As I have aged through prison, I find it horrible for those sharing this experience, especially when I know them personally and have seen their struggle. I’m 35 and potentially have the rest of my life to go. I came into prison at 18 years old. Many of my friends have helped me mature, not just grow old. My friends are still in the tide, a very rare breed of men, who like me, came into prison at a young age. My friends are 51, 54, 53, 48, 47 and I believe 45 and 43. I have many friends who are in their 30s. It is not easy to see them day by day doing the same things over and over and over … being commanded and searched, and verbally or mentally abused, to see such anger be directed at them until their bodies — once young, strong, and vibrant — can no longer process the frustration they hold. In fear of rage, they let go with great effort to resolve conflict within themselves. These are the men I know, these are my brothers of time and men who exemplify what it looks and feels like to hope for an honest life, to beg for forgiveness through good works — only to fall short year after year pierced by the oppressive sword of vengeance and name it justice.

We often laugh about woodpiles burning us in the end or me possibly making parole and going to a club for the first time and when the music hits (instead of dancing with a pretty girl), I hit the ground and start doing burpees. I would, just for us, I would. We humor each other because we must. And my guys are no strangers to hard times. The lesson is and always has been, when you make the best of your struggle, your hurt, your situation, your pain, the best is yet to come.

Some of my friends have made it out after decades in prison. Life outside the prison looks different to them forever, as does the system … as does connection, love, family, war, peace, violence, fear. I imagine what I suffer or would suffer to understand if I were in their shoes. Leaving after so long, I strive for optimism, though I can’t clearly see a future.

Wheelchairs and walkers are parked outside of pretty much every cell on tier one. When I go to early chow with the rest of my class (the privileged and productive inmates, so to speak), I’m standing in line after line of elderly men who have volunteer inmates pushing them around in wheelchairs and bringing them their trays. I walk past what we jokingly call the “Zombie Line,” a line that stretches across the control room floor and is filled with those who cannot cope without some form of medication and the elderly — men who should not be here. I can only see this as revenge to keep dying men dying in prison. The scariest part is no one says it’s right only that it’s the law, or the way it is.

I pay close attention to my friends, my elders, and see how they navigate both for their safety, and their potential to lead a better life. Watching this is painful work to see men ask for permission to do anything, to be searched going to and from; to walk around with identification pinned to their chests; to visit their loved ones for 20 years and some, being told how to hug, not to kiss or hold hands; how to talk by the standards set by DOC, what is or isn’t appropriate conversation.

Living in this structure of chaos, I work. I am a prison worker. We have no real term for what we are because technically prisoners can’t have jobs. I have colleagues who are between 22 to 78, I know most of my “co-workers” personally. There are two days off and five days a week we work, aside from a scheduled visit or other programs. I know men, co-workers, prisoner who have kept that working schedule since before I was born. These men have no real reward waiting for them. They are happy just that they are still alive. Being taken advantage of is never spoken of because as far as society is concerned the only thing waiting for them is death. These men do not get to retire, they don’t get to take vacations, and those I know are not leaving. My reality is to maintain hope in this tortured design.

My fear is that I am, we are the Age of the Dead. | LH

LE’VAR HOWARD IS A MUSICIAN, SONGWRITER, AND PUBLISHED WRITER. HE IS SERVING A LIFE SENTENCE AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY.

I’ve often wondered where all the months go after serving their allotted days and weeks required of them each year in, and each year out? I (among most) simply turn the page over to February, or tear off January, tossing him/her into a convenient trash bin; thankless and unapologetic for the marks or scars of ink and markers I etched and scribbled all over its face! Poor and abused January lies heaped and crumpled with my left-over pizza crust, soiled Kleenex tissues, wads of paper and a used-up Bic pen. They are all there to await an unknown destination, forlorn and neglected; to be disposed of into the trash heaps of some forgotten dump or to be ripped and shredded at a recycling plant. “January, oh, January! Wherefore art though, Oh, January!” How we long for thee towards the end of a busy (and often troubling) year, after you and before you . . . then passing into you (crashing into you) with flashes, bangs, and fire to celebrate your new reality!

