The cycle, the wheel, must not be broken. I sing, a singer of new songs every time you are born, to rejoice in your works, to be present in your flesh, your body of water. Your feet, are my feet. Your walk, my foundation.

Le’Var Howard, I Carry Your Heart with Me

Rereading [i carry your heart with me … by EE Cummings this week, I was stopped by this unfolding sequence:
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

Imagine excavating to the very root of the root. This deepest place is not for rumination, not to remain hidden. This is the grounding for each of us that pulls us skyward. It connects us beyond ourselves (mind and soul). Our writers run the danger of becoming root-bound — so deeply lost in the holding place of a cell that they become hopeless, that they lose sight of their life force extending up and beyond the walls. We all do. And so, we write.

And what is released? There is the fear of never forgiving or never being forgiven. There is the love lost and the love to recover. There is the deep (often) unrealized passion. There is the release of our most vulnerable selves. As always, we look around the writer’s room (this week in Pendleton and Ontario), we ask each person in the room to draw from a deep well. And each time we do this, we are rewarded by the offerings.

Dustin Smith, You and I (The Fib)
I
Catch a
Glimpse of you
Across the dance floor,
Haloed by the light beaming down
Like sunshine through stained glass in an ancient Cathedral.

Jai, Only Son:
I remember
Oblivion
There was no communication back then
Did they even consider?
I would not be missed
How could I explain it?

Luis Rodriguez, Tell me do you think of me?
Give life to my hopes and dreams
Tell me It’s not just my dream
Say we want the same thing

Rex Riddle, Victor’s Song
You are that broken sentence
The places where we insist we know our secluded regard
The affected guile and the guise of white teeth

MDKS, A Love Begotten
Every once in a while, I feel the ghost of your lips on my skin. Chills run up my spine as I think what could have been. I still feel a love for you that fills my heart. A love so strong that when lost my world truly fell apart.

And so, we draw our Family Issue to a close. We keep thing loose here at the Pony. The themes are an organizing principal to get the writers started which in turn helps us move through stacks of submissions. As we enter the final quarter of 2025, we are preparing writing that falls under the category of “Gratitude ?” The space and the question mark operate as an opportunity to be stealth, moving around the topic while giving us room to publish work that defy the category. Roots keep growing. | TDS

You would walk into a room and my heart would stop. As you spoke it would begin to beat again. A touch of your skin would send flames racing through my body. Your kisses would set my soul aflame. I’d treasure every moment together, and pine while apart.

Your kisses haunt my dreams as I lay asleep. The hold that you still have on me is truly that deep. Every once in a while. I feel the ghost of your lips on my skin. Chills run up my spine as I think what could have been. I still feel a love for you that fills my heart. A love so strong that when lost my world truly fell apart. I have fallen so far from the boy you met on the streets, I am now a criminal, a man who has become cynical from the take of his defeats. A man looking for a life of love bereft of deceits.

The day you left, I lost the best of me. For years I lived in a pain fueled haze of drugs and misery. I have tried so hard fight all this pain. Even trying to end my worthless life in vain. If you were you would be ashamed. Still I know that I am the one to be blamed.

When we were together you were my queen. Since we’ve been away I’ve rushed through this time in between. All of this shame that I’m running from. All of these sweet dreams of freedom. I hope that we may meet again at a later time. So that I may speak to you outside of rhyme. | MDKS

MDKS WRITES FROM EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION.

Tell me do you think of me
Give life to my hopes and dreams
Tell me it’s not just my dream

I gotta slow down, wanna go one hundred though
‘cause I think of her, every time she leaves
feening
feening for our next conversation

Gotta body of a goddess, that’s my cup of tea
I’m on cloud 9 when she’s staring back at me
When we lock eyes, feels like blue skies
Like an angel hitting me with fly by’s

Conversation’s been getting flirtatious
I think that we, we both want the same thing

Tell me do you think of me
Give life to my hopes and dreams
Tell me It’s not just my dream
Say we want the same thing

Photographs of your smile tattooed in my mind
I stay high, after hours conversating
Levitating,
If you want a real man, I’m yours for the taking

So many good things about you on my mind
If I said them all we’d be ninety-nine
Am I tripping in my thinking, am I sipping dream juice
Do you think of me like I think of you. | LR

LUIS JAVIER RODRIGUEZ IS A MAN WHO IS TRYING TO PLANT SEEDS OF HOPE AND LOVE EVERYWHERE I GO. HE HOPES TO OPEN EYES TO THE LIGHT WE CAN BE AS HE WRITES FROM EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION.

