After leading our workshop at Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution, we drive sixty out of Pendleton over Deadmans Pass — the treacherous double-hair pin curved highway that gains over 2000-ft in elevation. Semi-trailers flash their hazards as they crawl alongside us. I find myself involuntarily narrowing my shoulders as if we are squeezing through a tight door jam. At this entrance into the Blue Mountains, a roadside pullout offers an extraordinary view of the lushly farmed valley and the rolling hills below. By making the trek monthly, we witness the drama produced by changing light. After a busy morning of preparing for our trip, the long drive to Pendleton, and the intense work of the writing workshop this final leg of the trip comes as a welcome relief. Some evenings as we ascend the pass, it seems like we are climbing straight into the stars. Late spring brings robust sunsets that defy a camera. Throughout our travel day our eyes search far out into the horizon. Nightfall arrives, narrowing the view and with it delivers a time for quiet reflection.

A painting and writing by WC Puppy Ponderosa:
Ponderosa pines rise high into the twilight sky.
Above, I behold, the story they told as night’s first stars emerge,
a tale of old, predating time.

From Jai’s Moon Cold Shoulder:
There are different forms of freezing,
The side of a hill, a mountain really
At mid-day surrounded by pine and ponderosa
February in the Rockies at base camp with friends.

From Aaron Grover’s Lower the Lights:
Lower the lights
Your radiance slay us
Is it not enough?
You push us to the fringe
That you illuminate our sins

From Philip Thornton’s Shadows:
These shadows taunt me
Just like the lights slipping by on that
Street on the other side of the gate
My life was such a mistake
Too many times I watched it all turn to ashes

Lua by Ian Lohrman:
full moon mother of emotional flux and reflux
your soft beam kneads my supple ocean
Your waxing and waning, the cadence of your lunation
pouring me through timeless hydrologic cycles of memory

And, Nightfall by Michael Stepina:
Between the motion of light and stillness of Dark
We find our resolution inside the spectrums of this prison.
Only in the middle of this perception,
Where light and dark are one
can there exist such a balance that has the power
to turn saints into sinners and sinners into saints.

As night falls, we find balance between light and dark, the certain and uncertain. We begin to wind our brains and our bodies down. It seems so natural to draw close as the light lowers. We circle up to conserve heat, our eyes search dark shadows, guarding our space to make certain that it is safe. We scour imagined darkness and finally close our eyes to dream. | TDS

I

It is not permission we seek.
In the effects of infinity within the constantly moving thin blade
Between the motion of light and stillness of Dark
We find our resolution inside the spectrums of this prison.
Only in the middle of this perception,
Where light and dark are one
Can there exist such a balance that has the power
to turn saints into sinners and sinners into saints.
One that turns chaos into order.
Rendering confusion and conflict into comprehension and
co-operation.
Creating a lasting love in the awakening consciousness
of the eternal recognition of each other in oneself
Giving birth to a mutual respect and peace.
No… It is not permission we seek.

II

The perfection of the life is a rendering of a painting filled with
many colors, shapes, and textures
intentionally unfinished by its creator.
Left purposefully to comprehend the possibilities and potential
of completion, to the creation itself.
Art is after all a rendition of the Artist and life is a continued
Journey of many experiences and discoveries of eternal growth
of the unknown and yet, to be seen within oneself.

III

We travel in time to places we forget and to places yet discovered
The day of today is far in the past.
The day of today is far in the future.
We travel in time as I sit here in place.
On a timeline of infinity, our bodies finite and fragile
The grudge, egotistically holds any it can hostage
with the pretense it’s keeping its victims safe.
Protecting the chosen from perceived “Them and They” threats.
Life is not personal, it happens to everyone.
And yet, the shadow of the Ego clenches its teeth and fist at
every perceived slight.
Life happens, mistakes are made in the footstep of stumbles
“Not all things deserve punishment, sometimes all that’s needed is
forgiveness.”
It’s hard to forgive.
It means one has to realize its own part and find understanding
It means one has to let go of whatever it’s holding on to.
It means one has to stop punishing, not only the other but oneself as well.
The Ego will always claim the right to be right, even when wrong.
Because of the Ego, “Everything is taken personally, but it is only in the
impersonal that we find solutions.”
On a timeline of infinity, we are but a blemish.
Yesterday was not guaranteed nor the time that is left.
Reconcile with the heart and everything beyond that …
Well, that’s up to you. | MS