How soon do we forget you, beautiful January, after all that you represent for hopes and dreams of a fruitful and prosperous, Happy New Year? What of our resolutions and promises for personal growth and change that waxes and wanes as we move through your days and weeks during the middle of winter? Do you feel appreciated and remembered for the birthdates of the blessed Martin Luther King or of the celebrated “King” of Rock & Roll, Elvis Aaron Presley? For all that you (dutifully) bring to us each year, I believe you deserve a vacation! I like to imagine a “resort” for outdated calendar months, a spa, if you will, catering specifically to your every whim and fantasy where you might feel and enjoy relaxing and refreshing inspiration and comfort as you await the “call to duty” of the approaching next year! May you float (unsoaked) upon crystal clean lakes and pools, watch the azure-blue skies above, fleeting with pearly gulls or birds of paradise, as you meditate upon the purpose of your essential service each and every year until time is no more.

When you look over there, you might see “December” (from the year before) as he/she soaks up a few rays of warm sunshine before taking up its required place at the end of this calendar year, 2024. (You may have noted a shiver or two, as winters come cold in this hemisphere!) I would hope that you will also have (in your reality) the hope that you are not taken for granted, dear January. Certainly, there will always be joys and sorrows among your 31 days . . . for which you witness all, or each of our triumphs and tragedies of will. You provide for us all to experience your provision of an allotment of days and weeks to choose the right or the wrong, the truth or the error, the correct or incorrect decisions that will shape our futures for time and for eternity. Please recognize how important and dependent upon you we are for what you represent and are dedicated to do for us at your assigned position in the calendar, dear January. I hope that you will enjoy every moment of your eleven months of vacation and know that you are loved!

The Capricorn and the Aquarian celebrate their starry and universal heritage during and throughout your placement among us. Perhaps you haven't had the privilege or the opportunity to meet February, as he/she must be in the appointed position by the time you are, more often than not, absently removed or discarded as an afterthought! I apologize, dear January, for my own folly and absent-minded disregard! I want you to know (yet again) how very important and influential you are and have always been since time began . . . standing first among the “Magnificent 12!” I think of all the spaces and places where you provide us with your schedule, hung up on the wide assortments of walls, or laid out on a busy desk among many of your other “siblings” in buildings of businesses, trades, and commerce. I can see your face upon the musty brick and mortar of a lonely prison cell, as the prisoner approaches (yet again) to cross out another mournful day . . . Looking hopefully to a brighter tomorrow. Day after day, as you fulfill your part, we start placing your importance behind us and forget our “New Year” resolutions. | CF

BORN IN BAINBRIDGE, GEORGIA, CLAY FARO HAS BEEN PUBLISHING WRITING SINCE 1995.

We have moved into the dark time. In Portland the rains have started, and the leaves that were brilliant yellows and reds have turned into a wet, heavy brown carpet that spills along the sidewalks and over the curb. The crows are stark against the grey sky like black shadows in bare trees. Tomorrow marks the Winter Solstice — the shortest day of the year or from another perspective, the longest night.

It is a time of rest.

Below that matted pile of oak and maple and walnut, the ginkgo leaves from my yard, there is the mud and the bugs, the building blocks for healthy soil. In our workshops, we talk about building the soil for our writing. There is a tendency in all of us to circulate the same ideas, themes, nurse the hurts ... we can remain stuck. Building the soil bed requires bringing in new material — which is part of the work we do in our workshops. The themes we choose, the reading we bring in, even ringing a bell at the beginning are small ways to build the soil. To introduce the larger body of work created last spring, we include these seed exercises that we wrote (and then, stored away) in preparation for our collaborative chapbook Ember & Bark.

STARTED WITH A SEED BY CAROLYN STICKLEY
”The ghosts of fallen leaves
Decaying yet providing
Warm compost for the seeds
Far below.”

SEED: FAITH BY GINA BAKER
“Faith is a seed of positive action. Faith is a seed that emerges from hope.”

SEED BY MANDA MOONLIGHT
“I feel the beckoning
to release above
this soil”

REAP WHAT YOU SOW, SO GO BY SARAH BORSCH
“I’ve got a handful of seeds but I’ve got
nowhere to plant ‘em.
I need to love myself again. To rebuild
and to regrow”

FOUND SEED BY DANNY WILSON
“I found this seed in my pocket ten years ago, maybe more.
I left it there in the breast pocket of this old denim jacket, hidden from light, kept dry. The jacket usually only makes it out of the hallway closet in the fall for gutter cleaning, leaf gathering, and trips to the yard debris dump. I forget about the seed during winter, spring, and summer, only to touch it again after most of the trees have let us see their inner selves once more. This time I see that this cycle — shedding the old, laying bare for us to see, starting fresh without knowing what will grow — repeats and repeats and repeats. When spring comes again, I will plant this old seed and see what we will become.”

