DIR.
 BLAKEY ROSS /JOURNALIST/PHOTOGRAPHER
 ROBERT BARRETTA/PHILADELPHIA COORDINATOR
 EILEEN DeROSE/PHILADELPHIA PUBLICIST
 NICOLINA ROSS/GAINESVILLE PUBLICIST
 BRETT YINGLING/ST PETERSBURG PUBLICIST
FREE GEORGE MARTORANO
 Read some of George's latest writings and letters - creative to say the least - why let this talent be "caged" any longer 
For George's more recent entries go to www.freegeorge.us
Some Of George's Short Stories and Poems

Time

An old watch waits for me.

Clicking away, until I'm free.

Where and here I stand a man...

Once entered, time has no end, nor a friend.

Yet, an old watch waits for me.

In dreams I can only see.

In dreams love, joy can be.

Awake, I hear the ticking sound... soft...

And; low as tears must be.

Still, an old watch waits for me.

George Martorano

__________________________________

The Taste  (received 5/1006)

I remember the first time it occurred.

It happened during a lock-down. A lock-down is ordered at a federal prison when serious violence takes place...

This time, a prisoner came back from court. Seems he told on someone and tried to sneak on the compound.

It just took two days before they gutted him.

I was standing with an old-timer in front of the unit door where it went down. Even though they got him way back in the rear of the unit, his screams came loudly right out that front door. So loud as if he were only a few feet away... they flew him out on a helicopter.

But; I am getting away from the real story and why i am writing today.

It was early morning, I am alone, sealed in cell 201. First, I awake, staring up in my steel bunk. I start to remember when he was a child, my son that is. You see,he was killed on a motorcycle a few years back at a tender age of 25. I remember all sorts of events, holidays, birthdays, and even those quiet moments of just him and I.

Even as I take the coarse blanket off and get my feet over the side of the bunk, those memories of him repeated on me, over and over again.

Then, I stood up. Just two steps and I was staring out the window. Staring at the thick fog, it just hangs there. As I write this the fog is at my back. Just lingering there looking over my shoulder through the window. Some sentences back I swear I heard a tap on the window. But; I was afraid to turn around. I was afraid I would see something there.... So; I wrote on....

Being it was very early, most were still asleep. Yet, I could just barely see into the darkened cell which was across the way. I stood closer to the door. Stood there to feel the cool air being drawn in, drawn in and across my face. I closed my eyes, envisioned standing on an ocean shore. Having the sea breeze welcome the day' birds singing away.

When i opened my eyes, stepped back, still thoughts of my son jumped into me. I sighed heavily... ran my hands through my hair and stepped towards the steel mirror above the small steel sink. Looking at myself... slowly reaching for my toothbrush. Held it in my hand... and watched the tears begin down my face; many came.

When they reached my cheek, they seemed to climb alittle. As they came faster they poured over my upper lip, between by lips. I parted my lips some... then more...

And; that my friend is the very first time I brushed with tears.

I do it often now. I pray no other has to. So, farewell and good-day from George Martorano, federal inmate 12973-004 in cell 201 

______________________________________________________    

 

Not Today

I vision a sunset like no other.

I vision lovely eyes seeing me.

I vision the blue sea and oh how she'll be.

And; for that, I jail not today.

I dream along a man well dressed; through New York, I'll do my best.

I dream to reach a held out hand; soft of touch, face so tan.

I dream she wants this day.

 I dream life's loves must play.

And; for that, I'll jail not today. My thoughts draw... acts.

My heart knows facts.

My voice can say...

I'LL JAIL NOT TODAY...

(written 4/06 from a cell in Coleman USP by George Martorano)

____________________________________________________________

What Waits

Written by Federal Inmate George Martorano on his 23rd Christmas in prison,12/25/05

For so very, very long, I've been trying myself down a harsh path.

Though my head is held high, my arm is without sword.

You see, it seems I have out ran my life... and what remains, few can tell.

***

I am to face the last door. And; sad to say, I near... Yes, it is so very near.

As I walk to it... It waits. Hard and tall, showing nothing at all.

Slowly I turn the ugly knob.

Slowly, I swallow sentenced air... I enter... And; it slams shut !

Standing.. I look about... And; finally see the shell of my own soul.

I have finally reached "what waits"

Waits for all caged silent men

...And; I scream !  Oh, how I scream !

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

"12th Letter To Some Forgotten god"

Forgotten god, may I tell you about the beginning of "it"?

It all began as I was chained and driven all the way down the Eastern Seaboard.

Numerous roach infested jails were our overnight stays.

When we finally reached "my destination", an old man stepped out of the prison shadows and stood in front of us.

He spoke words that I now relay, "I had it all at one time". The very words that I say everyday.

I wonder if I will say these words until I die upon this steel bunk. Yes, I ponder this at times.