You are that broken sentence
The places where we insist we know our secluded regard
The affected guile and the guise of white teeth
Where I am unmoored and fallen to come against you
The enamel of the complex folds that gush
Rose-blood droplets to ring beneath your,
Gentleman’s grin
As if you are not the conventional
Trap
The once-again you said, or couldn’t do;
But I have never even touched you, or gave inside remainder
Of my selves
The color of your handsomeness engaged,
And now the complex or intimate reversals
Are as close to me as the
Wanting, or each pattern is limited with your constant
Approval
That comely daggerine approbation; that deeply felt cut that
Pours his winsome tumult into an aphoristic neglect
And now each wound is meaningful and delightful to behold
And the cadence of your trembled vows
And bring that damp false hope
As dangerous as your oceanic seasons, the gray squalls and stellated
Delicacy; storms of slate and ultramarine
Perfection
— I am swallowed up. | RR

REX RIDDLE IS A RETURNING CITIZEN.

Always beating, never missing a step. A rhythm unlike any other, unmoved by the weight of oppression, rage, hatred, fueled by the natural order. The cycle, the wheel, must not be broken. I sing, a singer of new songs every time you are born, to rejoice in your works, to be present in your flesh, your body of water. Your feet, are my feet. Your walk, my foundation.

Your sacrifice, my privilege. Though these jangles are new and growing and dying each day, I am your clay. The honesty of breath — breath gifted to me by the same unseen hands that sculpted you. The great design to forego and withstand all. I carry your heart with me, that I may bring your work to glory, that I may pass on as I pass through the cycle — instruments to teach with, tools to share with, build with, intelligence to survive with, for the cycle. My heartbeat is your work, is you.

I carry your heart with me. You, who are my tribe. You who are my ancestor. You who are my people. | 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 PONYXPRESS WRITING GROUP. HE TRACES INFLUENCES ON HIS WRITING TO HIS AFRICAN-AMERICAN HERITAGE.

Flying free in the wind
From the back seat
On the way to Lyons
I remember
What a great day
Dad and friend in front
My hand a windjammer
In the highway window
I remember
A familiar, manly sound
Wet, slick, globular disgust
Nothing to wipe my face off
I remember
“Eeewww that’s gross”
The seven year old cried out
Laughter and jeers
From the front seat
“Better out than in”
From the white passenger and friend
“Your mom sure has spoiled you”
With distain from the black man driving
I remember
As I scrape full grown man snot mixed with wind
Spit mixed with high way dirt
Shame mixed with freedom
From my eye and cheek
My hand and ear
I remember
Oblivion
There was no communication back then
Did they even consider?
I would not be missed
How could I explain it?
I remember
There was no communication back there
Black to white
White about black
Father to son
Father to friend
Only son, in the wind
I remember
From the back seat of freedom
Self imposed derision
There was no communication
I was seven
I remember
Laughter and exclusion, on the way to Lyons. | JM

JAI WRITES FROM OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY. HE IS A CONSTANT GARDNER.

You
Spun a
Pirouette
And tumbled away,
Lost in the seething press of flesh;
Obscured in the darkness by the rhythm and the smoke.

I
Catch a
Glimpse of you
Across the dance floor,
Haloed by the light beaming down
Like sunshine through stained glass in an ancient Cathedral.

You
Shoot me
A sad smile,
Wistful and weighted
Down by the distance between us,
Then disappear into the crowd like old memories.

I
Feel your
Absence like
A lapsed Catholic in
A church pew, adrift in a sea
Of nostalgia; hollow, and surrounded by strangers.

“There
Is no
You and I”
I softly whisper,
The sentiment washing away
In the murky, undulating swell of the music. | DS

DUSTIN SMITH WRITES FROM OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY, HE MAKES VIRTUES OF HIS VICES.