GERMINATE
As seedlings sprout out of the ground in the spring, solitary beings will appear. But of course, seeds are surrounded by the life force of micro-nutrients in the soil heated by the sunlight. The seeds work in harmony with a world we cannot perceive — does that make it magic? What is magic but an explanation for worlds beyond our first knowledge? Understandings are based in our most concrete and immediate senses. I see the seedling. I smell the first rain. The sun heats my skin, I taste the soil. This is how I explain the magic, through observation. What of that burst that comes forth? The open-armed seedling calls out: I am here. How does she harness the energy to survive?

Here is a memory from last spring: It is dark when I reach home, I am ruminating about dates for the next writing workshop and details I need to note before I forget. My headlights hit the driveway and reveal the shadow of light rain. When I open the door, a thick fragrance fills the car. It announces itself in high floral tones with the deep bass of humidity. My first thought is daphne, but ours is too small to be so assertive. I get out of the car, turn and look up. Against the dark sky I see a riot of white blossoms in the overhead tree. I turn and look down the darkened avenue. The moonlight reveals what I could not sense in the bustle of daylight. In one upward sweep of the conductor’s baton, the symphony has commenced. | TDS

Germinating in the midst
Of this dark and gloomy
place

I never really had roots
To lay into
The earth

I was broken, or
so I thought
and yet,

Strength is building
in me, beyond what
I knew to
measure

I feel the beckoning
to release above
this soil

I reach towards my
new found purpose

My roots feel safe in
this place I
once felt
damaged me

The elements combine
in an overwhelming
moment of
growth

I still am discovering
what I am

and yet,

there is beauty in
the mystery

for this process is
mere magick | MM

HAILING FROM CALIFORNIA, MANDA MOONLIGHT HAS BEEN ON A LIFELONG JOURNEY TO FIND THAT SACRED PLACE WITHIN HERSELF. SHE IS PASSIONATE ABOUT LOVE, MAGICK, EQUALITY, NERDOM, AND THE UNIVERSE. AUTHOR OF EMBRACING ORENDA AND CONTRIBUTOR TO ROOTS MEET UNDER THE CROSSROADS WITH THE HECATE’S LANTERN WRITING GROUP AT COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL FACILITY.

When I first met you, I gave you my heart,
not realizing, it was too good to be true
right from the start.
I gave you the benefit of the doubt because when
you spoke you looked in my eyes.
But your words were termites biting
to the core of me with deceit and alibis.
So tangled in your web of lies that you
don’t seem to know,
The poison you spewed made my heart harden
and the faith I once had in you ceases to show.
Our garden cannot flourish from insults
and ultimatums.
I’ve got a handful of seeds but I’ve got
nowhere to plant ‘em.
I need to love myself again — to rebuild
and to regrow,
and to do what you so easily did with
me, and just Let. You. Go. | SB

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

The ghosts of fallen leaves
Decaying yet providing
Warm compost for the seeds
Far below. As the sun comes
Bright again the seed flourishes
With new life via sprouts.
Doubts and wonder of what’s
To come and memories of the dark shriveled seeds like prunes
That remain buried in the
Damp. A dead mind or one
Wishing to learn and spring
Forth — it’s up to the individual.
Do we jump up or lie dormant? | 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.

Faith is a seed of positive action. Faith is a seed that emerges from hope. It creates new truths and restores our souls to abound in courage and strength that leads us to our destiny that God planned for us.

The emerging hope that was produced by the seed of faith is creating new truths and restoring souls. It’s like a flower that pushes through concrete with pure abandonment. Prosper, grow, thrive. Where we are now! Not waiting for the constant struggle to end before declaring authority with a seed of faith.

Hope.

Preordained but not fulfilled. | GB

GROWING UP IN OREGON, REGINA BAKER HAD THE PRIVILEGE TO SPEND TIME WITH HER GREAT, GREAT GRANDPARENTS WHO INTRODUCED HER TO GENEALOGY. HER LOVE AND ENTHUSIASM GREW INTO A DESIRE TO BRING HER ANCESTORS’ STORIES TO LIFE.

Look closely at the tree’s solid trunk, the contrast between the dark and light forms. I see hieroglyphics, the birch’s autobiography scored in its body. I visit this tree on my walks, sometimes collecting the papery birch bark that blows down the street. Delicate tree skin — white with lovely thin strips of reddish-brown, the paper rolls in on itself between my fingers.

