HA! as if there is a final word on love. It is an infinite loop that circles into the work we do. The PonyXpress writers build a trusting community to hold their joy, to contain their sorrow, to draw lines between this pain and the love they cultivate. They share what they have learned with all of us. I have returned from OSP today, as I write this. We were on the road during April, so we missed the news — Turtle released, Lakota Oyate-ki Club (our partner) has a new clerk, and Austin has written a PonyXpress theme song. In my outside world punctuated by the ping of texts and emails and social media likes, I am surprised by how much in-person catching up there is to do when we arrive on the activities floor. We step back into the communication time machine and trade news face-to-face.

We have two pieces that came to us as kytes from another institution. One of our writers who has moved to Snake River made sure that this work by his peers be released on the PonyXpress. In “Love/Pain” KV contemplates the binary thoughts that swing through his “cold cell with only my thoughts.” ZJ’s piece “What Hurts” recognizes how incarceration imprisons loved ones too.

Our OSP reader Scott Bitter responded to Stressla Lynn Johnson’s poem “Escaping.” Of the work, Scott writes: “ … it feels like an emotive description of doing time. How much time should readers be aware of? Your vivid wordplay evokes introspective images of prison. Your frequent juxtaposition reveals the many emotional contradictions of feeling joy, sorrow, pain, fear, and/or isolation during the hour you likely spent writing this. Time does not stand still, and we remain on daily mental treadmills … left to our thoughts. Seeing this succinctly expressed on paper speaks volumes. It gives voice to the millions of incarcerated men and women who feel these emotions daily. Your writing (as healing) addresses the contradiction of doing time, feeling isolated, and mentally escaping, while sharing what it sounds, smells, and feels like with readers. Evocative!”

It is these demonstrations of love that make me infinitely hopeful. We see careful attention to one another’s work through comments in the workshop and the writing of thoughtful and encouraging notes on drafts. We have writing submitted on the behalf of peers, insisting that their voices belong in this chorus. This week, we sat together at the work table at OSP marveling at how much we have accomplished in the first three issues — and we discussed what we have planned.

This is the last post for Issue 3, On Love. While we evaluate what has worked both in workshops and on the website so far this year, we are going to spend the next two months doing special projects. Ahead, we have writing from the slush pile — pieces outside our established themes. For those of you who have recently joined us welcome, and for those who continue to read, thank you! It means the world to all of us. We circle to the beginning of this issue and in the words of Theron Hall: Love we all need it, no matter where we come from. | TDS

Escaping from this moment of pain and fear.
Emotional stillness, feeling my body …
tensed, restricted, hard to breathe
in more ways than I care to explain — chasing my pain, or running from the truth.
Scared inside the quietness of being awake.
To look at the images reflected in the mirror,
without seeing my face, bars behind me, remind me,
that time does not stand still.
The adaptation of being in an eight-by-five box,
with access to the sewer only an arm’s length away.
Sounds and smells of despair rising up and down,
mingled with tears that have a beginning without an end.
Caught on a mental treadmill,
inflections, reflections, self-deception,
returning isolation.
Escaping from this hour of pain and fear.
Silent inside the stillness of doing time.
Connected to joy and sorrow. | SLJ

STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON WAS BORN APRIL 9, 1957 IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HE HAS WRITTEN POEMS AND JOURNAL ENTRIES AS MEANS OF HEALING. STRESSLA IS A MEMBER OF THE OSP EDITORIAL BOARD.

What hurts me is that it hurts them,
those who love me.

Incarceration is a lot of things,
but I can shut myself off from all but the boredom
and constant frustration.
Reduced to just this, incarceration is manageable,
difficult sometimes, but so is life on the outside.

Incarceration doesn’t hurt me,
it hurts them,
those who love me.

I can hear it when I speak to them.
Thirty minute phone calls
recorded and subject to monitoring.
Our conversations are limited.
They tell me they miss me,
that they want me home.
Walk the straight and narrow.
Don’t lose your good time,
just come home.
I did lose my good time though.

Incarceration doesn’t hurt me,
it hurts them,
those who love me.