A horse can feel a human heartbeat
four feet away through the ground.
Just as both of our hearts are
grounded like a horse’s hooves, we
can feel each other’s heartbeat
together — no matter how far apart
we are.
Horse’s Heartbeat, William J. Schwartzer

Last Saturday, the Lakota Oyate-ki club hosted Native Heritage Day where we feasted and then played round after round of Stick Game, a traditional team-based guessing game. Two players hide a marked bone and a plain bone in each of their hands. A person on the opposite side points the stick in one of four directions to indicate the correction combination of marked hidden bones. Four hands. Four combinations. There is the possibility of finding one bone, two bones, or coming up empty. We sat on bleachers opposite one another, led in song by the front row who held us in synch with hand drums. Matt Reyes’s grandma confidently pointed the stick and found both bones and we won a stick. It was easy to be swept into the swirl of belonging. This game was inclusive, if you didn’t know the song you were taught, any age could play, all were welcome to join a team, and play moved around the group giving many people opportunities to hide or pick. The drum synchronizes our heartbeats and we draw together.

Le’Var Howard writes about the deep and lasting connection he has made through purpose and shared values and inspired by a person he recently met who is dedicated to social justice and reform. Le’Var has been institutionalized most of his life, and so meeting Skyflower has brought new joy into his world:
Her primary focus is to keep young teens, adolescence, out of the juvenile system. I find relief in her efforts. When I look into her brown eyes I see all things as possible. Even for myself. She made me question myself, what good works could I do? What sacrifices should I make and on whose behalf? Am I exhibiting my power correctly?

Of Family Friendships Melissa Black writes, “We have no control over our genealogical lineage. Regardless, we have personal choice as individuals to pick the people we want to enjoy and have in our space and lives. It is sacred and personal to know who we would want beside us on our deathbed. On the lighter side, we choose our company “family” to celebrate and give thanks to the world we create.” Ray’eena Giles concurs in Family Choices: Family’s what you make it, sometimes made of mud…

With Familiar Jai draws the cycle of human relationships that fade like the seasons. Rather than disappear entirely, we are changed by them and come into the next with the possibility of renewal:
We learn to relate to the newness that's afforded
Making fealties anew that are easily treasured
A familiar in need of a kind heart is treasured
Past all bias a helping hand is vouchsafed true
In defiance of cruel time we reach out anew.

The spirit of the stick game, engagement shared values, cultivating acceptance — all of these things are building blocks for our writing groups. We are operating within a closed and oppressive system and so we listen closely to one another’s stories and we ground our heartbeats. | TDS

Friendships falter and fleeting they fade
Days go by and seasons are want to change
The hours of a life metered by the grave
A reprieve from that most rueful colonnade
Here we hunger and sorrow to suffer no more
Quarter withheld a blunder of tears fall to the floor
Forget them not wreathes strewn on the floor
Patience the virtuous trait unconsumed
As we part with loves lost in widening ways
Hope is evermore a hand’s breadth away
Fortunes favor the mild all the dead are brave
Time is a handmaiden wringing our sheets
Relationships shed like springtime ice sheets
Calamitous avalanches of trust and betrayal
People can’t live forever, God's fault is not fair
Life ebbs and flows we are all destined to go
The moment we live, we are promised a loss
Spring of life whittled away in winter’s frost
Seeds must die before thrusting through frost
Alone in their mirth not so deeply interred
They will gain wisdom growing in squadrons
Thriving communally in cascading formations
We learn to relate to the newness that's afforded
Making fealties anew that are easily treasured
A familiar in need of a kind heart is treasured
Past all bias a helping hand is vouchsafed true
In defiance of cruel time we reach out anew
Desperation needs unfamiliarity to be welcome
The loss of hope recedes in ripples of loss's wake
Sight of distant communal shore slakes darkest woe
Joy rising, morning sun over lonesome midnight’s woe
Founding friendships from instinct and example
The rush and vigor of new adventures beckon
Abolishing fears finally bias becoming forfeit
The gap is spanned new bridges built from ether
One-mind touches another, psychosocial embrace
Sheets of tears like rain rest in pools on the floor
In heartache of loss new friendships relieve woe
Winter’s frost thawed in treasured human embrace. | JM

JAI WRITES FROM OSP. HE IS A CONSTANT GARDENER.

There are people in my life,
that always come and go,
ones that never stay,
and ones that never show.

Some make you promises,
promises made to break,
put up a good front,
but deep inside they’re fake.

Some have pure intentions,
They want to be your friend,
but selfish desires or drugs,
take over in the end.

I have friends that I call family,
love me thick or thin,
always down to ride,
doing good or committing sin.

And I have a family I call a friend
that never let me down,
at my worst, hurt, or lost,
make me smile from a frown.