It has been a long time since any of the women at Coffee Creek have touched a tree, explored the crags of its trunk. It has been years since they have warmed their hands in front of an open flame. So, when our Hecate’s Lantern writers chose ember and bark as a theme for a collection of writing, I was struck by the physicality of the prompt.

Transformation. The bark, a tree’s dense protective exterior contrasts with the charred remains of charcoal. Imagine the pleasure of watching burning bark glowing red hot, the density of heat transformed into a cloud of silky ash, swept away from the hearth.

Transportation. A burning ember left on a beach can be picked up by the tide (its center alive with fire) and delivered across the water to ignite on another beach. The ember fire has a life all its own, kept safe by the craggy bark exterior.

Filtration. Shinrin-yoku, the healing properties of a Japanese forest bath — trees calm a human’s central nervous system. I pictured a piece of charcoal elegantly placed in a pitcher to filter the water. Cleansing.

One body — bark and its ember imbued with so much possibility. A theme complete with life cycle, metaphor, and the complex relationship we have with fire — agent of loss, agent of destruction, agent of change, agent of life.

EMBER & BARK BY HANNAH BROPHY
”Humans, if they notice us at all, carve their initials into our trunks. All eager to establish that they were here, if only for a fleeting moment. They attempt to claim us as their own, not recognizing or acknowledging our superiority. We pity those who grow no roots, unable to spread their branches and leaves to the sun. They are transitory creatures, not one with nature. Their existence is brief, but definitive as they appropriate our land and leave behind concrete jungles.”

DIFFICULT ROADS BY CAROLYN STICKLEY
”In my mind’s eye, bark is a mask, and masks camouflage soft vulnerable insides. I have masks in many shapes and forms that hold the thoughts swimming around and around in my head.”

THE MANY RINGS OF ME BY SARAH BORSCH
“A tree bears rings — starting at its core and continuing to make more as it grows. The more life experiences, the more unique rings develop whether it is underfed, over watered, or endures the harsh elements of each season. All of these can impact the color, grain, and thickness of each ring. The same can be said for us as we grow through life.”

SMOKE & EMBERS OR WAS IT BARK? BY REBECCA ADAMS
“I feel energy, a surging powerful energy that whispers, ‘You have found good soil and have planted good seed and regrowth is beckoning your name. Keep reaching and seeking the light. Your Creator had to put you to the fire to purify you.’”

WILDFIRES BURNING BRIGHT BY SHALYN TROXEL
”It can take mere seconds to scorch a seedling to ash
Yet, it can take hours to burn through a heart of an established tree”

SMOLDERING EMBER BARK BY MELISSA BLACK
“With my basket by my side
I begin to collect the
warm black ember bark’s coal.

Raising my arms to the sky,
giving thanks for this healing.
Powerful medicine.”

Return to the bark and look closely. | TDS

WISH TO PURCHASE A COPY OF EMBER & BARK CHAPBOOK?

Like life, wildfires burn bright
It can take mere seconds to scorch a seedling to ash
Yet, it can take hours to burn through a heart of an established tree
Facts are facts, and they stay the same
In time we grow, and in time we decay

Question this for me
Why do humans let a flicker of a flame burn so bright
Why will that flicker of flame become a widespread fire out of sight
Can we mold that all-consuming power that drives its way into our heart
Can we extinguish its negative powers into the love it set apart

Answer this for me
Is this some meaningless riddle or is there a philosophical aspect to
self-reflection
Can I really be saved from the roaring oceans that never cease to tidal
wave within
Can I really tame the flickering flame I turned into a senseless
wildfire, again
When will I let these fiery passions die, so a new life can finally begin

Picture this for me
Waters that have stilled over time
Fire that has simmered to nothing more than a flickering flame
Finding oneself through the drowning of sorrows, and finally,
Letting the fire of anger transform into the blood red embers of
love and forgiveness
Divinity has now stepped in, ease the fire within. | ST

SHALYN EXPRESSES HEALING AND HOPE THROUGH ART AND LANGUAGE. SHE SAYS THAT WORDS CAN HARM AND WORDS CAN HEAL, THEY WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN.

You can learn a lot from a tree if you look at its center. A tree bears rings — starting at its core and continuing to make more as it grows. The more life experiences, the more unique rings develop whether it is underfed, over watered, or endures the harsh elements of each season. All of these can impact the color, grain, and thickness of each ring. The same can be said for us as we grow through life. Each experience, each situation, each obstacle, each relationship form rings deep within us.

At age six, I was already in competitive gymnastics and being relied upon as part of a championship medal-winning team. That ring — responsibility and discipline.

