A year ago today, I wrote about poet Andrea Gibson’s essay the “Hardest Winter of My Life.” I couldn’t get the phrase “being inside the question together” out of my head and I still can’t. The words continue to circle me every time I wade into the murky waters of wonder. It can feel lonely to bump up against the edges of a question. I need the grist of another person’s thought process to open the gates.

I often throw an idea — in the form of a bold, declarative statement — out to Danny. As we discuss, I imagine that we are nibbling away at the edges of this question in the form of statement until the sentence has become either a carcass or it is reborn as a creature with appendages that reach to the floor. He’s a good sport about mucking about in the questions, looking for purchase while I sputter away. And in fact, after I read the opening line of this post to him, I could hear his flying fingers on the keyboard composing a response for me:

Some of us have no such dilemma. The phrase simply washes over us like a fresh mountain stream — long enough to feel and be refreshed by new thought and letting it carry itself away to find its level. In our writing groups, we do 5-minute free writes. Inevitably one or two people in our group, tells us before reading that they didn’t get it right or went a different direction from the start and ask forgiveness. Everyone approaches these prompts so differently. It keeps conversations lively and the thoughts from each other’s work often lead us far afield from the original idea. We enjoy the diversity of ideas which further bonds our writing groups.

I would add that being in the question together connects us to a well spring. The free write prompt, the discussion, the call and response of our conversations — these are the containers that help us shape the way we envision the world and our place in it. From this raw material we construct new work.

Michael Wise responded to that question together in this way;
There are things I have experienced
that seek not the light of day,
Not having to worry about hiding from the question
Together,
Being seen just as you are …

Amir’Whadi Hassan wrote this response to Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings:
But there’s a bird that knows only the narrowest views, slants
of steel is all he sees through. Wings clipped from
rage, feet strapped and encaged.

Luis Rodriguez responded to Andrea Gibson’s Longest Winter:
The winter was cold but I must let it pass in my mind, for we are what we think. We find what we seek, and we live in the season in which we choose to sit.

From Michael Stepina:
The simple is viewed as a fool by the intellectual.
The intellectual is ambitious and tries to reap benefit off the back of the simple.

Becoming by Ian Lohrman:
An undulating living edifice
of its own organic geometry
brimming with nascent awareness
of the inevitability of becoming

R. Miranda’s I Have Spoken:
I dare not give them life
through oral words or phrase,
So in the shadows of my mind
is where they opt to stay

Stressla Lynn Johnson brings us home:
What are these murky pools
that seem to sit behind my mind’s eyes,
shallow water away from the shores of my illusion,
weight-down in the darkest depths of aloneness;

Ah, the aloneness. To stand alone in an idea feels like defending a fortress. How do we rebuild those stances to find common ground, to maintain partnership, unity? How do we ensure that our ideas hold enough veracity that they are worthy of our life’s energy? Take this as your invitation to stand in these questions with us. | TDS

Another season is upon us every day and with every sunrise is the opportunity to look for signs of life, love and light, to bloodhound. The winter was cold but I must let it pass in my mind, for we are what we think. We find what we seek, and we live in the season in which we choose to sit.

My presence matters. Everywhere I am, I plant seeds through word and action that affects someone’s mood, someone’s day or many people through generations. The vibration I emit sends an energy, good or bad to everyone I encounter and any place I go. My presence and the energy I emit are all I have to contribute to life and the only way to live out my purpose. | LR

Being inside the question together,
The question of life,
Love,
And each other,
Finding the one to be yourself,
Authentic,
Not having to worry about hiding from the question
Together,
Being seen just as you are,
Living in the moment,
For the moment,
Before it passes you by,
Laying in each other’s arms with no question,
Letting time pass by. | MW

1
Ey3 am the spirit of the Black Aquarians.
M’Ey3 children are Metal, Fire, Earth, Water, and Air.
Ey3 am center of all.
From atom to the eve of creations.
To the birth of all that is life and death.
Ey3 Am.
3WE are.
One.