I begin to think that I won’t be selfish,
inconsiderate.
I hear the pain in their voices,
I shut myself off from it.
I’m eager to end the call now,
wish the automated voice would hurry and say,
”One minute remaining.”
It can’t come soon enough.
I don’t want to know that they’re hurting.
Maybe they care more about me
then I do about them.
This thought hurts me.
I try to shut myself off from it,
But I can’t.
So maybe incarceration does hurt me,
maybe. | ZJ

THIS PIECE FROM ZJ TRAVELLED FROM A KYTE VIA ONE OF OUR WRITERS WHO IS LOCATED AT SNAKE RIVER CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. THE AUTHOR HAS SINCE RELEASED.

What is love without pain?
Who has known pain if they have never been in love?

As I sit in my cell, stuck deep in thought, I feel depression wanting to get a hold of me. I think about darkness taking over us all again and wonder where our next destination will be once our souls leave our bodies, and we are no more here on earth. I pray to a God (who I hope is listening) that promises eternal life in a place they call heaven. As I sit here and put all my faith in this blue book, I can’t help but wonder if there is there a heaven. Would it be like earth, where everything comes to an end, where we are taught how to live, where we are taught what is right and what is wrong? Would it have a government, like ours that swore to protect us but causes us pain and death. 

Darkness … 

A distant memory we all have and a promise of somewhere in the future that we are all guaranteed to return. I shiver as I sit in this cold cell with only my thoughts, as the unseen battle of angels and demons go on to fight for my soul and sanity. One side is good and one side is evil. One gives love and one gives pain. But who can tell the difference when they both are the same? ’Cause there is no pain without love … or love without pain … | KV

THIS PIECE FROM KV TRAVELLED FROM A KYTE VIA ONE OF OUR WRITERS WHO IS LOCATED AT SNAKE RIVER CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. THE AUTHOR HAS SINCE RELEASED.

We shake a lot of hands in prison, it is a hybrid version of the greeting that includes a hand on the shoulder — an almost hug. Breaking it down, it’s how we signal trust and partnership and warmth. We are genuinely happy to see the folks who return time and time again to workshops and to our performances. And we are just as excited to meet new people. This is the culturally agreed upon appropriate greeting — and everything we do is built with maintaining respectful boundaries. The writers have talked about missing touch. Family visits have restrictions, due to security concerns. Touch from a loved one releases stress. I can link to any number of studies but all you need to do is tap into your personal experience and you know this to be true. This group of pieces add to our faceted understanding of love. Here, we start to see how it manifests itself in the misty morning, the memory of the warm baby head smell, and the dark of the night.

Melissa Haley’s “Wonder Love” starts with a recap of the Greek love words that prompted this issue as if the very listing can conjure love. She draws down the words to the person in her mind. The tone is like the mist in her poem. This is how love stays alive. If the morning provides illumination for Melissa Haley, night time leaves R. Miranda to meditate on love. In “Awake” he writes, “I long to write a ‘love’ song./ A lullaby to sing to my soul” and in the darkness these ideas ferment.

Carolyn Stickley (affectionately known as Grannie) conjures the smell of a baby’s head in her piece “Love is a Miracle.” In her expansive way, Carolyn opens a portal and love passes through the generations. The mother loves the child, loves the child’s child, unconditionally. She writes, “Love allows us to roam the vistas of the mind.” Like Carolyn, Jimmy Kashi writes of the love he receives from his family and that he offers to his daughter. Love and forgiveness are woven tightly in the contract of Jimmy’s expression of love.

I hold in my hands, stacks of writing on strips of paper in blue ink. They are writings that folks in the SHU (solitary housing unit) wrote to lift their spirits and that of their fellows. These are the love letters that defy touch. In one, Little Boy writes to CL:

“I have never been good at speaking my gratitude homie but this poem really hit home & had me wanting to write somethings down that go through my head. I know we all go through our battles in times like these. And I thank you homie from the bottom of my heart for your poem — really helped me dig deep in my thoughts and write them down. It really brought my spirits up …”

The hand touches the pen, the ink touches paper, and feelings are transferred through the action. | TDS

I lay awake in darkness
As I write by the light of a fading aura
My mind struggles to find
Some forgotten step to a dance I never knew.

I long to write a "Love" song …
A lullaby to sing to my soul
To quiet … to lay rest
These feelings yet awake
In my heart.