At age eight, I moved to a new country and was no longer around friends, family, my original team, or anyone I knew. That ring — formidability and adaptability.

At twelve-years-old, I was in a horrific accident that tried to claim my life. Instead, it took my leg as well as my gymnastics career and destiny, leaving me to learn how to walk again. That ring— resilience and bravery.

At age 14, I attended public school for the first time with a noticeable disability and had to overcome being made fun of and bullied. That
ring — tenacity and perseverance.

At age seventeen, I graduated early, moving out on my own, and navigating adulthood. That ring — courage and determination.

My twenties were spent learning how to balance college, relationships, and jobs and then experiencing the loss of said relationships and jobs. That ring — humility and self-reflection.

In my thirties, I was taught valuable life lessons and learned from previous mistakes. I refocused on building my self-confidence and career.

That ring — dedication and persistence.

At age forty, I got married. It was my first time living with someone and I learned the dynamics of building a home together. That ring — loyalty and patience.

Now currently in prison for embezzlement, I am forced to repivot and restart my life under confinement and make amends for my wrongdoings.

That ring — greed and accountability.

My bark is tough, since I have had to grow a thick skin from an early age. I’ve been cut and scarred over. I have loved and lost, and loved again. At times my branches seemed too heavy to bear, but through everything they’ve flourished time and time again. My current situation is merely a setback as lessons have been learned. I will continue to grow and rebuild. I will not only survive, I will thrive. My experiences, whether good or bad, do not define me. They have formed and shaped me. And now laid out for all to see, these are the rings deep within me. | SB

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

How tall and straight we stand, impervious to nature’s elements — a survivor of the seasons. Cycling through the changes year after year. We are alone and yet not. Passers-by avail themselves of our shade and protection from the weather. Dogs mark us as their territory, even though we do not bend to another’s will.

Humans, if they notice us at all, carve their initials into our trunks. All eager to establish that they were here, if only for a fleeting moment. They attempt to claim us as their own, not recognizing or acknowledging our superiority. We pity those who grow no roots, unable to spread their branches and leaves to the sun. They are transitory creatures, not one with nature. Their existence is brief, but definitive as they appropriate our land and leave behind concrete jungles.

And do they appreciate what they’ve accomplished? They do not. Once they’ve spread their domination, they move on to another life, but in their wake, they take our minerals and other resources and leave the earth bar-ren, polluting our skies, and lacerating our ground.

We feel badly for these creatures without grounding, lacking the protection of a tough outer layer like bark. They believe they own the world and everything in it, but we were here before them and will be here afterwards. Our seeds fall to the ground to repopulate the forest. When humans exist no more, we will take back the land and other things they’ve left behind. In the end, we always win.

Humans think I’m wrong. They would remind me of fires, hurricanes, tornadoes and, of course, the worse disaster of all — loggers, that can destroy us. You are alone, they gloat, but we smile to ourselves, knowing we will never perish.

It is true, a single one of us can be destroyed, but each of us is linked to a greater whole. Even in decay, we serve the cycle of life, fostering families of fungi, insects and wild things. Humans scrounge the forest floor to providing kindling for fire to warm their fragile bodies. We protect families of those smaller than us, birds, squirrels, monkeys, snakes. Many an animal has found rest and safety in our branches. Unlike humans we recognize that every plant, every animal, every molecule are all parts of life. Each has a job to do. None try to corral others into doing their bidding — except humans, who grow our brothers in the yards in a futile attempt to tame our wildness, believing they can harness the cycle of life, only to be defeated time and again.

We will die, but we come again. Jesus said, “The meek will inherit the earth,” but maybe he meant something beyond humans. Maybe he meant us — the trees of the world. | HB

HANNAH BROPHY IS AN ORIGINAL MEMBER OF THE HECATE’S LANTERN WRITING PROJECT AT COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION.

EMBERS & BARK
Being eighty years young has my mind packed with memories like fire causing emotions or excitement cooling down to embers. A small piece of live coal in a dying smoldering ash or embers gives me thought. There is a time out of our power when wood and bark achieve their purpose. Dyes can be made from bark and used on the paper just as we can be used for colorful good via our inner selves. Bark is stiff to my eye but not to the woodpecker with its strong claws and stiff bill for drilling through bark. Wood pulp ground and chemically processed into fertilizer to trees used to make paper completes the cycle of life. A wood block print about “I am the Vine” (John 15.1) reminds me that people are branches and God is the gardener, who must prune the branches so they can bear more fruit.