Life lives by killing and eating itself, casting off death and being reborn like the moon.
Joseph Campbell

full moon mother of emotional flux and reflux
your soft beam kneads my supple ocean
your waxing and waning, the cadence of your lunation
pouring me through timeless hydrologic cycles of memory

steadfast, oldest friend of Earth
casting sideling glances in lakes and streams
your ludicrous scenes of tidal logic
remain emblazoned upon my mind

to you I surrender my illuminated soul
orbiting nights in vespertine slumber
into the lucid visionary dawnflash
of reflective solar radiance

I withdraw from this physical plane
and approach you with my entire being
to merge my multi-visaged rolodex
with the phantasmagoria of watery subconscious

your arc follows my sleep
your sleep follows my waking
your parables of increase and diminishment
invite me to explore the duality of my nature

within your pale albedo dreamworld’s
sleepy-eyed mirror of absurdity
I scry verities in dire need of discovery
retrieving the buried fragments of my refracted self. | IL

Lower the lights
Can’t you see
We are the dark
We are hopes lost

Lower the lights
Your radiance slay us
Is it not enough?
You push us to the fringe
That you illuminate our sins

Lower the lights
Given unto us this heavy burden
Life’s unwanted, broken
And discarded.

Lower the lights
For every mirror a daylight glimmer
Tears rain down in endless waves
Can’t you see
We are the dark
We are the reflection, Distorted. | AG

There are different forms of freezing,
The side of a hill, a mountain really
At mid-day surrounded by pine and ponderosa
February, in the Rockies at base camp with friends.

There are different forms of freezing,
In the cooler at the back of the restraint
Doing coke lines and whippets before a shift
Hooters premier managers training in June.

There are different forms of freezing,
slogging through the deluge gutters flooded
Rain coming down in sheets so wet you don’t care anymore
The car miles away on the tow hook in April of ’92.

There are different forms of freezing,
vacuous iridescent panoramas with no air turbulence
Seemingly infinite space between the two planets.
Their gravity entwined in November, but not quite working.

That’s what kind she was to me,
her moon cold shoulder turned away from my caress,
having murdered her consideration with my heavy rolling stone.
She became colder to me that last year than the former three. | JM

The shadow of these bars on the windows
make me think
So much of my life was a mistake.
So many times thriving on the pain.
So many times it was all insane.
These shadows taunt me.
Just like the lights slipping by on that
Street on the other side of the gate.
My life was such a mistake.
Too many times I watched it all turn to ashes.
Too many times my brain went insane.
So many shadows burned into faded
Memories
Now the shadow of bars on these
Window panes
Bring me a colder kind of pain. | PT

Ponderosa pines rise high into the twilight sky.
Above, I behold, the story they told as night’s first stars emerge,
a tale of old, predating time.
In this sight I delight in creator’s might
and overflow with rejoice.
From brow to feet, heart quickening fleet, I release
bonds of preconception.
At last, I stand fast, look forward not past, and ask,
“What purpose Impending?
Purpose is life, without is to die, or live deprived
and forlorn at best.” | WP

A week or two before Christmas, Aunt Mary emails me for my grandmother’s chocolate roll recipe. I love to look at Oma’s blue cursive; the efficiency in which ingredients and directions fit neatly on the 3x5 card. I am transported to her kitchen with its cool 1970s design. Completely instep with Julia Child’s gourmet revolution, Oma was lauded in St. Louis for her elegant dinner parties. I would watch her move about that kitchen, sifting cocoa and whipping egg whites. She sipped water from a little handled measuring cup made of tin that she kept on the kitchen sink’s windowsill. I question if she ever really needed those instructions — she moved with such confidence. The handwriting, the memory of that chocolate covered confection, all of it draws the past front of mind.

