Deer Ridge Correctional Institution sits just outside of Madras, Oregon, a farming community tucked in the Cascade Mountains. The minimum-security facility reads like a corporate campus with its low-slung buildings and a central courtyard that affords views of Mount Jefferson and the three Sisters. Last fall, we made a mission of recording our fifth edition of the PonyXpress Radio Series. A grant from Roundhouse Foundation in Sisters seeded the creation of this writing group, at the beginning of 2025 and we’ve been meeting monthly ever since.

Brock Lee, David Sankey, Jazzy Jeff, OH!, Ryan Brooks, Steven Leech, Richard Owens, Andrew Morrow, Thomas Derr, and Ricky Fay gathered around the microphone to record songs, poems, and perform a dramatic reading of Fay’s short story Meow. Bringing recording equipment into prison requires special authorization, thank you to our administrative liaison Brandon Duncan for making the process seamless.

LISTEN TO BATTLES & SONGS

Bonus round: Lost Script of the Villain by Ricky Fay, our memoirist who pulls forward childhood tales and family legends with humor and many, many asides. | TDS

It was the low-budget side yard equivalent of a classic old silent Western, complete with nearly every stereotype one might imagine and several no one ever should.

The filming instrument itself was the temperamental star of our production. Until I was in the fourth grade, we had a silent movie camera that could record only about two minutes of action before the reel required a swapping out. That meant any film shoot had to be extremely economical, with no room whatsoever for outtakes or bloopers. By far the most irritating feature of the camera, as far as kids were concerned, was the light attachment^[1]. Thankfully, filming outdoors on a bright summer’s day negated the need for this heat ray.

Nearly every event recorded by our camera (birthday parties, camping trips, play dates with other youngsters, soccer games, excursions to the pumpkin patch, extended family gatherings) was carefully choreographed by our mother. Rarely did the reel begin rolling until the set was firmly under her charge. That our father controlled was the delicate, unwieldly apparatus itself went unquestioned, but our mother was his co-director, responsible for casting, costumes, catering, and script supervision. She developed such confidence with regards to coordinating these departments that she soon began writing her own film treatment — and what a legendary film it became.

Technically and eventually, the script greenlit by the respected studio of Fay Family Productions became known as Superfriends to the Rescue. But in our family lore, it has long been referred to by the character who completely stole every scene he was in: The Villain.

Mom’s inaugural treatment was loosely based on a film we’d all watched together on our Quasar television set. The original starred Kirk Douglas as a hapless Old West bandit opposite a capable Ann-Margret, and cast (somewhat incredibly) as a bumbling would-be hero, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Our parents found the story endearing and their kids repeatedly cracked up over its many minutes of comic relief. This broad, multi-generational appeal must have inspired our mother to concoct a similar script of her own, starring her husband and offspring. We were the studio’s first Nepo Babies.

She’d overseen the filming of countless documentaries previously, but our mother considered this to be her directorial debut. Setting the standard for later Hollywood moguls like Quentin Tarantino, M. Night Shyamalan, and Peter Jackson, she not only wrote and directed action backstage, but stepped out from behind the camera for an onscreen cameo as well. Her small yet critical role called for her to witness a horrific crime, then summon the film’s unlikely heroes and point them toward their destinies. “Unlikely” only because the script was originally written and marketed as a Western.

My brother Jim and I (ages three and five respectively) were the typecast divas who refused to break character, even when the camera wasn’t rolling. Our method tactics were the result of a sneaky, successful, years-long ploy on our mother’s part to persuade us to voluntarily don “dress up” clothes for Sunday mass and formal events by convincing us we were superheroes in disguise^[2]. Her strategy worked so well it occasionally backfired. In this instance, we balked at the chance to play cowboy heroes, insisting instead on our comfortable roles of Batman and SuperJim. Her rational explanations that these characters did not exist in the Old West fell on deaf ears, prompting the script’s first rewrite and eventual title change. We were now filming a science-fiction film of sorts, a bizarrely anachronistic plotline where genres collided.