I'd settle for an epitaph …
One that simply read, "rest in peace"
If only passions died!
How sweet to mourn …
How dear to cry.

Eternal love …
Immortal soul 
Entombed in flesh
Buried alive!
Crucified for some forsaken past
That never was …
Yet always is.

I lay awake in darkness
And write by the light of a fading aura
My mind struggles to find
Some forgotten step …
To a dance I never knew. | MR

R. MIRANDA WAS BORN IN SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA. HE IS NATIVE AMERICAN (MAYAN, APACHE, YAQUI) AND SPANISH/ROMANIAN. HIS WRITING IS A FORM OF POSITIVE FOCUS AND HEALING AND EXPRESSION.

At the end of the road all I can take with me is Love.
The last thing that I hope to have in this life is Love.
I've been fortunate to experience Love in its many forms.
I know Love at its best, I've also felt it at its worst.
The purest Love I have is the Love for my daughter, I Love you.
I'm lucky to have unconditional Love from family and friends. I've acted in ways that have hurt them and others.
The things I've learned to Love keep me happy, smiling,
and give me hope.
Of all the human emotions, Love is the one I need the most.
Love. | JK

JIMMY KASHI IS A JAPANESE AND CHAMORRO MAN. HE IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE ASIAN PACIFIC FAMILY CLUB AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY AND A FOUNDING MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP.

When I think of love, I imagine children of all species. Humans are most often conceived in love, according to my elderly mindset. If not, they are equally filled to the brim with love and purity — proven by the sweet, unique smell of a baby’s head and soft skin. The scent of another miracle.

The miraculous special ingredient of love is the only important thing in the universe. Everything else is ephemeral (short lived.) Memories of a loved one are passed on through generations. Unconditional love for a child is given, regardless of age.

A kangaroo in Australia is so fortunate to have the pouch where she can hold her baby close. I’d like to be a kangaroo and after my child ventures out, I could use pouch as a flexible receptable for my thoughts. I would stuff it with written paper of everything I love — like tree dream tags containing wisdom and my wishes, prayers, and family tree genealogy. It could supplement the compartment in my brain. The totality of existing things is love, past and present.

Love allows us to roam the vistas of the mind. Delve deep within yourself and go forward being conscious of how to behave and better spread love that is patient and kind to all.

The time for miracles is now. | CS

CAROLYN STICKLEY WAS BORN IN 1948 IN WASHINGTON DC & GREW UP IN A NEIGHBORHOOD THERE. AN EDUCATOR, CAROLYN HAS FOUND WRITING TO BE ONE OF HER CREATIVE OUTLETS.

Varieties that exist,
Expressions of love
That hang in the mist of the morning.
The wonder of my mind:
Which one are you and how are you feeling?

Romantic, passionate love – eros
Affectionate love – philia
Selfless, universal love – agape
Familiar love – storage
Obsessive love – mania
Playful love – ludus
An enduring love – pragma
Self love – philautia

I hesitate to take a step forward for I know as soon as the mist of the morning touches my skin, I will fall into love again. As you stand there, I recognize that I do not exist in your world, and that these feelings of love only live in my mind, the wonder of my mind.  | MH

MELISSA HALEY IS A MEMBER OF THE COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL FACILITY HECATE’S LANTERN WRITING GROUP.

The people who arrive at the PonyXpress workshop tables are ready to write themselves forward. Here’s what I mean; at OSP, we are joined by a few level ones — folks who have the lowest security clearance, in many cases they may have just recently come out of solitary. We understand that they may screw up again, but what is important here is that they are trying to make better choices. They are ready to learn a new way. And so, when I say that they are ready to write themselves forward, these folks have the imagination to expect that there is something better ahead. They are ready for the conversation. And lucky for us, they are surrounded by experts who have traveled the treacherous road. Most of our writers have already been down the very dark, narrow hallway of prison alone. At some moment (or a series of moments), they have made a turn toward making a life with a future. This future may always be spent in prison, but they have now come to value their lives. And with it they value how they do their time.

In the free world, our podcasts, social media feeds, and bookshelves are laden with advice to the achieve Philautia (self-love.) Simple solutions. Hard in practice. Carolyn K. writes from Coffee Creek’s minimum side, a few months left on her long sentence. In her piece “Philautia” she finds: “It has taken me many years of classes, self-reflection, and grace to know there is more to me than what the world says I am.” In this next chapter of her life, she will rely on these tools as she navigates her freedom.