DIFFICULT ROADS
In my mind’s eye, bark is a mask, and masks camouflage soft vulnerable insides. I have masks in many shapes and forms that hold the thoughts swimming around and around in my head. Even my cell is a mask, that I use like a turtle shell. The turtle sticks out its head, looks around and then retreats to the safety inside its shell. The cell door slides open, I peek outside to the hectic day room, and withdraw inside my “turtle cell” (mask safety zone.) The loud door slams closed.

I watch Naked and Afraid, the reality television show, trying to understand why those individuals, strangers to one another, participate as a united partnership. Some test their mental strength or fight demons. They enter the 14-21 day challenge without any clothes, to travel a difficult road. The winners are people who may fail, but they never quit. They win or complete the time when they travel successfully to a road where they are picked up.

Bark is part of their challenge. It is used as a makeshift shelter, sitting spot, or as firewood. Mosquitoes are constant nuisances, and a swarm of cicadas fill the day with a chorus of screeching songs. It reminds me of the day room. Bark and branches give them some protection from the damp air. Darkness takes over and the crackling embers of the dying fire created splashes of light — like the thoughts inside my turtle shell. Difficult roads lead to beautiful destinations. | 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.

Feelings to share as I let go of remorse,
knowing in my heart I am on the right course.
Being the mother, my kids deserve,
is now a role I am ready to serve.

MICHELLE EHLER, Stay With Me

Today we celebrated Michelle Ehler — the first woman at Coffee Creek Correctional Institution to earn a Bachelor’s degree from Portland State University. Michelle graduated summa cum laude to a full house of her fellow students, PSU faculty, ODOC staff and administrators. Most importantly her kids were sitting front and center, cheering on their mom. It takes tremendous work and determination to earn a college degree. Michelle stayed on course, stayed focused, stayed true to her goals, stayed devoted to her kids. She stayed with it. | TDS & DJW

I’ll drive my heart out on the open road
And I’ll climb my mind to the tops of the old growth
And I’ll let my soul sweep down across the Western plain
And out to sea
Danny Wilson, Drive My Heart

The modern American identity has been forged in the paved roads that bisect the country. Think Kerouac’s scroll, Springsteen’s New Jersey turnpike, Easy Rider, Kristofferson’s Bobby McGee … stories of rebels, antiheroes, outcasts all pursing freedom. Road songs are poignant in prison. It has been years, decades even since many of our writers have rolled down the window to surf the air with their hands. You can feel that itch to swing a ring of car keys around the index finger and neatly catch them in the palm.

The underbelly of the Kerouacesque American road adventure is the experience of folks who have the guardrails come off. Timothy Aikins first learned to the joy of the open road from his trucker stepfather Charles. And when he lost this seminal figure, he tried to reconnect to his stepfather’s spirit hitching in Freedoms of the Road.

Yellow Highway lines connect us to our writers — this past year we have driven 13,451 miles to visit eight prisons around the state to lead 78 writers workshops. Danny’s song Yellow Lines makes an interesting writing prompt in our workshops. First he reads the lyrics and the group writes responses to something that they hear. We then have Danny play the song and discuss the differences we detect in the performance. J. Hunter and R. Miranda took the exercise further, and submitted “Yellow Lines" poems.

Earlier this year, our house band Luther’s Boots released the record everything’s gonna turn out fine with a concert at Oregon State Penitentiary. You can stream the record on all platforms. At the concert, I sat with our PonyXpress editors. As the band played Drive My Heart, I could feel the collective longing to cross the walls and drive out toward the Western plain. | TDS

listen: Drive My Heart by Danny Wilson & Luther’s Boots

I was born in rural Georgia in 1963, the youngest of five children in a Brady Bunch-style family made up of my mother Jean, my stepfather Charles, two full siblings and two stepsiblings. As the baby of the family, I was happily spoiled by everyone. I had a special bond with my stepfather. He was the one who took me fishing as well as coached me in baseball and football. He taught me everything that I knew and introduced me to the road. When I was about ten years old, my father, who was a truck driver, started taking me with him. Man, I was his trucking buddy.

On the road, I learned to drive big rigs and fill out logbooks. I learned the trucking culture for several years as I accompanied father on trips from the east coast to the west coast of America. I loved the freedoms of the open roads and especially being with my father. I was very proud to be his son. I felt a deep contentment during those happy years of traveling with him as we explored the roads of this beautiful country.

