ps isn /92£ PRISON POEMS BY WILJLIAM KAVANAUGH JOHNSTON PRISONER OF NEVADA COPYRIGHT RESERVED 1922 •.;.-.,' C1A658351 MAR -6 1922 ^ \^ PREFACE [Copyright Reserved.] "Hope springs eternal in the human breast." My object in offering for sale these little poems, is, that I may accumulate a small sum of money with which to obtain legal advice, so that I may make preparation to lay my case before the Board of Pardons and Paroles ,in an effort to some time regain my freedom before life's sun drops forever below the western horizon of life's sky. The tragedy which brought me within these walls, ( it may be for life ) could not be avoided by me, unless I allowed my late an- tagonist to take my life, without defending my life which God gave, and which he also gave me the right to defend. When that day of judgment shall come, "when even the sea, shall give up its dead," I have no fear as to the verdict of the. Divine Judge, whose ruling will be just and final, touching upon the case of my dead antagonist and myself. Hoping that I may yet see the sun of freedom flood the earth again with its rosy glow, I am, Yours truly, WILLIAM KAVANAUGH JOHNSTON One of these booklets mailed to any address upon application to: W. K. Johnston, Box 607 Carson City, Nevada. THE CONVICT By W. K. Johnston Copyright Reserved. Midnight bells of sorrow wake the convict From his fitful dreams of freedom dear; He sighs for sweetheart, home and mother, Then sheds for all the penitential tear. Then comes the hour of breaking day When all the world awakes to noisy strife, And he with quivering lips and breaking heart, Prays God to take his sinful, weary life. Then God, to fill his heart with hope again, Now floods his cell with shimmering rays of gold- The same that makes the shepherd sing with joy, As he calls his sheep from out their sheltering fold. SWEET MARIE By W. K. Johnston Copyright Reserved. There's a girl in far away Nebraska -- She's all the world to me- I long to hold her in my arms again, And whisper, "Sweet Marie". When twilight comes, the lamp's alight -- A beacon burned for me; I long to see her light that lamp -- The girl I call my sweet Marie -- Some years ago, we danced together, she and I, To music soft and sweet, as though it came from Summer sea; And she did smile with eyes alight with love. As I did hold her close, my dear Marie. If I should lose this life mine, Upon death's darkened sea, With smiling lips, and latest breath, I'd sing of sweet Marie. AUTUMN DAYS By W. K. Johnston Copyright Reserved. Now blushing autumn comes again With softly pattering footsteps near, To turn to red and deepest gold, The whispering leaves of Summer dear. So lightly fall her steps of death, We strain our ear to catch the sound Of luscious fruit and falling nuts, That temptingly now strew the ground. The winesap apple's crimson blush, Speaks of a girl who gave a sigh For summer days, when she and I, With clinging hands, stole softly by. Dear sadly, murmuring, autumn days, You speak of summer's dying glow, Because the rustling, falling leaves Remind us, that, we love you so. EMBERS OF HOPE By W. K. Johnston Copyright Reserved. The flame of hope is burning low, It needs the breath of love divine, To fan the smoldering embers of it's past Until the flame again with splendor shine. Dear smoldering embers of the past, I con with grief, your bygone glories bright, And hope to fan you into life again, Until you fill my heart with purest light. Oh, give to me a thought as pure again As cooing song of nesting turtle dove, That I may coax the smoldering embers of the past, To burst into a flame again as bright as love, And if these embers come to life again, I hope the flame will have a brighter glow, To safely guide me to that home divine - My God and Savior there to know. < ' THE TWILIGHT HOUR By W. K. Johnston Prisoner of Nevada [Copyright Reserved.] When twilight comes and shadows creep, Across the mountains strong and tall, There comes the dying sounds of day, As the night bird gives gives his plaintive call. No loving voice can greet me now, With cheery laughter - loving call, Life's dream for me is ended now, Within this grim and grey old wall. When God's own twilight falls for man, Across His great eternal sea; I hope He'll let one mellow shaft, Just fall across that sea for me. < THE FOOTHILLS OF KENTUCKY By W. K. Johnston Copyright Reserved. If you would forget your troubles, If you wish to banish gloom, See the foothills of Kentucky, When the peach trees are in bloom. There's fragrance in the meadows, There's music in the looms About the mountaineer's cabin, When the peach trees are in bloom. There's the blooded colts in Uncle's pasture, Neighing for the salting grooms, They'll be ready for the race track, When the peach trees are in bloom- Dear old hewed log school house on the hilltop, Where maids and boys spoon, 9 I long to see you once again, When the peach trees are in bloom. Mother loved the pine-clad hilltops, As she walked beneath the moon, In the foothills of Kentucky, When the peach trees were in bloom. THE SHOW