To Jim and me, however, nothing could have made more sense. After all, when we returned home from church each Sunday, we rushed to the television with our capes to catch the final minutes of action^[3] depicted on old Batman reruns starring Adam West. The conclusion of this show was followed immediately by episodes of The Lone Ranger, so in our minds, we sincerely believed the mythology of the Old West and that of the DC Superhero universe to be inextricably intertwined.

Our father, it was decided, would play the unofficial titular role of The Villain, a hilarious casting decision for one of the kindest, gentlest people I’ve ever known. However, his jet-black mustache provided a handy natural prop for communicating nefarious intent to silent movie audiences with naught but a simple twirl. A matching black cowboy hat helped him lean further into the stereotype. A cape around his shoulders may have broken with the Old West theme, but bridged the gap toward the superheroes with whom he’d soon be doing battle.

Our baby sister, walking but not yet speaking, played the Damsel in Distress. It was her job to wail and appear terrified when The Villain arrived to kidnap and carry her away to his lair, no doubt planning to hold her for some exorbitant ransom. This was outstanding work by the casting department. Screaming and crying were the two things at which Annie excelled.

******

Flash forward to green carpet premiere night^[4]. Imagine a Portland living room, the sound of our father fumbling in the dark with the old Bell & Howell movie projector. Then a click and whir as the film catches and is pulled through the machine. “He’hey!” he calls out, Dad’s trademark celebratory phrase^[5]. A whiff of heated celluloid wafts across the audience’s noises half a beat before the fuzzy rectangle of projected light next to the fireplace hearth fills with colorful silent figures.

Remember, all our hard work had to be condensed to a running time somewhere in the range of two minutes. (Caveat: subsequent scene descriptions and time estimations are from memory and approximate.)

Old Silent Movie Card Displayed: Fay Family Productions Presents... {2 sec.}

Another Title Card: “Superfriends to the Rescue” {3 sec.}

A Third Card: “Once Upon a Time... On a Beautiful Day Near the Border of Gotham City and Metropolis...” {4 sec.}

Live Action shot of our mother and Annie hosting a tea party in the sideyard sunlight. Our mother is smiling broadly, speaking energetically, and gesticulating frenetically, as if having any other normal conversation in her life. Annie grins sweetly in her Little House on the Prairie dress and bonnet, not entirely certain why the paparazzi is so interested in this particular tea party. {4 sec.}

Cut to a shot of our father, a beach blanket tied around his neck to simulate a cape, a black cowboy hat atop his head to drive the spike home on his status as an Old West bad guy. His mustache gleams, filled with some type of shiny grease (more likely Brylcreem than Valvoline, but who can remember?). He stands sort-of facing the lens, chatting amiably with someone off-camera, then twirls his mustache with a raffish charm. Here is the celebrated anti-hero of the studio franchise. {3 sec.}

Cut back to the tea party. Critics or hunters of editing mistakes will notice how Annie is now inexplicably sitting alone at the table with her dollies and plastic crockery^[6]. Suddenly, our sister’s face splits with an enormous grin and silent squeal of abject delight (a strange theatrical choice from an actor meant to be conveying abject terror) as she sees her daddy swoop toward her like a swooping hawk, his cape billowing and flowing behind. He bends to gently scoop his hostage out of her chair, then races away from the camera lens across the lawn. Annie’s tiny face is clearly visible above The Villain’s shoulder and the audience can watch her setting the world record for speediest onset of Stockholm Syndrome. She is howling with thrilled laughter, bobbing above her kidnapper’s shoulder as he bundles her away to captivity. All of this action somehow takes no longer than {6 sec.}.