2
Two share this plain of existence.
One, simple filled with awe and wonder.
Joyfully bliss in the moments that it inherits.
The second, intellectual, filled with knowledge and expectation.
Discontent in its present. It’s eye always on the horizon of tomorrow.
The simple is viewed as a fool by the intellectual.
The intellectual is ambitious and tries to reap benefit off the back of the simple.
The fools grows into its stride of steps as it lives life.
The ambitious grows into its death as it waits for tomorrow.
The fool, unbeknownst to the intellectual, has the power to
become anything it discovers and swishes to explore in study.
The ambitious, set in its way, becomes expert or master in its Craft.
Only to peak, then slowly degrade.
Joyful bliss.
Blinding ambition.
Two share this plain. | MS

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

“Remember yourself, always and everywhere.”
- G. I. Gurdieff

Time’s radial root awakens
after seven oaken ages slumbered
inside an intricate wickerworks
wove in sticks and leaves and one

An undulating living edifice
of its own organic geometry
brimming with nascent awareness
of the inevitability of becoming

Becoming
birdsongs hung on mountain air
coaxed from deep purple hollows

Becoming
skyworld’s feathered fantasy
echoed In the wild vegetal eye

Becoming
a being in freeform and flower
for each bird to rest a wing

Becoming
absorbed in subtle bodies
of clear whispered light

Cutting
riverine paths of give and take
washed by the star
of wisdom’s luminous mirror

Winnowing
the fertile harvest
of collective mindstuff
chewed into the nourishing bolus of acceptance

Becoming
a glutinous, many-splendored corpus
borne from the depths of subconscious libraries
remembered, swallowed and forgotten. | IL

A response to Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”

The free bird glides high on the currents of the wind.
Into a vastness that seems without end, wings slicing through
the rays of the sun, as he claims the sky as his own.

But there’s a bird that knows only the narrowest views, slants
of steel is all he sees through. Wings clipped from
rage, feet strapped and encaged. To his anger, he has
become enslaved. Yet, his voice can’t be tamed, so he
opens his mouth to sing.

The caged bird sings of life’s ills, things unknown yet yearned
for still. His song falls on deaf ears, a song of freedom
that no one hears.

The free bird envisions the next breeze, to soar upon
with ease, high above the trees. He has everything he
needs.

But the caged bird stands in a graveyard of murdered
dreams, haunted by things never seen, as the from
the shadows scream shattering his thoughts of being
free so he opens his mouth to sing.

To sing of life’s ills, unknown yet yearned for still.
His song falls on deaf ears, a song of freedom
that no on hears. | AH

What are these murky pools
that seem to sit behind my mind’s eyes,
shallow water away from the shores of my illusion,
weighed down in the darkest depths of aloneness;
created illusion or instilled delusion,
rising from the darkness of my imagination
or moving towards the shore
as the shallows become deeper and
still.

What are these murky pools that I seem to wade in,
in increments of time and space.

Stop me before I stop loving what I do.

Hold before I forget the warmth of your embrace.

Remove me from this moment before I become lost in time
and drown in the murky pools of stillness. | SLJ

Not the cover, the book.
Not the title, the story.
Not the meal, those seated at the table.
Not the beginning or the end, the race.
Not the pain or the joy, the experience.
Not the starting of the stopping, the going.
Not the notes or the measures, the music.
Not the direction or the starts, the navigation.
Toby Baigrie, SRCI Institution Work Program Coordinator

This week, we rented a cottage on a farm while visiting eastern Oregon for our monthly workshops. We faced a corral that contained two donkeys, a horse, and a pony. On Tuesday night, a huge lightning storm came in over the hills from the southwest. At the apex high winds swept through the pasture as the sky flashed white and the animals took off running down field. The huge pen provided the animals with a sense of escape, though they couldn’t get away. For the next three months, our folks are writing about containers. As with all our themes, their writing stretches to the very edges of the idea. Jai starts us with Anchor Points: “A boat is a container, a box that floats…” while MDKS’s Beautiful Disaster provides us with the picture of a woman who contains a man’s desire: “You’re a woman made to hold, What a beautiful disaster.”

The Universe by Michael Stepina:
The universe is not a void of emptiness, nor is it black.
It is a spectacular blinding light of perception.
Everything happens in the night of day.

Ian Lohrman’s Weirya — Invoking Vak:
Silent mother of all word and sound,
cosmic womb of grace, truth and understanding,
your living information permeates the world,
flashing into the vastness, thus it has been
since the time when speech and magic were one.

Joshua Plourd’s Into the Inipi: The Sweat That Heals:
I crawled into the sweat lodge a couple days ago and settled into the comfort of earth’s womb. Drumming and singing songs of healing, I listen for the timeless voice that moves my spirit.

From Amir’Whadi Hassan’s ode to Joy Harjo, She Had Some Horses:
Drowned in the quiet of silence,
trapped in the stall of fear of their
own making.

