Poetry from Robert Allan Beckvall

Stories From the Home Road

The escort was working with folks that had been ordered into a program for sexual offenders, and this is what they wrote:

Three Works By The Escort and Friends


Four kids from Brockton High decided to go to the haunted house where a family was murdered:

They decided to break things, until an old woman with dirty hair that covered her face and wearing a tattered gown, confronted them


Back in ‘89 I was lost and a little high

In the sky I never thought I would come down

Twisted mind, spinning everything

Clap, stomp, jump to the moon

Feel kind of dead, kinda loose

Kinda strange, drinkin’ my juice

You know I went loco

On my own like Al Capone

Fly low to the ground, died in the dirt

To die last or die first, heartburst



Women Mystery


Woman spy shot in action, work for the G.I. Joe.

Her daughter didn’t know what to do, so commited suicide, she died.



Line by Line, Cut by Cut, Slice by Slice


Captions for the horror/thriller paintings and drawings for a dark hallway, or, an eerily wistful gallery, painted in the frozen-arctic confines of a studio in Quebec.


The voice of the young girl said, “Tick Tack”


Instead of leaving the smashed eyes alone, he spit and peed on the eyes for ruining his shoes


The mom ran to the room, and saw a man with tentacle like arms holding her son


Then it suddenly stops, my world goes black

The mirror had reflected my worst nightmare


His family. . .decided to go camp at Yosemite National Park


A little while later they heard footsteps running towards them


That’s creepy, now everybody get out and stay out, “I’m sleeping!”



The Escort and Friends   2-17

The Escort wanders a Pacific Island, his friends are behind chain link fence and barbed wire.  The Escort hears the black/tan/white bird go click, click, click in the rain forest.  He reads the nightmares of their lives in secret documents, unleashed in the east-like a Judas Priest.