Mother's heart

All my life you're tried to help.
You sought to point the way.
I've been too smug to benefit
from all the things you say.
I'm so sorry that I would not hear.
I thought I was so smart.
Now I know I was a fool
that broke his mother's heart.
For every tear you've lived through.
I'll live in shame until the day
I make it up to you.
Every word you've ever said,
through all your love and wisdom,
echoes now within my head
while I sit here in prison.
You never turned your back on me
no matter what I'd done.
I know now just how blessed I am
that God made me your son.
I know you've done these things in love.
It wasn't on a whim.
For God reminds me, all these things
I also said to Him.


Rages Hold

This is a story
I’d like to tell
'bout how I came,
to live in hell.

Life had just begunbut, end
ed just as fast
was it much of a life
with all the mental strife?

Oh, the freedom
that never came
the soul snatcher stopped
that was the aim.

Other deaths
mad begunin this game
no one won.

What was taken
can not be returned,
at the point of knife
or the taking f a life.

confusion, an’ self-doubt
did not go away
by what i did, that day.

Rage taking control
directing me oddly
not right away
but, very slowly.

Fear and shame
kept rage in cheek
wanting something back
not to cause a wreck.

It came out slowly
little at a time
first drugs, an’ alcohol,
and sexual grime.

Nothing filled the space
nothing gave it back
nothing erased the memories
of the soul being snatched.

Killing the monster did not help
releasing the rage
destroyed so many live
swith a grave and a cage.

It gave nothing back
it took more away
mothers cried
as so many died.

Now, that it is ending
it's more controlled
exposure is the unbinding
releasing ragas old.
Write to me:
Norman Wayne Whillote C29683
310-2-61L Po Box 9
Avenal, CA 93204

Eternal friends

Won't you let me introduce you
to my most precious Friend?
He knows of your beginning
and all that makes you sad.
He wants to fill your heart with joy.
More than you've ever had.
Before He had became my Friend
I was His enemy.
But that could not keep Him away
because He still loved me.
He knows that you don't trust Him now.
He hopes that you will see
the evidence before your eyes
of change He's made in me.
He knocks upon your heart's front door.
He pleads, you let Him in.
He knows that when you open it
your new life can begin.
You'll never find another friend
that loves you oh so true.
Before the day that you were born
my Friend had died for you.

Trying to matter

with a table of captives.
Some just their souls others their whole being.
All trying desperately to matter.
Coming together;
all are here for different times
some haven't even committed their crimes
all are human
with thoughts and fears
all have hearts that have cried many tears.
Finding release;
access to the web
from prison walls.
The ability to write and paint
on virtual walls.
Freedom of the spirit. The releasing of the mind.
These are the things that get lost doing time.
Needing to matter doesn't stop with one's crime
having a voice is a wondrous find.

Write to me:

Norman Wayne Whillote C29683
310-2-61L Po Box 9
Avenal, CA 93204



These moments

Second mean so much,
minutes counted like a touch,
these moments spent together.

Waiting for what seems like years,
hearing a broken voice,
watching a trail of tears.

Doubts created by the miles,
a voice distant and silent,
trust returns with smiles.

Faith is the key,
for this binding that we see
between he and she.

Write to me:

Norman Wayne Whillote C29683
310-2-61L Po Box 9
Avenal, CA 93204

Crimes against the State

A man that lived some years a go
in great and distant lands
was sent to prison in this youth
with chains upon his hands.
They'd sentenced him to life that day
for crimes against the state.
He found the strength to thank the Lord.
Accepting this his fate.
Hard labour now a way of life
in rain or heat, or snow.
Still everyday he asked the Lord
to help his spirit grow.
The bread and water they received
was hard and dry, and cold.
But eagerly they'd wait for it
and then scrape off the mold.
So many men died everyday.
But no one noticed it.
Except the men who dug the graves.
Ten men in every pit.
To sick and hungry men in pain,
he answered every call.
He almost died himself because
he always gave his all.
He never learned his lesson though.
His crime he never ceased.
The crime he was imprisoned for
was that he was a priest.
I think of this and i feel shame.
It makes me love God more.
For He saw fit to put me here.
I've much to thank Him for.