In the morning, we kept the sliding door open to let in the fresh morning air after we fed treats to the horse and a donkey. As we sat in the kitchen drinking coffee, a large hairy form caught my eye. The entire doorway filled with a Muppety, brown tusked pig. Danny squealed in surprise (or maybe it was me.) Unfettered, the piggy stood silent, patiently awaiting the treats left on the counter by our hosts. Danny tossed out sliced pepperoni stick and quickly closed the screened door. The satisfied pig wandered off leaving us uncertain if he was a free roaming being or if he had escaped. Later, when we drove away, we spied him wallowing in the mud with the gate of the pen wide open. In Issue Number 11, we just might find ourselves free ranging the boundaries of containment. | TDS

I crawled into the sweat lodge a couple days ago and settled into the comfort of earth's womb. Drumming and singing songs of healing, I listen for the timeless voice that moves my spirit. Hearing the ancient chant of the drum awakens something older than my collected years. I search for the echo that breathed original life into existence. Sometimes as I peer through swirls of Chanunpa smoke, I feel the pall of time release its grip on my waking reality, lifting me from the bondage of Iron House scars. The lodge heals, and reveals my own rigid and highly limited perception. As thoughts melt away, I find myself swept up in the admiration of pure spiritual resonance. | JP, 2018

The universe is not a void of emptiness, nor is it black.
It is a spectacular blinding light of perception.
Everything happens in the night of day.
Or, perhaps it happens in the day of night.
Mind. Heart. Body. Spirit.

A quizzical external, internal exercise of supposed right and wrong. Walking straight lines filled with curves and hazardous sharp corners that lead to enlightenment, only meant to be discovered by those brave enough to seek out their own truth.

What is the truth of reality?
Especially in the acts of right and wrong.
At times, it seems that the Devil plays God and vice versa.
When at times, right is wrong and wrong is right.
A quizzical external, internal exercise.
When a blind man has a vision of hope and peace.
While men with sight are blind to their own acts of ignorance and arrogance.
Normalizing their ideologies and acts of self-perceived Wrongs and Rights and all that comes bundled with it.
Hate, Greed, Death.
All in the name of the “Mask of Truth” that they wear.

A quizzical…
External…
Internal …
Exercise…
Hmmm. Everything does happen in the day of night.
on the other hand, perhaps it is actually the night of day.
Either way, those labeled “We the People” of earth, allow it.
Wake up, zombies! | MS

Hair made of honey and gold,
eyes of purest sapphire.
You’re a woman made to hold,
What a beautiful disaster.
You’re a teasing little fairy,
You’re an angel made to marry,
All a man’s heart can desire. | MDKS

A boat is a container,
a box that floats.
it seperates the sailor from the shores,
it separates the sea from the sailor,
and yet with the wind and the tides,
ship and sailor and sea became one
under the sun.
A boat is a secret place
where cast away dreams and forevers embrace,
ever present.
A boat in the middle of a river
is the ultimate secret kid’s escape. | JM

Drowned in the quiet of silence,
trapped in the stall of fear of their
own making.
Hooves scrape across the cement floor
where once layed straw.
One strike. Two strikes. Three strikes sharpening
hooves edges.
Knives ready for the appearance
of ghost, as the veil of night
thickens and the volume of
Silence increases. | AH

“The inspired man who speaks the truth, says nothing that is his own.
Through his mouth it is the language that speaks.”
— Terrence McKenna

Silent mother of all word and sound,
cosmic womb of grace, truth and understanding,
your living information permeates the world,
flashing into the vastness, thus it has been
since the time when speech and magic were one.

Your words wing free upon the wind,
your kindled bundles of particular meaning,
dancing around sounds and silences,
crystallizing worlds within worlds,
with fluency, ease and aptness of expression.

Each word its own ecstatic signification,
drawn in shadow and light, in vibration and form,
every phrase, poem, prayer and song a vision,
each flower, bird, stone and drop of rain a linguistic charm,

Each an utterance in sacred tongues of spirit.
In wordings bestowed, borrowed, woven and rewoven,
Into fences encircling fields of conscious thought,
We sow your rhythmic seed, germinating in intellect,
externalizing the vistas of our rich interior blossom,
as we spell our names across the eternal scroll. | IL

It’s birthday week at the PonyXpress, please indulge us as we DJ a few of our favorite posts from the past three years.

ACROSS THE STREET OSP editor and elder Stressla Lynn Johnson grew up in the Albina neighborhood, under the authority of Gramma Jo Berta and an army of adults watching the kids through open windows. Stressla had pennies in his pockets and the burning desire to buy candy at the Going Street Market — which would require him to cross three busy streets and defy the authority of Clara Mae, his mother. Crossing boundaries is a theme that Stressla has navigated for almost 70 years.