Stressla Lynn Johnson “Feasting on Memories” captures his childhood through the expectation of a Sunday sermon followed by the pure heaven of his grandmother’s banana pudding. “You see as a kid, Sundays were the day I knew that after sitting on those hard-unpadded church pews, listening to the Reverend preaching about heaven and hell, that I’d be off to Grandma’s house for our Sunday meal.” When we speak of his Grandmother’s house, I catch the glint of that little boy in Stressla’s eye as he describes her cooking. Fifty years later, he can still taste the two-layer chocolate cake that Grandma Jo Berta Jones would bake and display on the pedestal cake stand. Sitting together in our prison classroom, we share the alchemy of our grandmothers’ artistry.

In Phillip Luna’s “Because Waffles are More Interesting Than Pancakes” we now shift the view to that of a parent, far from his weekend ritual of making waffles with his son. Monday’s prison pancakes are a weekly reminder of the distance from those happier days. “Before I came to prison, I often made waffles with my son. He was little then, and making waffles was our weekend ritual. We would top the waffles with strawberries and whipped creme, or I’d let him fill the batter with chocolate chips. I remember my son’s delightfully shy, but sneaky personality. Waffles with chocolate chips felt like dessert for breakfast. We were breaking the rules and this was our mischief.” On Mother’s Day, Danny’s family will be cooking waffles with his mother. They will fire up waffle irons and fill their plates with the steaming waffles covered in butter and syrup or a smear of peanut butter.

Of my mother’s many achievements (hi Mom), mastering Oma’s chocolate roll was a hard-won victory — there is a lot of finesse getting a chocolate sponge cake to release neatly from a jelly roll pan and onto a tea towel. There is the rolling of the warm cake before it can be cooled, unrolled and filled with cream, and then rerolled — plated, and glazed in chocolate. It’s a simple concept but pulling off an elegant chocolate roll requires patience and just the right timing. Each Christmas when Aunt Mary asks, I look at the yellowed card and think that this will be the year that I whisk egg whites and fold them into the batter, sift cocoa on a tea towel, and release the perfectly cooked sponge. And year after year, the memories flood in. New ones are created. The season pasts and I refile the card. | TDS

Hey, let’s replay Mother, the radio show we made with our writers at Oregon State Penitentiary.

My prison serves pancakes on Mondays. I wish, sometimes, they would make waffles instead. Waffles are more interesting than pancakes.

Before I came to prison, I often made waffles with my son. He was little then, and making waffles was our weekend ritual. We would top the waffles with strawberries and whipped creme, or I’d let him fill the batter with chocolate chips. I remember my son’s delightfully shy, but sneaky personality. Waffles with chocolate chips felt like dessert for breakfast. We were breaking the rules and this was our mischief.

In prison, I have seen people add toppings to their pancakes. My neighbor adds slices of banana, peanut butter and chocolate syrup that he purchases from the commissary, the prison general store.

Prison food feels intentionally bad, and he says that by making the food good he is rebelling against the prison industrial complex. I think he is just hungry.

For me, the weekend-waffle-making ritual is a cherished memory. I remember once how I set his plate of waffles in front of my son and he showed me his tooth-missing smile. His smiles were the greatest compliments.

My neighbor makes his pancakes with a grin, not a smile.

I have been incarcerated for eleven years. Making waffles feels so long ago, but also like yesterday.

I worry that the routine of prison will be cement poured onto my soul, that I’ll become institutionalized and forget how to make decisions. I worry that I will become so regimented that if I don’t have pancakes on Mondays I’ll have a panic attack, and waffles will become an unthinkable breakfast option. For now, at least, I only miss waffles.