Cut to a shot of The Villain typing his captive to the twisted, bending trunk of the flowering Tamarisk^[7] that dominated the front yard. Annie is still giggling, but mild confusion is beginning to creep across her face^[8]. {3 sec.}

Silent Film Action Card: “Meanwhile, at Wayne Manor...” {2 sec.}

Live Action shot of Jim and me in our Sunday clothes (sweaters, clip-on ties, corduroys, combed hair!) relaxing on the elevated main platform of the Jungle Gym. Bruce Wayne (me!) is reading the financial section of The Gotham Daily Newswhile Clark Kent struggles to open and refold The Daily Planet. {3 sec.}

Cut to a shot of our mother hysterically boo-hooing at the sight of Annie’s kidnapping. {3 sec.}

Cut back to Wayne Manor, where Clark Kent’s superhearing picks up cries of distress. He tosses his paper aside (he’d been reading it upside-down) and alerts Bruce Wayne. {5 sec.}

Cut to Superfriends tearing off their Sunday Best, revealing their superhero identities and homemade, safety-pinned capes. They debark the Jungle Gym (one via the fire pole, the other down a slide). {This is a longer reveal, maybe 8 sec.}

Cut to Batman (me!) and SuperJim racing across the lawn to the scene of the crime. Well, Batman races and SuperJim ‘flies’, his arms extended out in front of him as he simulates soaring in low-level flight. {3 sec.} ...... Wait!!! Was I on my Big Wheel low-rider tricycle? I seem to recall a heated argument with the director(s) that Batman would never merely run when he could fire up his Batmobile... not sure if that take made it into the final cut, though...

Cut to Superfriends interrogating the distraught witness (our mother), who dabs her eyes with a handkerchief as she weeps and describes Annie’s abduction. At one point, she grits her teeth, hunches her shoulders, and attempts to convey to the audience the menacing nonverbal idiosyncrasies of The Villain, including several pantomimed twirls of her imaginary mustache. All of this is performed with such vim and sped-up gusto that, but for it being filmed in color (and the presence of two pint-sized superheroes wearing capes in the foreground), one might almost believe this was truly a turn-of-the-century Tinseltown frontier drama. {Miraculously, only 6 sec.}

Silent Film Dialogue Card: “Oh, Won’t You Heroes Please Save Our Sweet Little Damsel In Distress?” {3 sec.}

Close-Up Hero Shot of SuperJim and Batman, swirling panoramic worthy of Michael Bay cinematography. The Superfriends flex our tiny muscles, then race out of frame to save the day. {5 sec.}

Cut to Annie stretching out her petite arms through the ropes and bawling for help^[9]. {3 sec.}

Silent Film Dialogue Card: “Help me, Superfriends!” {2 sec.}

Cut to SuperJim and Batman tackling The Villain, bowling him over and pinning him down. For some reason, this scene was shot more than once and from multiple angles, so it looks like an Instant Replay in sports. {About 6 sec.}

Cut to Superfriends untying Annie, who continues to wait. Once freed from her bonds, she staggers right past her rescuers out of frame to immediately begin years of therapy. {5 sec.} Her facial expressions are completely incompatible with a happy ending, creating a massive, unanticipated plot hole and necessitating the insert of another hastily-scrawled...

Silent Film Dialogue Card “Thank you Superfriends! You’re true heroes!” {2 sec.}

Cut to final live scene of the film — Batman and SuperJim tying The Villain to the Monster Tree. {5 sec.}

Silent Film Card: THE END {2 sec.}

The remainder of the reel was supposed to be devoted to the film’s closing credits:
Director(s), Writer, Cast, and Crew. Astonishingly, there are still two seconds of film left on the reel, so actors get back into costumes for one more out-of-sequence bonus shot of SuperJim and Batman tackling The Villain again.

The reel runs out. The tail end of loose film slaps ferociously, then gently against the projector as our father incrementally powers down the machine and the fuzzy rectangle of light reappears on the wall.

The audience goes wild with applause, which reaches a heretofore unknown level of feral enthusiasm when the projector operator’s shadow moves unexpectedly into the light and dons a recognizable cowboy hat. The cloaked silhouette raises a hand to slowly curl his mustache with sinister intent. From somewhere in the darkened room, a previously calm Damsel now shrieks with Distressed glee. Two other anonymous audience members scramble to frantically find our capes.

Somehow, Superfriends to the Rescue (The Villain) will go down as one of the most blatant, egregious snubs in Academy Award history.