Amir’whadi’s “Honor” shows his path to creating his legacy. His code comes from the pride of maintaining his integrity and his self-respect. “Another session of trying/ to reach perfection …” Staying the course in the work, “to make a way from no way.” It requires practice.

Writing exercises in the workshop shake up the writers’ brains. We brought in lists of words and asked the writers to select three words and compose a poem. In Le’Var Howard’s “Breath, Hard, Body” we walk through his morning routine. As I read it, I think of the deliberate preparation of an athlete warming up his muscles, focusing mentally before going out into the arena: “I prepare for my day slowly,/ Staring into the mirror./ To see me.” There is attention, finding clarity before moving into the chaotic sea of men in the yard. This is self-care as a form of self-protection.

Stressla Lynn Johnson is prolific, his writing practice is twenty years strong. He testifies that the writing has been an active agent in his reform. Stressla uses the word “healing” often as he describes the parts of his practice that have delivered him from a man sitting on death row to the mentor of youngsters today. The writing alone is not enough, activating and releasing the poem is part of his discipline. “Protection…Protector” reads like a mantra that holds the taunting shadows at bay. A reading of the work shifts it from the magical realm into the practical day-to-day of prison.There! | TDS

Protection ... Protector.

There! On the other side of my fears, nestled among the shadows of yesterday's words and

actions ... taunting the movements of now.

There! Inside a memory that feeds on the shadowy fears of unspoken, unnamed vibrations from ideas that do not belong to me.

There! Inside the magical spaces created by my ideas ... having the words to express the vibrations to protect my healing.

Protection ... Protector. (II)

There! On the other side of my fears, nestled among the shadows of yesterday's words and

actions ... taunting the movements of now.

There! Inside a memory that feeds on the shadowy fears of unspoken, unnamed vibrations from ideas that does not belong to me.

There! Inside the magical spaces created by my ideas ... having the words to express the vibrations to protect the healing. | SLJ

STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON WAS BORN APRIL 9, 1957 IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HE HAS WRITTEN POEMS AND JOURNAL ENTRIES AS MEANS OF HEALING. STRESSLA IS A MEMBER OF THE OSP EDITORIAL BOARD.

Honor amongst men brought by the sincerity of my integrity.
Love of self, pride, and self-accountability
undeniable swag, a powerful presence —
no drag.
Respect of self
glows in my essence for greatness.
I was destined —
a life that was given as a blessing
Jewels of my selection,
gifted to my young adolescence,
guidance filled with life’s lessons.
Another session of trying
to reach perfection for my profession.
I choose to use the tools
to make a way from no way.
It’s paid dues, fruit that grew
from the enrichment of the soil of my integrity.
Honor, perseverance, peace, and loyalty.
My legacy. | AH

AMIR’WHADI WAS BORN AND RAISED IN TULSA, OKLAHOMA — HOME OF BLACK WALL STREET, CHARLIE WILSON, AND THE GAP BAND. HE IS AN ENTREPRENEUR, SONG WRITER, AND ARTIST.

Heavy is my breathing,
Deep long breaths,
To remind me I’m still real.
The sun shines so hard up against my face,
It’s as if the heat is sinking right into my skin…

Breathe,

Hard,

Body. 

But I only recognize just how soft my skin is at this time,
My favorite and (at times) least favorite
Moment of the day.
Waking, washing my face,
Baby oil and aloe coco,
I take my time massaging my body. 
First arms, legs, chest, neck, ankles, feet,
Gently.
I prepare for my day slowly,
Staring into a mirror. 

To see me.

Ready,
breathe, breathe, dress,
comb and groom my beard, oils, softly
Brush in circles,
The fine whites of your pearls, fresh…
winter’s breeze in my mouth,
Secret…
So genuine to delight a masculine muscle.
Smile, laugh, notice yourself,

Be present.