Family’s what you make it,
sometimes made of mud,
still my closest friends and allies,
are tied to me through blood. | RG

RAY’EENA GILES IS A MEMBER OF THE COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION’S WRITNG GROUP.

Sometimes it can take a lifetime of life’s work, to figure out, who your real family is.

Hopefully after you’ve thoroughly arrived at your awareness in answering this question for yourself, it doesn’t leave your soul lifeless.

May you have a lifeline left, to grab hold with a tight grip.

If you can relate to me, I pray you can still carry a life light for this present moment and the next generation.

After all, it's very apparent what we all have in common, we are trapped in an extremely sinful world.

I pray for us to all to see the brighter side of things, by paying attention to our life world, like the lightning breaking through the storm, that will leave you breathless and alert feeling pure life.

May you recognize that your lifeline helped you arrive with your life preserver on.

Now that you're safely riding in the lineage lifeboat, you should ride out and enjoy each wave for the remainder of your lifespan in peace.

Hopefully you hold on to compassion and love, feeling your lifeblood staying true to your life saving spirit. The lifeguard’s light I know you will forever carry.

Shine bright let the stars of the night. | MB

MELISSA HALEY IS A MEMBER OF THE COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL FACILITY WRITING GROUP.

I met someone, someone so special, from the moment she took my hand in hers I felt her blessing. She smiled at me and I felt seen for who I am and who I am inspired to be.

This young woman is a precious gift to a man of hope, to a man of many prayers, and one dream — men like me. This bright young woman fed me with her passion for justice, a justice that solves problems — not just surrendering to retribution. We studied solutions to improve living conditions for unseen hospice patients. She shared her vision to secure the safety of mistreated and unattended elderly. Her primary focus is to keep young teens, adolescence, out of the juvenile system. I find relief in her efforts. When I look into her brown eyes I see all things as possible, even for myself. She made me question myself: what good works could I do? What sacrifices should I make and on whose behalf? Am I exhibiting my power correctly?

It's not often I meet someone who makes me feel a type of way — someone so real and down to earth. I can't help but to listen, to learn, to love, and enjoy their company.
Skyflower is assertive and hardworking. She has made my heart sing new songs, challenge old ways. She gave me love and so I sang her a song. Her song wrote in her praise, to let her feel how I worship the change she creates for our community. The structure she drives for our society, the passion and honor in which she builds, skills, courage, trust, care, empathy, compassion, service … I honor the builder, this young pioneer and architect, this woman scholar of devotion. I've never been so inspired, but a true inspiration will do that to you.

I wanted to know more about her, where she came from. I wanted to know what made her and so I asked and she told me. She gave me more and we spoke like the moon that lights the sea. To get to know her, if only for a moment, was worth every part of my life that led me to her.

LA, East LA, she said — a place I've never known or ever seen. She made me respect this place, her home, the way she expressed her love for her city, her neighborhood, her upbringing. The excitement. She lights up with when she told me of her works down her streets, spending quality time with her folks, her family. She made me dream of palm trees and warm weather. I would love to take my grandmother to share in worship at her Spanish Pentecostal church. I'm intrigued by her wanting to teach me about her culture, her heritage. I wish I could cheer with her in the stands of her Dodger’s Stadium, and hold her hand when they win. I could see that where she came from was a part of her and not just a part of her journey, this home was truly in her heart. I'm so grateful for her friendship. I only hope now (my prayer for the Skyflower, my inspiration) is that she keeps faith, that she continues to change lives, that she keeps building … because she is a gift to the world. | LH

READ THE COMPANION PIECE, LE’VAR HOWARD’S SONG SUPERBAD.

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.

SONG LYRICS

So take the hand of
new adventures in life
and sing a new song,
bright as the sun,
and let your light bring
hope for tomorrow. Let it bring.

And you are so brave to
keep giving your all. Don’t take
for granted
the strength that you are,
cus you /me so much, more
to this world than you know.
Keep giving your all.

You got it, you got it, you bad,
you bad, you got it, you got it,
you bad, you bad.

And you are so loved,
never forget you’re only human.
It’s okay to take a moment and be,
with yourself and just be.

You can do anything you wanna do,
you can do anything, you can do anything.
You don’t have to impress nobody,
you bad, you bad.