******

Decades later, a strange family Tradition would arise which resurrected the legend of The Villain. Mom decided her firstborn was allowed to bring a new girlfriend over to the house twice before she felt ethically obligated under the Truth in Advertising Act to reveal just what this young woman might be signing up for. I continued to walk blithely into this trap over and over, which demonstrates either my extreme naiveté or a penchant for psychotic masochism. After dinner we’d be ushered to the living room, where the lights would dim and the fuzzy rectangle would appear. A carefully selected series of action-packed home movies would then be screened, revealing the true depth of silliness hardwired into Fay DNA. The grand finale would inevitably be Superfriends to the Rescue (The Villain).

(In an unrelated and totally unforeseeable coincidence, my romantic relationships generally survived only a matter of days following these exclusive screenings.)

Jim was far more savvy, only once bringing home a girlfriend, and then waiting until after they were already engaged. By the time she witnessed her first Fay Family Production, the church had been reserved and the invitations sent — making it much too late for her to back out gracefully.

Word from afar is that the three offspring of that union have since been press-ganged into many loosely scripted films of a similar nature, all overseen by the watchful eye of Fay Family Productions. No word yet on any responses or recognition from the Academy. | RF

[1] The device bore a striking resemblance to a 19^th century miner’s lantern, and it burned with the fury of a thousand suns. The joy attached to Christmas mornings when we were young was always muted with the knowledge that we’d be immediately blinded the second we appeared in the living room to survey our colorfully-wrapped loot. Any silent home movie filmed inside with this equipment invariably begins with everyone onscreen holding up their hands to shield their eyes from the overpowering glare.

^[2] Mom’s argument was logical: Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent never objected to wearing clean, buttoned shirts, pressed slacks, or ties. These items were simply a form of deep cover, allowing their secret identities to blend into polite society. Her elaborate scheme didn’t stop there. She sewed each of us a personalized superhero cape which she’d offer to affix to our shoulders with safety pins only after we’d returned home from some “dress up” occasion where we’d behaved properly.

^[3] POW! BLAM! CRASH!

^[4] The green shag carpeting in our living room was exceedingly comfortable to lie on. As far as we were concerned, Hollywood could keep their red carpets.

^[5] After literally decades of hearing our father emit his joyful noise, this historian finally asked him to explain himself. What was it? And how on earth would one spell it? He was almost insulted — it was his impression of Henry Winkler’s character (Arthur “The Fonz” Fonzarelli) on Happy Days, of course! Knowing this is what he was going for, one must admit his adaption bears some resemblance, but only if the Fonz suddenly developed a constant, lovable stutter. In any case, it makes him happy to say, it makes us happy to hear it, and who are any of us to judge?

^[6] Some adult had to handle the bulky yet fragile movie camera, and Dad was already in the scene. So Mom’s character stepped away briefly, hoping no one would notice. Unfortunately everyone did.

^[7] This is a footnote (almost worthy of its own story) about the “Monster Tree,” as we kids affectionately called the Tamarisk, because:

a) ‘Tamarisk’ is really hard to say when you’re a toddler, and

b) we were then at ages which limited our involvement in serious yard maintenance, so it was easy to be cluelessly affectionate about a tree that required such a ‘monstrous’ degree of upkeep.

By the time we were old enough to discover the nickname we’d been using was actually a gentle curse invented by our parents, the name was too deeply embedded in our vocabulary for a change to be made. The resilient Monster Tree survived countless winter storms, getting flattened under sleet and ice until its height dropped from about fifteen feet to maybe five, but it always managed somehow to bounce back. It loomed, scraggly and ominous, fuzzy and comforting, near the edge of our property, a sort of botanical Green Monster between the foul lines of Fay Stadium. (Given that our mother grew up in the suburbs of Boston, being involuntarily dragged to Red Sox games at Fenway Pahk on occasion, is it possible one nickname influenced the other?) Wiffle balls lost in its impenetrable tangle of branches resulted in an official time out and a ground-rule double. Matchbox cars and He-Man figurines regularly patrolled its nooks and crannies. None of this really relates to the film, aside from the fact that, in faithfulness to the genre, Dad had to tie Annie to something and, as our yard didn’t include railroad tracks, the Monster Tree was probably our most recognizable landmark, other than maybe the Jungle Gym in the backyard. As you’re about to learn, the film’s location scout had already designated this for a different purpose.