TENDERNESS IS THE CONNECTIVE TISSUE recounts an Oregon Humanities-sponsored conversation with Jesuit Priest, Father Gregory Boyle, who was the pastor of Dolores Mission Church — at the time, it had the dubious distinction of being the poorest parish in East Los Angeles. To stem the tide of violence and suffering in his community, Father Gregory established Home Boy Industries, the largest gang-intervention, rehabilitation, and re-entry program in the world. His ministry explores the intersections of love, tolerance, and creating safe spaces for people to live.

AMOR FATI Alli Matter argues for accepting one’s whole life story, as each jagged-edge piece of the puzzle fits together (albeit inelegantly) to a shape the unique life that is your own. In finding some value in even those sharp, painful spaces, we build a stronger foundation and in many cases, learn to extend grace to the people around us.

SPIDERworks combines a variety of responses to French artist Louise Bourgeois’s writing. Reweaving and repair are common themes in her work and translate beautifully to the lived experience of our writers. The time and energy it takes to repair a piece of cloth, a broken cup, a relationship speaks to the value a culture places not just on the present, but more importantly the future.

To successfully mend a garment, you need to first look at the edges of the hole, making note of the outer shape. Some holes can be secured with a little thread and a simple stitch. Others require the interweave of visible mending, sewing in a new warp and weft. In this way the rip or tear in the fabric takes on new character. Japanese boro mending exalts the visible mend with a patchwork of additional fabric and neat, patterned stitches, making a new fabric that becomes a work of art. As we celebrate the 250^th year of this country, let’s remember that we are a work in process and as long as we find the value in mending fences and repairing rather than discarding, we may just log another 250 years. | TDS

We’re celebrating another trip around the sun for our scrappy journal. Thank you for reading week after week — the work is a joy, and it is our pleasure to bring it to you. If you value the work, please consider supporting us further!

Recommendations, reposts, and those little hearts all help drive more readers to the Pony — if you like it, heart it!

Paid subscriptions support our work directly. Consider this, if each of you pledge $5 per month — collectively you support the cost of the entire Eastern Oregon writing program for the year.

HOLD THE PONYXPRESS IN YOUR HANDS
PonyXpress writers are not allowed to access the internet, which is why we publish a journal to distribute inside. We produced a few extra copies for those of you who appreciate holding a book in your hands.

Our editors at Oregon State Penitentiary reviewed all of the work produced last year and selected this collection of poetry, memoir, and essays from the four PonyXpress themes of 2025:

THE NATURAL WORLD IS EVERYWHERE
Consider your relationship with the natural world from prison. How does one commune with nature from a cell? Look for the small resiliencies that come with breath work, the rain on your face during yard. It is an opportunity to lament the loss of running in the woods, surrounded by the scale of Redwood trees, a call to the importance of seeing the night sky.

HOW DO YOU MAKE CEREMONY?
How do you care for yourself: body, mind, spirit? Do you have a self-care routine? Are there rituals or prayers that are part of your life cycle? Do you encounter challenges that make it difficult to keep these rituals? Have you invented new ways to pray in prison?

WHAT DOES FAMILY LOOK LIKE?
Family units shift, they grow, and they are negotiated by the space we inhabit. Who is family to you? Have you replaced your blood kin with a new family? Has family failed you? Does family hold you up?

GRATITUDE ?
When you look, really look. What do you see? People are expected to express gratitude — be grateful to be alive. It is simple. It is complex. And because of this tension, we added the question mark. What do you see when you are thankful. What is missing? What is yet to be seen?

Bridgeworks Oregon provides mentorship for incarcerated writers as they build community inside — crafting their work, supporting one another, and developing their writing voice. Participants include people from Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem, Eastern Oregon Correctional Facility in Pendleton, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility in Wilsonville, Snake River Correctional Institution in Ontario, and Deer Ridge Correctional Institution in Madras.