But to say I miss waffles feels particularly uncreative. As if the verb is not important enough to accurately describe my feelings. I may never eat another pancake without thinking of prison. Yet, I could eat waffles everyday for the rest of my life and somehow I would still miss them, because I cannot relive the moments with my son that have passed. | PL

It was only 7:15 in the morning, I was not even out of bed yet. I laid on top of my blankets staring at these spider-like cracks in the ceiling — cracks that looked like they were also waiting to be somewhere else. How was it possible for me to be this excited about a Sunday morning? Well, it was not just any Sunday morning for me. You see as a kid, Sundays were the day I knew that after sitting on those hard-unpadded church pews, listening to the Reverend preaching about heaven and hell, that I’d be off to Grandma’s house for our Sunday meal.

I remember the assortment of the food spread-out over the multicolored diamond imprinted tablecloth. An assortment that was-in-and-of-itself a work of art: seasoned collard greens, neck bones, pork-chops smothered in a mushroom gravy, dirty-rice peppered with sauteed chicken gizzards, fried chicken that could put Colonel Sanders out of business; ooh and that cornbread-looking up from the pan like ingots of 24-carat gold. The captivating mixture of aromas blanketing the rooms of the house in a festival of mouth-watering delicious delights.

All of this was only a prelude to what I had been thinking about since 7:15AM, as I laid staring at the cracks in my bedrooms’ ceiling. A bowl of Grandma’s vanilla wafer-banana cream pudding: creamy-smooth layers of joy that made me think: the bowl was too small; slices of bananas-wheels rolling around in creamy-vanilla-pudding almost daring me to swallow. Spoon-after-spoon of this earthy manna expertly made with Gramma’s hands of love.

Enjoying each spoon full, I recall how I would slow down as the pudding disappeared from the bowl. Even with all of the other food made with the same loving hands and heart, this banana pudding was the crowning jewel of Sunday’s meal at Grandmas’ house.

It would only be seven days until I’d be laying in my bed staring at the crack in the ceiling, preparing to tune out the threats of heaven and hell, and be once again, spoon in hand, enjoying Grandma’s banana pudding. | SLJ

A small tribute, written for my late friend

Jacob Harper died April 2, 2026. You may not have known the man, a great many things can be spoken of him for he was great. Not common by any sort, not by word, action or verse. The most wonderful thing about him was the way he lived. He loved to dabble, tinker, and craft. Much like a bard, he honored knowledge and wisdom putting his hand to many things. From sculpting to drawing, to his insatiable hunger for reading books. He would get excited to learn bits about anything. Dare you let him tinker, he could craft wood-carved amulet, a shelf, or repair my seventh pair of glasses (within the span of one year.) Like a dog with a bone, he enjoyed the hunt more than the challenge of new things. He certainly had a nose for procurement. Should I need yarn, glue, a certain type of pen … an ornament … he was known to find them. All he asked for was a little bit of time. Shame to think he has no more.

His handle was Boar, but you could never call him boring. Except for one time when we were playing Pathfinder and while he was running a game a player voiced they just wanted a hack and slash (after having four pages of storyline and ten sessions of play at the ready, he responded in kind.) We sat through four hours straight of dialogue using every trick in the DM book to avoid combat like the plague. Though he wasn’t bored. Such as it is. That was just downright mean! I liked to always say, he was organized chaos … he was mess in the sense that his drawer was mess, and he had been known to have his own sort of fun, but he stayed out of trouble.

People can say all sorts of things, but this much is true, he was the greatest of friends. He came to see me so many times in the hole, because he felt like a simple letter would not suffice. And the finesse to come see me once a week … I told you he was crafty. You could even be so bold as to call it art. Masterful, really.