^[8] I don’t recall this at all, but our parents claim that as this scene was being blocked and shot, multiple neighborhood cars slowed to catch a closer glimpse of the infant being bound to a tree by a mustachioed, caped outlaw. If this would have been filmed today, all sorts of online videos shot by Karens with cell phones would have doubtless flooded social media, halting production altogether until local police could sort out the mess or/and leading to a #boycott of the premiere, but this was 1983.

^[9] This shot was captured completely out of context. Annie was perfectly content to remain tied to the Monster Tree indefinitely, so long as her kidnapper lingered nearby. Patty Hearst would have been proud. Once her captor stepped away (to pick up the camera again), she turned into a blubbering mess.

My dad trained us in the art of backward planning. The calculation is as straightforward as it sounds: What time are you expect (per Dad on time = five minutes early) and how long will each step take along the way? Dad developed his signature technique while he was away at school with the sole purpose of staying in bed until the very last possible moment without being docked at breakfast. As an adult, I’ve found this mindset particularly useful for long range project planning. I can’t recall having a conversation with Danny about backward planning, but I suspect that he may have received similar parental instruction from Coach Wilson. We run the numbers the night before every trip … and thankfully, they align, including the window for catching a flight.

Travel time is on my mind as we are in Chicago for the Bridging the Gap: Amplifying Incarcerated Voices conference hosted by Haymarket Book. The nervous excitement of visiting a new city comes with the anticipation of discovery, which often flies in the face of those tidy timing calculations. Nine minutes of walking in a familiar neighborhood adds up differently than those nine minutes picking your way along a city street. In preparation for our journey, I scoured online maps to look at routes and strategies (bus, train, car?) to maximize the adventure. As I researched, it struck me that Danny and I first met traveling. We are talking about a time long before cell phones and the internet. In college we bumbled with our classmate onto ferries and buses through the Greek islands with little language skills (less sense), a handful of traveler’s cheques, and a Fodor’s guide between all of us.

We’ve been exploring ideas of far and near the past few months. Travel is measured differently for our writers — they know the measure of the track, how much time it takes from yard to cell, cell to chow. This carceral experience of time and distance feels completely foreign, and for some never becomes natural. In the static space of prison, one’s discoveries are pathways measured by internal scales — the backward planning to reclaiming self. It is work that can take a person further than any plane flight.

Amir’Whadi Hassan’s Far and Near:
The distance seems so far, although it is
so near.
A transition of space through time.
First step: Is the thought to move forward
Into the vast distance.
Second step: Movin’ further into the distance
a step away from which I began.

R. Miranda’s I Have Spoken:
There are things I have experienced
that seek not the light of day,
things that are shameful,
life defining,
mournful in the saddest way.

A Flash of Insight by Ryan Poffenberger:
I hope to create a movement of inspirational healing for others in the world — especially those men and women who may be consumed by their own mental barriers or immediate prison walls.

From the deep shadows of the mind to the bright light of discovered purpose, our writers are working to reconcile their life experiences and their aspirations. They make themselves vulnerable to reach our readers far beyond the walls that hold them.

Melissa Black’s Beholden:
Your hand sitting on the table
towards me
expressive.

Ian Lohrman’s Path:
stepping along serpentine pathways
guided true and fearlessly availing
leaving everything behind
as my symbolic eternal gesture.

As for our path, this conference provides an opportunity to meet and learn from publishers, journalists, writers, advocates who have been long engaged in making platforms for people who are incarcerated. Thank you to the Mervyn Seldon Charitable Arts Trust for travel funds that made this trip possible. | TDS

“A good person dyes events with his own color … and turn to whatever happens to his own benefit.”
— Seneca

Coming to prison and learning how to nurture humility and understanding that’s speaking the truth about my generational trauma and the pain I have endured is my weight carry and use my platform to share my adversarial and post-traumatic growth.