In 1977, when I was only thirteen-and-a-half years old, my father died of a massive heart attack. This incident devastated me. I remember clearly, I had been spending the night with a friend just down the road from our house. Around 5:30 am I heard my mother yelling hysterically, “Charles! Charles! Charles, wake up!! She screamed over and over.” I tried to run from my friend's house, but his mom would not let me go. Presumably, she recognized the seriousness of the situation. She had told me the ambulance was on the way, and everything would be okay. She did not know my father was already dead.

Confused and heartbroken from the unexpected loss, I became angry. I felt it was unjust that I didn't even get to say goodbye to my father. I was so overwhelmed; I could not get over it. I refused to go to the funeral home to view his body. Instead, I went to the movie theater and watched Star Wars over and over. To some it may seem strange that I did not go to the funeral home, I did not want to see my dad in a coffin. I had to confront reality at the gravesite, as the dirt was thrown on his coffin.

In reflection, I believe neither I, nor anyone around me, realized the magnitude of the grief I was experiencing during the weeks following my dad's death. Soon, I ran away from home and took a bus to South Carolina. I can’t pinpoint what specifically motivated me to leave, but I do know it became a pattern that overtook my life for the next decade — until my incarceration. As a grieving youth, I continued to leave home and return again and again. I recognize now that I was looking for something to restore the way I had felt when I was with my father.

A generation of young people, including myself, took to the adventure of the open road. I suppose it might be said that we were influenced by the hippie ethos of cooperation, as well as the seventies counter-culture ideas that rejected the comforts and the conformity of middle-class suburbanization. Hitching was common, at the time I was traveling around America. Many young people like me drifted across the country. We found casual work and used hard drugs, which (much like now) were abundant. By the time I was eighteen, I had run away from home for extensive periods of time. For long durations, I would just disappear on a traveling adventure. I would eventually return home, only to repeat the cycle.

In the eighties, when I was on one of my homeless traveling adventures, cocaine and heroin became my drugs of choice. This isn't so surprising, since the area in Georgia I grew up in is still known as "The Heroin Triangle." I even I shared these types of drugs with older ladies from my mother's work.

I understood how to live on the road. However, being a young and vulnerable teenager on my own was far different than when I'd been on the road with my father. My yearning for happiness soon changed into a life of degradation. Life on the road took a toll on me. My drug use was excessive, and I would reduce myself to selling myself for sex, drugs, and a place to sleep. At its core, my life became reduced to the travesty of personal survival and drug use.

I continued to live the homeless-drifter lifestyle up to 1987. I was without any moral compass, and I helped my co-defendant take a human life. After nearly 36 years of incarceration (and being clean and sober for that same period), I look back at my past and the devastation I caused. I know this has been a relatively lengthy story, but the point that I am hoping to make is that the experience of homelessness is, often, typified by drug use and violence. These behaviors erode the moral compass of individuals and society.

It is important to get Oregon's homeless crisis under control. I believe that perhaps if there were better resources available to help people who are drug addicted and homeless. Sadly, one of the biggest attractions to being homeless in Oregon is that the state provides so many benefits that don't address the actual problems. | TA

TIMOTHY AIKINS IS A MEMBER FO THE LAKOTA OYATE-KI CULTURE CLUB AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY.

Yellow lines – yellow lines
How great the task to but define
The power you possess.
You force from darkness to the light
The fading shadows of terror’s night …
With ease you gain success.

You kiss with dew the morning rose;
Inspire poets to written prose:
That lauds the break of dawn.
You warm the cockles of my heart;
Greet the world at each day’s start:
While time goes marching on…

Like loving arms you stretch – embrace;
Bring beauty to the commonplace
Then languish in the sky.
Your deed, now done, does consummate
Nature’s true and splendid trait…
The scene soon passes by.

At setting sun, on shadeless shore
You spread as arms once more.
You hug the dying day.
As dusk draws near – farewell you bid
Your face, from sight, now hid.
Yellow lines – yellow lines –
Simply fade away. | RM

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.