You can’t know a man until you know the workings of his heart. On my honor, he never once stole, told a lie, or broke his world to me. He was kind, caring, and had a bigger heart than he needed. So just a little light on someone who truly brought me joy, as he did for many of you. | RPC

for Jacob Harper

Just glancing up, and what do I see?
I catch a glimpse of the souls of your feet.
An image burned indefinitely
One part of you from under the sheet.

Sleeping in peace far off from this place
In Abraham’s bosom till we all awake
Fly now free spirit, be gone from this place
Alive in a dream of heavenly grace.

A whole new adventure begins, does not end
Rejoined at last with your long-lost friend
A face to face chance for you to amend
The tragic mistake you could not reascend.

Heralding Angel doth freedom’s bell ring.
While my soul weeps I hope that yours sings
Ascending on high, look down at the scene
The dust where we rest until getting our wings.

The manna of Heaven is yours now to take
I hope it removes the world from your taste
Waste not a moment of thought on this place
Just focus on peace for all of our sake.

The smile on your face, dimply cheeks
The jolly expression you wore week to week
Who would have thought the last thing I’d see
One last passing glance, the souls of your feet. | WP

A lot of us are many miles from our kids, hours, states and even countries away from our loved ones. Some are fortunate enough to live in the same city, but the feeling of separation and distance still lingers in the heart of all of us who sleep behind these walls and in the hearts of our loved ones.

Some of us are able to call, have video visits, send letters, and some are not. They say that there are people that see the glass half full and others that see it half empty. It might be hard to focus on and see it half full when we can’t even contact our kids/loved ones but there are a few things we can do. That is the intention of this lesson/song/writing.

A friend of mine had a great idea. He could not get a hold of his kids when his ex-wife married someone else, so what he is doing is writing letters in a journal. Every time he thinks about his kids or dreams about them, he’ll write it in the journal. He shares when something exiting happens in his life and when he struggles and when he misses them. His hope is that one day, his kids will read his letters. If/when he reconnects with them, the journal will mean a lot more to them than the words “I always thought about you.” And it’s something that can be read again anytime, even years after he’s gone.

Some of us can make phone calls and have video visits but sometimes struggle to connect a little deeper over the phone. A friend of mine taught me the meaning of the word homeostasis. It pretty much means that people gravitate toward others that think or talk similarly and to other like-minded people. So the goal here is connect more is to find out what our kids like and dive into the topic, ask questions. Most people just want to be understood but we don’t put the effort to understand others. Ask open ended questions like “tell me about your day” instead of “how was your day?” I felt like I was pulling teeth trying to get my daughter to talk more. So, we played a game over the phone. Every time I asked her a question I was “throwing the ball” at her and she had to throw it back with her own question. After we “played,” I explained to her that when you want to carry on a conversation with someone, that’s how we “keep the ball rolling.” That was over two years ago and to this day if she asks something and I don’t open the conversation more she will tell me, “Dad, you got the ball.”

She loves singing but not in front of everyone. I asked her to go to a good hiding spot (she went to her closet) and we sang our favorite song together, Love by Keyshia Cole. Now we sing it regardless of who’s around. People will look at me all weird because I’m singing a love song on the phone and I could care less.

On Christmas, I schedule a video visit and have my mom set me up (on screen) against the wall. I’m just there and once in awhile they’ll come over and show me something they got, and we’ll share the excitement. On Thanksgiving I do a mailout and send chips and cheeze squeeze and we have nachos. On birthdays, I send a rack of cookies, and we have cookies and milk. Another thing we do is listen to music together on the phone. She will show me one new song, and I’ll show her a throwback from back in my day. Some days the conversation is nothing more than “I just wanted to tell you I love you and have a good night.” From time to time I’ll send a photo home or a random card for no reason, and she says she enjoys them. She has kept every single thing I’ve sent home over the years.