Innocence lost

What did I do?
Was I bad?
I feel so ashamed,
but yet, I'm mad.
Wanting your love,
hating you as well,
after all these years,
I'm still scared to tell.

What did you take,
that I need back so bad?
My life's been destroyed,
first by you, then by me.
Wanting to destroy you,
wanting to be free.

Oh, thought I was fine,
then one day went left.
Things being done,
weren't the best.
Surviving this life is the test.
Now that it's over,
'cause I'm stuck in a cage.
I feel sorry for you,
'cause the way you behaved.
I understand some reasons,
for what was done.
It didn't start with you,
but life stopped this run.

My rage took control,
and now it's gone.
Tho', confusion’s still there,
what went wrong.

Write to me:
Norman Wayne Whillote C29683
310-2-61L Po Box 9
Avenal, CA 93204


Custom Chopper Art

Owning and riding a custom chopper has become exciting life style for many in the US, "it mounts in saddleback".

A few other drawing by Johnny Marino. Johnny is also trying to set up his own web site at but for the moment you'll be able to check out his productions here on AvenalVoice.If you would like Johnny to draw a custom piece for you, please write him explaining in your own words what you would like...

Write to me:

Jonathan Marino J84807
310-2-27L Po Box 9
Avenal, CA 93204


Talk to me

The sad man sits there by his phone.
without his kids he's left alone.
They're grown and busy with their life.
A house, a child, a car, a wife.
He leaves a message, sometimes two.
I sure would like to talk with you.
Day after day, the phone won't ring.
Then when it does, they want something.
Thanks for the cash, but I can't stay.
Because I've got big plans today.
So on his knees, he starts to pray.
Dear God, I need your help today.
I love my kids so desperately.
But they've no time to talk to me.
I gave then everything I could.
I gave them love. Their life's been good
but now they're busy on their own.
Forgetting all the love I've shown.
"You pray to me, your kids to blame.
Yet you are guilty of the same.
I know just how you feel today.
That's how I feel when you don't pray.
I filled their lives so you'd be free.
And you'd have time to talk to me."


Yo, over here!

Talkin', but I'm never heard,
Screaming turns your head.
You miss so many words,
I'd be better off dead.

You see your vision,
of a boy child.
He's neat, he's clean,
smart and mild.

Not a young man struggling,
needing and wanting understanding.
Not a young man struggling,
with these emotions unwinding.

Telling you my pain,
you deny that it's real.
You're driving me insane,
as you tell me how to feel.

I'm not him,
I'm not her.
I have a personality,
that's all alone.

My tears do not phase you,
as you tell me that you care.
Always trying to come to you,
but you are never there.

The day has come,
I'm no longer there.
Your tears do not phase me,
because, I'm tired of yelling,
"Yo, over here!"

Write to me:

Norman Wayne Whillote C29683
310-2-61L Po Box 9
Avenal, CA 93204

Stinken, Thinken

Because of the chronic over crowding,
a typical building of the Avenal's prison offers
14 toilet bowls for few less than 400 inmates.
The bowls are arranged in groups of 3 or 4,
few inches from one another in open spaces
and inmates place garbage bins on some of them,
to recover a minimum of privacy (an impromptu divider);
this, in addition to the frequent break-downs due
to over use, reduces the number of available bowls
to an average of 6 or 7...
One every 50 people!!!

Write to me:

Israel Gowan T60283
310-1-43L PO BOX 9
Avenal, CA 93204


My Dad's flowers

Recently my Dad passed away and I didn't get to see
him before he went.
I did get to talk to him on the phone for 15 minutes;
because that's all you're allowed: you see,
I am a prisoner.
My life is now behind walls and chainlinks
and razor wire fences.
My Dad loved gardening.
Yes; flowers, trees and anything you can imagine,
my Dad grew.
What I'm trying to express is my love for my
Dad and my family.
I'm here and my "pop" is gone but he's forever
in my heart.
I would like to share a picture that my mom sent me:
some of the last things my Dad grew.
Dad, we miss you, but you are thought of every day.

Write to me:

Israel Gowan T60283
310-1-43L PO BOX 9
Avenal, CA 93204