Breathe, breathe,
We are still alive.  | LH

LE’VAR HOWARD IS A PORTLAND, OREGON NATIVE. MOST OF HIS FAMILY COMES FROM GULF PORT, MISSISSIPPI, ATLANTA, TEXAS, AND OKLAHOMA. LE’VAR IS A FOUNDING MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP. HE TRACES INFLUENCES ON HIS WRITING TO HIS AFRICAN-AMERICAN HERITAGE.

Love... when you hear that word, what is the first thing that comes to your mind? I would venture to guess that for some your first thought was of Storge, a familiar love such as family. Perhaps your children or mother. For a few, you may think of a favorite grandmother or an aunt. However, for most, I would say when you hear the word love you think of Eros, a romantic love. And I would go so far as to say that very few, if anyone thought of Philuatia, love of yourself.

Take a moment and think of how you view yourself. Is what comes to your mind labels that society or others have put on you? As humans we seek connection, but at what price does that connection sometimes cost us? In prison there is a lot of false love. I myself, have been incarcerated 25 years; however, I was imprisoned long before that. It has taken me many years of classes, self-reflection and grace to know there is more to me than what the world says I am. Today, I can confidently say I know my worth. My desire is that anyone hearing this will "not settle" and will seek their worth.

I had a mantra taped to my bathroom mirror for years that read, “I am beautiful and I will keep saying I am beautiful until I believe it." Look within yourself at this moment, throughout this week, this month, find your beauty, seek your worth, and accept nothing less for yourself from anyone. In prison you tend to lose sight of what love is. Often people cling to others, seeking approval and acceptance. People get into unhealthy relationships, even friendships. It's time to accept that you alone are enough. Say it aloud, “I am enough" say it again, louder this time, "l am enough" say this as many times you need to until you believe it.

My challenge for those of you reading this today is for you to choose to pursue Philuatia love, love of yourself!  For until you do, you will continue on the treadmill of broken relationships and heartache; and you, my friend, are worth so much more than that. Pursue love, pursue love, pursue love. | CK

CAROLYN EXUM COMES FROM A FAMILY OF WRITERS AND EXPRESSES HER THOUGHTS THROUGH PROSE AND POETRY.

“Friendship, Fellowship, & Brotherhood, the building blocks that transform a stranger to a member of the family,” writes Jacob W. Harper from a freewrite exercise at Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution in Pendleton. We asked the men for their opinion about an article from Psychology Today called “Why It’s Hard for Many Men to Form Close Friendships.” We were curious to learn about their experiences of male friendship and how it extended to fellowship, brotherhood. Our intention was to spark more writing on the topic of love for this issue. My agenda was transparent. I hoped to read examples that described what Danny and I have witnessed in our writing groups that have met regularly.

Austin Clark, our resident Puck, is skillful in his use of language, like a slight of hand. When I say Puck, I really must clarify that he is only mischievous. His clever turns of phrase mostly distract from his deeply held attachments. In “Firmament” Austin plays with the arch of heaven created in Genesis with an Ark that contains his fellows. Clark has a wing span wide enough to include many travelers: “For they all know, they could not be their brightest self,/ If it were not for the contrast of their neighbor’s personality.”

If Austin’s geometric configuration is an arch, Nolan James Briden focuses his gaze on “Cubic Squares.” In the confined carceral spaces, the floor tiles graph over a once rolling landscape — one that contained no structures. Like the floors he contemplates, his grieving brain is still held by a linear landscape. Even with enlightened understanding, the worn routes in our bodies make it difficult to freely reach out. “Exposing ourselves to memories within the grief, helps us to really understand it. We are developing new skills, regulation, and what not. I look around the circle of people comprising the room and I feel grateful … ” Entering the circle (writing, drum, sweat) are all ways for these friends, these fellows, these brothers to liberate themselves.

The kyte from Snake River arrived March 1, just in time to include Chris Lewis’s “Confined Acknowledgement.” Here is the evidence that he feels the connection to the writing tables — and we return that energy with thoughts, with the ring of our singing bowl, and through returned kytes. Chris extends our writing circle to the farthest reaches of Oregon. “Barefoot and alone, I bask in blissful abundance, for I am home; Understanding you are my passage/Out of hell.” If there is a love poem to fellowship, we find it in this writing that holds onto the truth found in poems by Jimmy Santiago Baca, in Denise Levertov, in the writing of peers. | TDS

A response at mail delivery,
here in the prison, the snake pit.
A packet with familiar letterhead,
approbation and love through lines
of understanding …
“One small crystal that gleams,”
Shining even in shadows
where gallows hang.
I hold you, and I am back.
Horseshoed tables, stained white board,
hard plastic folding chairs,
white paper coffee Cubs,
thank you for the medicine …
And I am there.