Thank you to the Spirit Mountain Community Fund for supporting the publishing. Want a copy? Purchase the journal on the Bridgeworks Oregon website. | TDS & DJW

In the Pacific Northwest the opening strains of summer feel hard won after months of cloud cover and atmospheric rain. We burst out of our houses with those first few bars of sunshine played in spring, thinking it is time for dinners under the stars (much of the time we jump the gun) and winter rains return with a vengeance. The beginning of Richard, Duke of Glouster famous soliloquy from Richard III comes to mind when the season finally tempers:
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Opening the windows at night officially marks spring in my house. I welcome that early squawking of the crows in the park. By the time solstice arrives, the light and the crows have trained me and I am unable to sleep beyond the 5:30 sunrise. Heady winter pursuits are abandoned for it is time to move in the sunlight. You may recall that Richard was not meant for the glorious summer of peace — a victory hard fought by his brother King Edward IV. Born with a broken body, Richard carries wounds that will not heal. He doesn’t fare well socially which leaves him to brood as he sharpens his contempt for the court:
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,

The looping mind makes trouble. Rather than adapt to court-life, Richard pushes away. He plots, manipulates, until he eventually brings England to war. The disconnection between his mind and body drives Richard toward conflict. So let’s bring in our writers, here. At one time each of them would identify more strongly with Richard III — the plotting, the gaming of the system, the ill-fitting suit of one’s life, and the solutions found through anti-social behaviors. As we come to the end of our exploration of near and far, the writers pull us so close that we are reading about their interior landscapes. These self-reflections, prescriptions, remembrances, and groundings are the antidote to bringing a nation to its knees. Unlike the villainous Richard, our writers draw us near.

Mirror by Ian Lohrman
I have lived the most beautiful life.
I have failed miserably.
I have deceived and hurt people.
People have deceived and hurt me.
But, I have been loved unconditionally.

Nothing Could Touch Us by Jacob Sopher
Our sins were private matters
Whispered to a priest
Not scarlet letters printed on
Newspaper pages and shaped
Like steel shackles about our wrists

Tear It Down by Brett Pruett
Can you walk a mile in my shoes
Can you take a sip from my cup
I got beef with bullies
Who try to press a line

Insanity’s Response by MDSK
I have lost everything in this life,
My money, friends, family, and myself,
My home, children, and my wife,
Lost, but not forgotten upon that high shelf.

Why Do I Lie to Myself? by Jazzy Jeff
I like it when I lie to myself,
I don’t have to face my hell.
I don’t have to hear my destructions you tell,
I like it when I lie to myself.

Assumptions by Michael Wise
I assumed I had to become hardened so
I would be accepted.
My many traumas helped create many masks,
I assumed I had to wear them,
with each mask I transformed into their
perception.

Time Passed by Marcus Standing Crow
I wake up in the same frame,
different metal, different soul,
Am I the same?

A few of my near and dear have suffered some health setbacks; the summer we anticipated (swimming and hikes and long bike rides) has shifted. This season will require patience, hunkering down, and the slow, steady work of mending. Meanwhile sunlight dances across the room and the boisterous summer sounds pass under open windows. The busy mind needs to stop spinning to the next activity and settle, because wounds require rest. And my friends, there are more summers ahead. Let’s end with an excerpt from Amir’Whadi Hassan’s Far and Near, a prescription for finding peace. | TDS

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.
Saalam

“Love is the only reason for living. Love is the basis of all life.”
— Frida Kahlo

I have lived the most beautiful life.
I have failed miserably.
I have deceived and hurt people.
People have deceived and hurt me.
But, I have been loved unconditionally.

I have been on many adventures.
I have worked hard and I have dreamed.
I have known fortune and loss.
I have known many wonderful friends and lovers.
I have been inspired by many mentors and muses.

Everyone I meet is an angel. Everyone I meet is a devil.
Everyone I meet is my teacher. Everyone I meet is my guru.
Everyone I know is a mirror.
Everyone I know is God.

I am nothing and I am everything.
I am one of many lenses learning to focus.
I am an antenna receiving and transmitting, communicating in Spirit.
My words contain infinite power and possibility.

I am the sincerity of the mountains, the forests and the seas.
Earthy desire burns cool and steady within my belly.
I am the morning star of mystical beauty.
I am the moon’s reflection in every lake and stream.

I am a pendulum hung between shadow and light.
I am the gentle truth, perceptible yet inexplicable.
I trust in the virtue and power of my own existence.
I am the still ness at the center of an infinite circle.
I am a being of boundless Love. | IL

I went through life with so many
assumptions,
I assumed I had to become hardened so
I would be accepted.
My many traumas helped create many masks,
I assumed I had to wear them,
with each mask I transformed into their
perception.
I was lost,
I assumed I had to be that,
I formed a relationship with God and my
world changed.
I put a mask on,
I didn’t recognize it,
I assumed prison did that,
My journey with Jesus did that,
I found out those masks don’t fit anymore,
My assumption of love was distorted,
Being accepted by the wrong ones was a
lesson hard learned,
Being free from myself I was able to break
the chains I enslaved myself with,
There is no more assumption, I now know
love and freedom. | MW