Heat waves rise & fall, to begin & end on desert-worn asphalt now dried old edges
chipped away, easily, seen by a blind eye ...
However paint won’t peel as fast, along these glowing yellow lines ...
So follow them I must, wandering throughout a multi-verse of time ...
Another continuation of space, spread out for future self's to find …
Knowing what’s to come of this race, fear of new beginnings no longer bind ...
I sit alone with my past & thoughts of future crimes.
I’m placed in the center of another dimension.
Wanting, waiting, wagering life & limb with no contention.
Freely contesting every word, anyone has allowed to flow,
Just wasted breath, in a lost language called demise, interpretation of tragedy strikes,
head on collisions of another perception only seen glass eyes between yellow lines,
Hearts without reason sold at my own expense,
In order to keep up with challenging the past, questioning fake lines left to keep me
following someone else's path, but I won’t be leaving behind.
I'll blaze my own trail with all types of lines painted not to find
One must begin to truly feel & harness a new sight through fresh eyes
For as the tears really begin to fall from fright
It'll be the grains of sand & their numbers,
Which absorb the truth, as wisdom begins to pool, at the feet of the weak
Except they only say more & more although with all holding no weight it only means,
less & less with each breath one takes watching & wandering eyes all stare through a sea
of consistently dimming flames,
A flickering glow is seen outlined for the first & last time, without a single lane, to get a
ghost to rise & blame. | JH

J. HUNTER WAS BORN IN GLENDALE, CALIFORNIA. HE DESCRIBES HIS FAMILY HAVING NO ROOTS AND THAT MONEY WAS BOSS — LOVE ALWAYS BEING BOUGHT AND SOLD FOR AN UPGRADE. HE KNEW THAT HE WAS MENTALLY DIFFERENT, SO HE LEFT EARLY TO FIND OUT.

Before someone releases, we celebrate by making a spread — that’s prison jargon for “fancy meal” if you consider ramen, instant refried beans, and squeeze cheese the core ingredients for fancy. Prison food is highly processed and made to have a shelf life counted in years. Sometimes I consider that it is counter intuitive to make a meal for someone, when in just a few days he’ll have access to a world of food I can’t remember the taste of — though I often try. Think, things that are leafy and green, or juicy and fresh, or even cheese that must be sliced and melted, not opened and squeezed.
Phillip Luna, Walking Out

Many homes today will be filled with food preparation, sampling, snacking, and finally feasting. Along with your traditions, we bring you audio recordings — Phillip Luna reads his essay Walking Out, a poignant piece about marking a person’s departure from prison. Fernando Pelayo Brambila’s memoir Without Borders describes the harvest season from his childhood in a remote Mexican village and the feast of stone-ground corn tortillas made simply and cooked over an open fire. Finally, read Ricky Fay’s Turkey Call and consider the way we serve one another: “Is this intentional poverty-shaming or is our principal honestly so clueless he can't see how humiliating this is for us poor kids?”

At Oregon State Penitentiary yesterday morning, we put together a holiday menu. Unlike the spread in Walking Out, this one features home cooking. As I looked around our table, I could imagine the men arriving with their covered dishes, shirts tucked in. For most, it has been decades since they have tasted family food. We savored the conversation and asked specific details about recipes. For the record, Mother’s Banana Pudding recipe can be found on the back of the box of the Nilla Wafers, (but you know there is a secret that makes it all her own.)

THE OSP WRITERS THANKSGIVING SPREAD —
STARTERS
Miranda: Pickles and olives
Tracy: Butternut squash soup with fried sage and cranberry compote

MAIN DISHES
Quentin: Turkey
Tracy: Dad’s grilled salmon fillet
Josh: Honey ham
Buddha: Mom’s beef ribs and sticky rice
Ezequiel: Pho
Jai: Spicy Poke

SIDES & SALADS
Devere: Bacon asparagus
Chin: Bacon bits and brussels sprouts fried in butter and brandy (until crispy on the outside and tender inside)
Dustin: Greenbean casserole
Josh: Candied yams
Le’Var: Grandma Na’Na’s yams
Matt: Grama Ruth’s macaroni salad with spam
Danny: Candle salad
Buddha: Papaya salad (Laos)
Le’Var: Grandma Na’Na’s potato bread

DESSERT
Quentin: Pumpkin pie
Dustin: Pie
Matt: Fruit salad
Stressla: Mother’s famous banana pudding

From all of us, enjoy your time with family and friends. | TDS & DJW

This was recorded at Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution’s visiting room in fall 2024. Read an earlier version of this piece.

FERNADO PELAYO BRAMBILA IS FROM JALISCO, MEXICO AND SPANISH IS HIS FIRST LANGUAGE.

This was recorded at Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution’s visiting room in fall 2024. Read the essay.

PHILLIP LUNA IV IS FROM THE BAY AREA. WRITING IS PART OF HIS JOB AS EDITOR OF “THE ECHO,” EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION’S NEWSLETTER, BUT HE’S ALSO FOUND IT’S SOMETHING HE ENJOYS RECREATIONALLY.