Delicately plucked acoustic strings,
my sensei brings
transcendental heartbeat,
collective drum, our voice.
My brothers and sister
your truths and precious time
they carry me through
my banishment, journey new.
I sing your names in war;
in peace I ponder your pains,
and I am there.

Pragmatically, I have waited,
through introspection for growth.
My mind agape, I embrace
love, a tool and trade
of time; cosmic creations
left to find in the rubble
and brine of yesterday’s storms
I adorn…
You;
the circle as my crown.
Barefoot and alone,
I bask in blissful abundance
for I am home;
understanding you are my passage
out of hell.
“Who understands me,
when I say this is beautiful?”
Yes, it is other freedoms,
in time I have found.
To Baca, this truth resounds!
To love I am humbled,
to love I bow,
and I am there.

            — ex Omnia, February 2024 | CL

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  Written with inspiration from Jimmy Santiago Baca, “who understands me but me.”  (The Sun Magazine, Feb. 1983); Tracy Schlapp, Danny Wilson, and the writers of the PonyXpress; and Denise Levertov. I thank you for all your Truths, for your Art. 

ORIGINALLY FROM SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, CHRIS LEWIS IS OF IRISH AND UKRAINIAN DECENT. HE LOVES AND APPRECIATES THE ART, BEAUTY, AND UTILITY OF WRITING. CHRIS IS AN ENTHUSIASTIC MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP, THOUGH HE IS NO LONGER AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY.

Cubic squares measured out, and placed over the land that once held no structures of oppression, and now hold the tiles of incarceration. I count them off one by one ... in between the tables, the milk machines. As eyes watch over from the murals painted on the walls. My job duties claim me as I move the buffing machine around the floor. I look up to see the clock and think: Man, I'm late for class.

Pulling up late for class, I see the friendly faces, "Aw, Bro made it. Hi Nolan!" As I enter the classroom, I feel the loving embrace of their words. In the writers' workshop (facilitated by Bridgeworks Oregon and the Lakota Oyate-Ki Cultural Club), I see an open chair next to Austin and Le’Var. I met one person here and the other I've been doing time with for a decade plus. I feel connected in their presence.

As the class makes its many pivotal points, stops, turns, and wrap arounds, I let my mind drift to the section of floor I just left with a sheen-shine across the chow hall.  My mind is filled with so many things to write. Having passed a decade and a half of servitude to my sentence, I keep making attempts at breaking the chains of captivity. I feel lost at times and stuck in despair at how I've lost so many of my close loved ones. I feel isolated and further isolate myself. It makes no sense, and yet I isolate. I read an article interview, "How Grieving Changes the Brain." Regular grief vs. Complex grief. Exposing ourselves to the memories within the grief, helps us to really understand it. We are developing new skills, regulation, and what not. I look around the circle of people comprising the room and I feel grateful to have such a solid support and constant knowing that I can create new, positive memories in memory of those ones who have passed on.

My friend Matt came by my cell as I sat on LOP (loss of privileges), “Bro, I didn't know if I spelled his name right, but here it is.” He gave me a big nametag sticker with two names on it. Across the very top it read: Out of Darkness, Suicide Prevention. Angi and Frankie were the two names written on the tag — Matt's auntie, and my older brother. It was an event walk to bring awareness to suicide, and suicide prevention. (Indigenous communities have the highest suicide rates in the country.)  Being on LOP, I was unable to attend the event. My brother Matt walked for me, a brother walking for the brother I lost. | NJB

NOLAN JAMES BRIDEN WAS RAISED IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HIS ROOTS BLOOM FROM RICH CULTURES,  BLACKFEET AND IRISH.  HE WRITES: “I’M JUST GETTING TO A POINT IN THE EXPLORATION OF WRITING TO BE ABLE TO SAY IT IS A RELATIONSHIP THAT I UNDERSTAND; THEN, I READ A DIFFERENT STYLE, FORM, OR WAY OF WRITING AND MY JOURNEY RESTARTS TO UNDERSTAND.” NOLAN IS A MEMBER OF THE LAKOTA OYATE-KI CULTURE CLUB AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY AND HE IS A FOUNDING MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP.