GIRL By W. K. Johnston Prisoner of Nevada [Copyright Reserved.] Thou girl divine! I miss you when the the twilight hour, Steals o'er the rugged rocky hills, 'Tis then your voice comes softly back to me With sound as sweet as all the whippoorwills. A girl with a loving soul - a voice as sweet as a turtle-dove - And when she smiles, luoking up at me, Her eyes are like the stars above. She has gone far away, I shall see her no more, Nor hear her sweet voice again, Yet I am glad I knew her and heard her sing, Though she filled my heart with the sweetest pain. Sweet bird of song, I wish you loved the sunny slopes of Texas, Like you love Connecticut's hills so far away; That I might coax, and hold you in my arms forever and a day. THE HILLS OF ILLINOIS By W. K. Johnston Prisoner of Nevada [Copyright Reserved.] I long to hear again the bells of Sunday School, Sending their silvery melody across the hills to girls and boys, As they called us all to worship, near the softly flowing Wabash, In the hills of Illinois. Dear boyhood days! I'd like to live you o'er again, And till again once more the rich and verdant soil, In the lowlands of the peaceful flowing Wabash, In the hills of Illinois. » There the graceful morning glory, Caused my soul to soar aloft and poise, In thrills of youthful ecstasies, Above the hills of Illinois. While one did crown her queenly head with morning glories, And called me then her king of boys, As she and I, with arms entwined, Did play about the hills of Illinois. NANNIE ROWE By W. K. Johnston Prisoner of Nevada [Copyright Reserved.] When Nannie Rowe, came down the road, Along the Wabash river; She seemed an angel, quite, to me, My boyish heart was all a-quiver. With golden hair and eyes of blue, She seemed angelic then to me; I dreamed at night, I held her close, And that we sailed loves blissful sea. Can other love e'er fill again, A boyish heart, so full of bliss, As that first love neath moonlit skies, When he bestows his first - love kiss? In fear to wound another heart, That beats with love so good true; I'll answer not this question now, But leave the answer all to you. In memory of Indiana, and Nannie Rowe. THE FIRST BORN BABE By W. K. Johnston Prisoner of Nevada [Copyright Reserved.] The first born babe of ardent love, Reminds us of the pink-iike flower That blushes on the springtime air, As mother gives her love in one great shower. She calls the babe her rose of love, And soothes it on her matron's breast. And coo's of husband far away, Then prays to God that he be blest. When throbs of bliss shall kill all pangs of woe, Until the sunrise of that hoped for day, And father of the babe in arms shall stray no more, Because he loves his baby so. Author's note: Written in honor of the birth of the baby of my ceil mate's wife. The babe having been born after the incarceration of the father. W. K. J. THE SEA OF LEAVES By W. K. Johnston Prisoner of Nevada [Copyright Reserved.] This golden leaf is just one drop, In a waving beautiful sea; That rolls and surges as larger it grows, Under the cottonwood trees. The martin box is empty now, The birds of courage have flown away; Through the summer days they fought the hawk, With a graceful curve and courageous sway. They flew to the south and sunny lands, These birds with courage bold, •They will come again and inhabit their home, Till warned to leave by the sea of gold- That rolls and tosses in autumn time, On softly noisy, beautiful lees; This golden sea of falling leaves, Under the stately cottonwood trees. Written after sending a leaf from the Cottonwood's (growing in front of the prison) away in a letter. THE INDIANA HOMESTEAD By W. K. Johnston Prisoner of Nevada [Copyright Reserved.] The old sugar tree by the cabin home, Had to me a friendly shady look; And the water we drew from the well hard by, Was cooler than that from the bubbling brook- That ran near the farm of my friend, "Eb" Doan, In Indiana so far away; When days were a romance, and nights a dream, And the fireside groups were joyous and gay. There was Annie, and Minnie, and Janie, too, His daughters so sweet, in friendship so dear; When remembering their sweetness, I pause by their graves, And give them the wanderer's parting tear. That moistens the rose of memory's life, That throws its perfume o'er sorrows today, Like the fountain of youth, whose waters give life, And softens grief with its beautiful spray. GOOD NIGHT By W. K. Johnston Prisoner of Nevada [ Copyright Reserved . ] Dear dreamy, fading days Of smiling summer bright; I give you up with sorrow, That's almost sweet: Good night! When spring shall come and blend Into the summer's glorious light; I hope to live and breathe again, Your sweet perfume; Good night! When springtime breezes blow, again, Away the winter's blight, I hope they'll waft to me once more, Dear freedom's breeze, Good night! But if the wind of death, Should close forever from life's sight, These eyes, that glow with love of life, Before the spring: Good night! Printed by: M. Newnham 206 Clay Peters Bldg. Reno, Nev. (Stenographer)