As a man I can say I haven't and will never let the bullies in the hourglass rule my sweat.

I've seen these bullies in the prison hourglass destroy a man in just a few short months. Watched as his mind was torn piece by piece.

I have seen the Islander dreaming of coral seas have his dreams washed away.

Washed away by the bullies pounding there waves on his beach.

I watched as he turned gray, wrinkled up and succumbed to the bullies.

The bullies carried him away. The bullies had timed his stay.

They seem to know who can not stay here.

So yes, yes I say it everyday, "I had it all at one time."

I say it to keep my mind, a mind I must shield from the bullies.

I have to face this everyday, a dreadful day everyday.

I Subscribe Myself,

George Martorano

__________________________________________

 

"Gutters Gray Way"

These words have come over me at mid-day.

A feeling of despair. A feeling of being lost forever within this forth world.

I feel like a leaf that has just fallen onto a body of water, a stream of sorts flowing down a gray gutter.

Moving along I see the passing world. People are watching as I pass by. Their eyes are uncaring upon the flow.... and upon me.

See, this leaf has a heart, and it beats, it has eyes, and they tear. Yet no one, not one from the passing world reaches to help and save me.

Yes, this leaf will continue on, I must go on, knowing no kindness, just this gray water and it's smell... my living hell.

For no one knows this gray gutter like us falling leaves. Which brings me to ask the Lord.... why, why do you just watch like the others as we sail by??

I subscribe myself

GEORGE MARTORANO/ 12973-004

_____________________________________________________

 

Thirteenth Letter to Some Forgotten god

As I sit today at the hour of three pm., the sun is shining and the wind is blowing. I wanted..

What's that Forgotten god ? You wish to speak today. Say that again.

You wish to tell of a night long, long ago. Well please do .

"Yes George, I have listened and read your words time and time again. And it has made me want to explain something to you. How do you say it on earth, get something off my chest.

Actually what I want to say is that I too, was at the wrong place on the wrong night one night in Jerusalem"

"It was a still night, a stillness that crept all about. I was standing there within the dark stillness with the door ajar. The light from the moon sliced through the alley.

A lone man was walking from the shadows when another figure appeared in front of him.

The second to appear made me feel uneasy, as his words sounded like those of a serpent. As the man spoke I watched his eyes change, his face harden, and I listened..."

"You see, my friend George, the writer from afar, that was the night I became a broken god. Broken and of no use to the heavens or the lost parts of the earth. I was taken, galloped off by four horsemen, a legion of angels that wished my demise.

This was the night I witnessed the Devil's promise to a man named Judas"

"See George, all I really have left are your words, your words and writings. These are things that I will cherish forever, your true feelings put into true words

"I thank you, my friend, I thank you."

I subscribe myself,

George Martorano

This is a letter that George recently wrote to scores of Government Representative, Judges, etc...but to no avail.

Dear Sir or Madam,
My quest for freedom has been more than a twenty year ordeal. Wherein, I've made great strides to reshape the stigma that has clung to me since my birth. Due to my father's alleged mob ties, I haven't been able to outrun the curse.
When most first time non-violent offenders are being sentenced to the bottom of their guideline category, which would have put me at two hundred forty months, a sentence I've entirely completed, instead, I was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole--which means no chance of ever getting out, for the charges of a drug conspiracy. I was never alleged to have taken anyone's life in any court proceeding, but my case was treated that way. The time I've already served (more than twenty years) makes me the longest serving non-violent first time offender in U.S. history. Only the God of heaven and earth has substained my sanity throughout my pursuit of freedom.
In a the past three years I have experienced complete tragedy. First, I lost my wife, the mother of my 2 children, to cancer. The next year followed with my son being killed on a motorcycle. While still grieving my son's death, my father was shot on the streets of Philadelphia and never recoverd. Being imprisoned, I've never been able to mourn the death of my loved ones in a proper manner. Instead I sit alone in a prison cell trying to hold it all together.....A spotless prison record meant nothing.
As if the deaths of my loved ones were not enough, The Bureau of Prisons violated my first amendment right to free speech when I became a writer. They threw me into solitary confinement and subjected me to cruel and unusual punishment. I remodeled my life into something honorable so that I could leave a legacy for my remaining daughter, Francesca. I've worked hard to create fifteen novels, eight movie scripts, and numerous short stories. After the Bureau of Prisons finally realized it was my constitutional right to be an author, I began teaching Creative Writing courses in every prison they have sent me to since 1992.
I dream of being out of prison one day and living out the rest of my life with my mother and daughter in a normal setting. I feel that this is only fair.
George Martorano

George and Frani on their wedding day.George, Frani, and their son Raymond, posing in an olde time photo.George and Raymond.

George as a kid, selling watermelons

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