As I am learning to embody the trait of expressing my authentic journaling, I am creating opportunities for others, as well as designing my own system of care through my motivational stories. I hope to create a movement of inspirational healing for others in the world — especially those men and women who may be consumed by their own mental barriers or immediate prison walls.

I am humbled that I have been strategically picked by a much greater force to be a physical example of despair and destiny. My unique but reliable journey in life brings diversity and courage into leadership. I now walk, talk and breathe and represent that transformation that is within every individual’s reach. No matter how broken and haunted your background may be!

Change is possible. | RP

The distance seems so far, although it is
so near.
A transition of space through time.
First step: Is the thought to move forward
Into the vast distance.
Second step: Movin’ further into the distance
a step away from which I began
Third step: Draws me closer to the realization
that in order to reach my destination.
The fourth step: Must be taken in order to reach
The fifth step: and be nearer to completion became after
The sixth step: The final step

Completes the Journey to Self Love.
Step one: Mental Health
Step two: Emotional Intelligence
Step three: Spiritual Health and Enlightenment
Step four: Self Respect
Step five: Value of Self (self worth)
Step six: Self Acceptance
Step seven: Faith
What seems so far, yet it is so near
once you take the first step
toward Self Love.
Salam | AH

“When you are on a journey, and the end keeps getting further and further away, then you realize that the real end is the journey.”
Karlfried Graf Durckheim

supernal mother, see me as I am
understanding, in this glow world’s gleaming
a new purpose every moment
a deep acceptance in my veins

stepping along serpentine pathways
guided true and fearlessly availing
leaving everything behind
as my symbolic eternal gesture

sure strength in my fibers
a forking road, through the
varied landscapes in ancient rite
of gaining remembrance

in the trifle of my days
pocketing each precious treasure
like hopstones along the river
hand in hand we grow | IL

There are things I have experienced
that seek not the light of day,
things that are shameful,
life defining,
mournful in the saddest way.

I dare not give them life
through oral words or phrase,
so in the shadows of my mind
is where they opt to stay,
well-hidden until the moment’s dead!

Some things are better left unsaid. | RM

Interactions between us, appreciated.

Your hand sitting on the table
towards me
expressive.

Suggestive companionship,
unless I’m day dreaming.

Interactions between us, appreciated
my heart feels affectionate gratitude.

Admiration to you, for being the bridge
to understanding me.

Your time is beholden. | MB

CIRCLES.

“Certain kinds of black men’s stories,” Elizabeth Alexander once wrote, “are ever in vogue, stories that offer the easy paradigms of criminality and putative redemption.” My life and career after prison bore that out. When I came home, I confessed my crime to anyone who would listen, emphasizing my mastery of what I called the three R’s of rehabilitation: regret, remorse, responsibility. I pursued achievements that I thought would validate me in the eyes of others. I earned a bachelor’s degree, wrote an award-winning poetry collection and had a memoir about my time behind bars published. My story brought me recognition, but my writing often felt like a return to the scene of the crime. I didn’t realize how, in telling my story of redemption, I was also internalizing the state’s judgment of me as a threat.
“A Gun Derailed My Childhood. As An Adult I Found Relief at the Range.”
by Reginald Dwayne Betts
New York Times Magazine, May 17, 2026

We carry Betts’s books of poetry in and out of prison to use in our workshops. I admire the nimble movement of his phrases on the page and his unblinking honesty. Betts is the kind of poet who holds our writers’ attention. At sixteen he fell and served little over eight years of a nine-year sentence. Upon release, he propelled himself from prison cell to college, to Yale Law School, to acclaim as a poet, MacArthur Fellow, and now he engages in acts of service through his Freedom Rings project (installing beautifully constructed and appointed libraries in prisons across the country.) While, these accomplishments are impressive to our writers, they are most compelled by the seamless construction of his writing as it weaves his carceral history into life outside the walls. Here is a poet who sees with their eyes.