I ask from time to time, “what can I do to be a better dad?” or “what can I do to remind you that I love you?” or “what would you rather have, a 5 minute phone call or a letter and a picture?” or “would you rather have one video visit a month and less phone call time or no video visit but extra phone time?” My kids love video visits, so less phone was better for them, and we have one video visit each month. My son is a gamer so I ask him if he can show me any new games he’s playing. He usually gets super excited explaining how to level up and the upgrades he’s gotten, and it ends up being 28-minutes of watching him play video games and explaining something I don’t understand but I match his energy, and we bond over that. My daughter is into soccer and singing like me. We have a broader variety of topic, but lately she’s been showing me the latest Tic Tok dances and gets a good laugh watching her old man trying to do them.

There are many thing we can try to connect to our kids/loved ones. We have to think harder and put forth more effort — buy less at canteen and call more often. Even if most of the conversations aren’t super deep, there might/will be a day when they are having a rough day and you won’t miss that opportunity to be there for them. No matter how hard we try there are days where we feel useless as a parent and feel that we’ve let them down by being here. Seeing my daughter and son grow from two months old and one year old to 12 and 13 years old while in prison — I can say from experience that the ups and downs are inevitable. Just know the downs will pass and try to cherish the ups. Even if we are far from our kids, the little things you do will keep you close at heart. | LR

listen to miles apart

We’re miles apart … We’re miles apart …

“How good is dad from here?”
“You’ve been gone so many years”
I swear daily I hear
The devils whisper in my ear.

No, I can’t hold you when you’re scared.
No, I can’t turn the hands of time.
No, I can’t wipe away the tears.
When that first boy breaks your heart.

But I promise I’ll make a visit,
Every birthday and every Christmas.
I’ll always listen. It’s such a blessing
To be in your life …

We’re miles apart…
But when I close my eyes, I can feel you … in my arms.
We’re miles apart
But we share a laugh on the phone we’re … close at heart. | LR

EOCI contributers:
Ian Lohrman, Chris Ainsworth, Phillip Luna, Luis Rodriguez, and Kurtis Thompson.

During our workshop at MacLaren Youth Correctional Facility, last month, the young writers scribbled down either a white thing or a black thing on a card. From these seeds, sentences were constructed and collected, and then delivered to the PonyXpress writers across Oregon. The prompts circulated in our workshops and line by line they were organized like a Rubik’s cube in the writers’ nimble fingers. As we shared the results in our group, patterns would arise. At Snake River Correctional Institution (minimum) five of twelve writers focused on the line: “I wrote a letter to my brother.” Some writers found a poem by combining phrases, and some writers used one word as a starting point to take their writing into a deeper exploration. In all cases, Danny and I recognized the willing enthusiasm that everyone brought to this collaboration with the MacLaren folks. They recognized an opportunity in the exchange.

Nick from Oregon State Penitentiary included this note with his piece:
Look Young Brothers at MacLaren, you’ll get through this. I’ve been where you are before, literally. I’ve already been locked up for over 15 years of this life, but by the grace of God I found hope and I’ve got 5 years clean and sober, just as long without violence too. Things will get better, and there is hope for you too, so I’ll remind you home is where you feel love. It’s not a place, so search for love keep searching and keep your head up! You’ll get through this, just keep doing the next right thing, as much as you can. Much love and respect to the Young Bro’s at MacLaren.

Oregon State Penitentiary editor Stressla Lynn Johnson wrote An Invitation:
I wrote a letter to my brother,
In black ink, a few words to make him think,
My thoughts soared high above the cloud,
Whispering words falling to the ground ...

Brother from Snake River Correctional Institution:
I wrote a letter to my brother in black ink.
I wrote the words that were in my heart. The words
of forgiveness for the things that he’d done.

Also from Snake River, David Jackson’s Black Ink:
I wrote a letter to my brother in Black Ink —
Just think, I never knew I had a brother until last week
— Black Ink —

To My Brother by Travis Carroll at Snake River:
You’ve transcended to a level much higher than Raven flies.
When I think of you today, a tear descends from the corner of my eye.