Separately Bound together,
a fractal thing.
Hungering for unifying purpose, I tread forth.
Where do I Belong?
My heart sees what my eyes believe,
Cascading Synergistic currents of
Purpose and Legacy
flowing atop the mundane bedrock of torpidity.
I have built an Ark (Truly, I have)
spacious enough for all those who
feel they belong.
It whimsically navigates these currents,
Adrift.
It is there during the first moments,
when a playful sun generously spreads its
curious light over a horizon of calm seas
that I look Skyward toward the firmament.
It is then, I know
each dazzling color that arises symbolizes
a separate hope and gratitude for its neighbor.
For they all know, they could not be their brightest self,
if it were not for the contrast of their neighbor’s personality —
Separately as one …
Amongst my own …
Amongst my fellowship … I | AC

ORIGINALLY FROM SOUTHERN OREGON, AUSTIN CLARK IS A MUSICIAN AND VISUAL ARTIST.

Friendship, Fellowship, & Brotherhood, the building blocks that transform a stranger to a member of the family. The bonds built stronger than a holiday card or obligatory meal. These become the strings to your heart that are proven time and time again. The late night of drinking to process the loss of another love, the silent consideration of pain that words do not define. These are the people who see the need and fill it, without you asking, these are the people who roof your mother’s house because you’re in jail. These brothers do not forget you, do not forsake you. The difference between friendship and brotherhood is the sacrifice, the need which your love binds. For my friends, I would dare much for my brothers, I would dare anything.

I was born an only child. | JWH

listen to Fraternal Love and Lincoln Park

A DESCENDANT OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, JACOB WILLIAM HARPER IS FROM THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST. HE IS A VORACIOUS READER AND ASPIRING WRITER.

In an unforgettable setting at EOCI on February 26, 2024, a group of pliable souls met and formed an eclectic set of “drawings.”  The intention was to inspire writing about love.  Our instructor and inspirator said, “We express our love with words, and they may come in writing.”

That night as I walked around the square, I noticed my lack of self-confidence and the lack of trust in others — looking back to see if I would mess-up their work-in-progress-drawings; I doubt they were expecting my mark would improve theirs.  When “completed” we contemplated our cooperative weaved “symbols” into what looked like an interesting demonstration of togetherness. This paper is part of the product of what was born in me that evening.  It is hard to trust, but we suffered no harm by allowing the many marks that transformed our original card. 

If you ask me about the love I hope for, I will answer that it is easy to say what love I want to receive, but it is hard to offer others what they desire. I perceive our love deficiency is the reason some distancing and lack of commitment exists from people around us. 

The love I love to receive is the love I have come to know as unconditional love. Do not some of us want what we might fail to offer? This love I am talking about cannot be learned about, one needs a new nature, a reborn one.  A love interlaced before a mother conceived, before a mountain rose up, before the clouds or the rain.

The hearts of many have grown up cold. I have seen the faces of the annoyed, the tired, the sad, and the unforgettable expressions of an inner and/or outer state of being.  Oh! How easily we convey a message, with a simple look we tell of our acceptance or rejection. We can plead someone to stay or urge them to leave. Facial expressions entail a fast way of communicating. In general, we use written or spoken words to inform, to impose, to persuade, to instruct, to warn or entertain our audience. The brokenhearted are incapable of hiding their sorrow — their very bones dry. They are tormented while they are still alive.  

I pray that those who distance themselves and refrain from loving the “unlovable.” Elect to love instead. You can be the salt of the world. Practice compassion, look to the Lord. | FPB

FERNANDO PELAYO BRAMBILA WRITES: “I HEED THE WORD AND PAY ATTENTION TO THE LIGHT WHICH ILLUMINATES THE WAY IN FRONT OF ME TO A SAFE PILGRIMAGE. I TRUST IN MY DELIVERER TO KEEP ME FROM THE TRAPS OF MY ENEMY.” HE IS FROM JALISCO, MEXICO AND SPANISH IS HIS FIRST LANGUAGE.