Throughout the “Gun Derailed” essay, I circle back to Betts’s “Three R’s of rehabilitation: regret, remorse, responsibility.” These themes cycle prominently in our workshop conversations. You see, the label “felon” leaves sticky bits of fear and shame to the story, and as Betts describes even his accomplishment can’t quite wipe away the residue. When I read this story of an exceptional man, I think of the incredible pressure placed on returning citizens. If a MacArthur Genius can’t crack the stigma ?!! … the question plagued me and so I brought it to this week’s workshop. We discussed the Betts article and then, I asked the participants to weigh the extraordinary against the ordinary and write about their relationship to it. In one conversation we discussed how the everyday view of the mountains seen from the prison yard in Madras would be awe-inspiring for a person at Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem. In response to Betts’s biography, OH! from Deer Ridge wrote this passage about his childhood:

Gosh, I was a bright child is what comes to mind. How do I know? Cause I was told and acknowledged all the time. I miss that child. I wasn’t so much a nerd but more like a scholar, loving to learn every minute of every hour. My brain was my tower or power. I was always ready for praise cause I did what was right (that’s just the way I was raised) until I met my rival, abuse and being afraid. No longer wanting to shine to not be noticed and keeping a target of my behind. My mind’s decline began when I would hide and think of crimes. Unknown to me, they were ways of protection — a way to seek attention and affection. Instead, I became infected, bright as a blacklight.

When OH! finished reading, there was a collective exhale in the room. We listened with rapt attention as we considered a child’s bright light taking a different cast when it was exposed to abuse. In these moments, we feel the profound good fortune to have meet, even if the conditions are less than ideal. Our quiet poet, OH! has let us in a little bit closer and it is extraordinary.

RINGS.

Everyone needs a reason to remember,
Even if remembering brings about tears.
Shahid will tell you he knows the ugliest among
to be a rugged child to disappear, &
Still failed to vanish, breaking great with men
Who carried life sentences like clichés
— Rings, Reginald Dwayne Betts

This collection of writing is a circulatory system of memories and feelings evoked by the poem, Rings from Reginald Dwayne Betts’s latest book Doggerel.

Dustin Smith from Oregon State Penitentiary writes Rings/Memory:
I remember my father’s rings most of all. He was a reserved man. He didn’t ascribe to any ostentation. He learned, as we all do, to build up walls too high to see over. The barbarians at the gates can be kept outside if he built his walls high enough. Yet, I always remember the rings.

You See the Ring by Yeyin Chin at Oregon State Penitentiary:
Before you die, you see the ring …
O-rings, glow rings, sucker pop rings and “bling” rings,
these are a few of my favorite things.

Jesse James Jimenez from Snake River writes Alone:
Alone.
The Most Comforting Feeling.
No Worries Of Life And Death.
Without Responsibility To Another.

Robert Tsow writes Walls and Fences from Snake River:
You see believe it or not through incarceration we learn our self-worth, just because we’re in this predicament we shouldn’t be kicked to the curb, no we shouldn’t be stripped away from equal opportunity that we deserve, these walls & fences puts us through trials & and tribulations

Michael Stephina from Snake River writes Rings:
This day comes to be yesterday,
Where do I find you?
I look forward only to see the past
It reminds me of why I can’t find you.

Grandmother’s Rings by Le’Var Howard at Oregon State Penitentiary:
My grandmother was wise and has always told me she sees too much of her daughter in me. Things I would do or how I fell in love with melodies, music. She sat up in the living room of our small apartment, waiting all night playing with her purse. She knew her words were echoing in my head, that she had touched my heart, and I didn’t know what to do with my guilt.