From Coffee Creek Correctional Institution, Sequoiah Vannorsdall-Resendez’s I Write to You:
I write to you, brother, so you can hear me once again. Never forget, never let go. The gray of the pencil is too easily missed.

And Oregon State Penitentiary editor Dustin Smith focused his pen with Snow Blind:
It’s the beauty of the light
From a distant star, refracting
In multitudes and
Blinding in its brilliance.

Our office overflows with the creative work submitted in service to our youth outreach project. PonyXpress writers are generating letters and notes of encouragement for young people living in institutions. Better than any of us, these writers embody the experience of feeling far from home, from safety, from themselves. They also understand that a handwritten note held in a pocket helps bring a loved one close, and even a note from a stranger provides the reassurance: Someone cares that I am in the world. We return to MacLaren this week with a collection of this writing, along with personalized notes addressed to participants.

During the coming months, we adjust the aperture bringing the theme “Near and Far” in and out of focus. As we travel around the state to visit our prisons, we will continue to record what we see. When we stop along the road, Danny tends to capture sweeping views, the big Oregon landscape in front of us, while I like to study the ground at our feet. At 65 miles an hour, we scan the sky together for birds of prey and look for the mountain goats clambering up the hills just outside of La Grande — every sighting a good omen. | TDS

The paper is white,
it invites me to write
a thought, an idea of
something new...
I wrote a letter to my brother,
In black ink, a few words to make him think,
My thoughts soared high above the cloud,
Whispering words falling to the ground ...
Looking at the Raven that flies very high,
I embraced a sweet tear that had escaped my eyes.
The paper is still white,
It invites me to write ... | SLJ

Snow is a contradiction;
A juxtaposition between
Beauty and ugliness/
Life and death/
The liberation of silence
And the bondage of noise.

It’s the absolute stillness of the world.
The quiet hush of the infinitesimal
Flakes softly touching down.
Each a unique crystalline lattice
Lasting only for a moment;
Nature’s perfect mandala
Blanketing the world.

It’s the warmth of blood
Rushing to rosy red cheeks
In the frigid air;
Reminding us of the life vigorously
Thrumming through our bodies.

It’s the beauty of the light
From a distant star, refracting
In multitudes and
Blinding in its brilliance.

It’s also the oppressive
Black and grey storm
Of the channel unattended.
The desolation of the late-night hour.
The pixelated blizzard
That signifies nothing.

It’s the scream of static,
Constant and piercing.
The weight of isolation,
Smothering in its heft.
The vast noise of disconnection
Blinding us to each other. | DS

I write to you, brother, so you can hear me once again. Never forget, never let go. The gray of the pencil is too easily missed. So, I write this as bold as it shows. I know you can heal me, but I no longer heal you. One should never be older than their older brother, but here we are, another year apart. I wonder if when the time comes, it will seem like no time has passed. I wonder what you have been doing with our time, as I always told you about mine. I write to you in black ink, in hopes you’ll do the same.
| SVR

A letter to my brother from the pen in black pen.

You’ve transcended to a level much higher than Raven flies.
When I think of you today, a tear descends from the corner of my eye.
I strain to stifle the flood that may ensue
at the painful realization of this world without you.
All that is your essence I do miss.
A smile no parts my lips, as the tear drips.
So bittersweet to reminisce.
Deep in my heart and mind you still exist.

RIP my Brother Jeffrey Mansfield, from your brother with love. | TC

I wrote a letter to my brother in black ink.
I wrote the words that were in my heart. The words
of forgiveness for the things that he’d done.

How you were there for me.
How you also weren’t there for me.
My heart hurts, the pain inside.
When you wish death upon me.
When I committed my crime.
You showed me your pain
from the words you said.
The finger you pointed,
the communication that is
you never respond.
You fought me what I know
Good and Bad
So much inside.
I forgive you so
I Love you big brother
I always have
I’ll never give up on you
Until we meet again. | ANONYMOUS