This is how love brings
You to tears. Some of us accumulate
Rings like dogs, each finger holding its own
Promise & history.
— Rings, Reginald Dwayne Betts

Alone.
The Most Comforting Feeling.
No Worries Of Life And Death.
Without Responsibility To Another.
Able To Move Freely Within The World.
Hunger Being A Familiar Feeling.
Violence Is A Calming Sound Like A Missed Relative.
Completely At Peace In The Chaos Like The Eye Of A Storm.
Tomorrow Is A Better Day.
Why Is The Feeling Then Fear.
Hunger Is Gone And Replaced With Terror.
The Sun Is Shining And Inside Is Anger.
Warm Bed And Feeling Disdain. | JJJ

I remember my father’s rings most of all. He was a reserved man. He didn’t ascribe to any ostentation. He learned, as we all do, to build up walls too high to see over. The barbarians at the gates can be kept outside if he built his walls high enough. Yet, I always remember the rings. Little bits of ornamentation that he felt safe enough to share. They meant something to him… and so they mean something to me. Rough, calloused hands. Gnarled and hard from a lifetime of work and fighting to survive. I can still see the wrinkles, creases, and oft-broken knuckles; sitting underneath the knuckles, beautifully crafted gold and rubies, softening the rocky granite that they rested on. Those hands were hard, but I always remember them softly. Those hands that broke faces and crafted adult things were tender too. I see these rings still, resting upon my shoulders as my dad leaned down to kiss me on the crown of my head. I see these rings reaching out to me to help me back up. I see these rings feeding a family, making sure we were alright. I see these rings in memories of what it means to be a man. To live. To love. I see these rings in my dreams. | DS

This day comes to be yesterday.
Where do I find you?
I look forward only to see the past.
It reminds me of why I can’t find you.
Maybe you are not looking LOOK AT ME!
Look at me!
I look, you look, still nothing to be
seen.
Look up and out. What’s this
Reflection in that shadow of a silhouette
Step closer.
Eye wide shut.
No open them!
See it, see it! Turn on the light of your Mind Heart Spirit.
It’s you, it’s me.
I see me.
Eye see you.
We are
The key
You find ME
Eye find you
Find...... What you truly need. Not what you want.
Love is perception
You are not alone... not today,
Eyes are with you | MS

Before you die, you see the ring …
O-rings, glow rings, sucker pop rings, and “bling” rings,
these are a few of my favorite things.
The hills are alive with the sound of my musing…
One right, two ring, three ring, four,
I trip over a ring painted on the court.
Rings around my wrist, rings about my eyes,
I wring out my laundry and leave it to dry. | YC

I had never seen my grandmother hurt before. Not emotionally, not by me. I felt so bad. I wanted to cry. My grandmother was wise and has always told me she sees too much of her daughter in me — things I would d or how I fell in love with melodies, music. She sat up in the living room of our small apartment, waiting all night playing with her purse. She knew her words were echoing in my head, that she had touched my heart, and I didn’t know what to do with my guilt. She also knew I couldn’t sleep without talking to her. I came from my bedroom, my little brother, JK was sound asleep. My eleven-year-old heart was ticking and pounding in my little chest and my socks tracked through a thick hallway carpet. “Grandma?” I said almost pathetically. I can’t remember if she answered, but I do remember apologizing over and over. “You’ll never steal from me again?” she said. “NO!!” I said, “No! I’m sorry.” She knew I meant it. She knew I would never do this again. I think she understood my mistake, my rush and eagerness, eager to impress. I had stolen my grandmother’s diamond and ruby red ring to give as an offering to a young girl, a fellow classmate at Irvington Elementary. To her surprise, she accepted the large ring, but when her mother saw she had to use two fingers to wear the right I’d given her, she had to find out where it came from. She gave me up, and that night I learned the value of being trustworthy and accepting responsibility. | LH

Behind these walls & fences I see a lot of people who made poor decisions, but even through these felony convictions they show time after time after time that they’re so relentless.

You see behind these walls & fences our potential is hidden, stripped away from American citizens.

You see (believe it or not) through incarceration we learn our self-worth, just because we’re in this predicament we shouldn’t be kicked to the curb, no we shouldn’t be stripped away from equal opportunity that we deserve. These walls & fences puts us through trials & and tribulations that mend us into the person we are ... Today, you see we all commit ... mistakes, but should those mistakes define me? No, I shouldn’t let it. Should these felony convictions define us? No, we shouldn’t let it.

You see my words are my bullets, my voice is the weapon, these walls & fences are used as suppression, so if I put these words to voice them out loud, praying that there is someone in the crowd that sees what I see ... the potential around.

Walls & fences. | RT

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