I have faith in you,
even if you don’t, please believe
in me, cus I believe in you.
There’s one truth, we all share,
stay aware. It’s your world,
your world, your world,
and you don’t have to impress nobody.

You go it, you got it, you bad,
you bad, you bad, you bad. | LH

THIS SONG WAS INSPIRED BY SKYFLOWER AND THE LIFER’S CLUB AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY.

Bridgeworks projects are collaborative. The baton is handed from person to person until a poem, a song, a conversation — one of these entries — comes into the world. We share the work (the listening and responding, the editing, transcribing) and then the creator has a finished piece. Since we started this project, we have been working on intuition … and faith mixed with a little head above water luck. Things get dropped and bungled from time to time. We make amends and we learn the importance of trusting one another. In Soul Tribe Luis Fernando Del Rio writes:
Learning to hold space
long enough to quiet the noise pollution,
to get lost in the rhythm of our silent heart beats,
to find ourselves in the state of collective belief.

There is no Teacher’s Edition for what we are doing. I come into the group with a piece to read and a loose plan. The characters at the table make it jell. Wednesday, we set up our work in Oregon State Penitentiary’s Memorial Healing Garden. The day was focused on developing the youth outreach project we will be making together in the coming year. A family of ducks greeted us as we crossed the threshold from the poured concrete of the prison through the welcome gate and up the gravel paths to our makeshift outdoor classroom. Our house band Luther’s Boots played a show on the prison yard in 2018 to help fundraise for the construction of this traditional Japanese garden. Over seven years, the trees have taken root and prospered, the prison caretakers right alongside them. We marvel at the size of the koi as we crossed over the wooden bridge and made our way through the lush foliage, setting up shop at folding tables. Though we are surrounded by the abundance and growth of this beautifully tended garden, the boundary of the prison wall provides a windbreak for our conversation.

The men have taken to the idea of using their collective experience to build tools to connect adults inside with kids from their neighborhoods. We are designing a set of activities, written pieces, and collection of parenting wisdom to publish online and on prison tablets along with providing hands-on activities for family fairs in prisons. We are asking the question: How do we interrupt the cycle of generational incarceration?

The people we work with come from a world defined by its violence and poverty. Survival meant finding people to help keep you safe on the streets. The tactics, the means for making it were fueled by creative ingenuity. To that point Jai’s poem Anchor Points describes the makeshift gathering of detritus he and his tribe used to anchor his boat when he lived on the river:
A hapless throb of hurt people, hurting people on consignment. Portland's lay-away
sales pitch of epigenetic oppression.

The impulse to anchor, to create a safe harbor these are themes we hear in our conversations. Coyote and Little Saint talk about how basketball anchored them when they were in high school. I look around the table. These faces are old and young, they come from different neighborhoods, sit in different places on the yard and yet, I watch our team brainstorm, share details of their lives, building off one another. The guys have made our writing group a safe space in a maximum-security prison. Storytelling is our superpower.

I was deeply moved by poet Andrea Gibson’s essay The Hardest Winter of My Life and shared it with our writers. I was struck by their observation that they were accustomed to writing from the lesson learned but in this final months of their life, they recognized the value of writing from the ache: Sometimes it’s not about knowing the answer but being inside the question together. Being inside the hardest winter together. We read that passage and asked the writers to respond. Prison is the bullseye of the ache they describe in the essay. By asking questions, we allow ourselves to be student, to be curious, to be vulnerable.

From Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution one of our newest writers, Marshawn Edwards responded to the bone chill of the eastern winds in Coldest Winter Together:
Camaraderie forced upon us,
enemies on the street
but roommates behind these walls,
we’re not so different after all.

Through togetherness Marshawn finds warmth and connection to weather the winter. This is the thread that Le’Var Howard pulls from Andrea Gibson’s essay:
In the gathering,
I see sharing and emotional vulnerabilities
put into a place to remake the present.

At the worktable, Yeyin Chin reads the first piece we will be using in our youth outreach project. Over in the yard, we hear a scuffle that at first we think is a fight but turns out to be horseplay. A dragonfly lands on Buddha’s forehead. We are holding space to make something together. In the rhythm of our silent heart beats, in our collective belief we feel the true things — a story shared, the song that raises our spirit, the refrain that is meant to be repeated. | TDS

In the gathering,
I find the power of creativity.

In the gathering,
I see sharing and emotional vulnerabilities
put into a place to remake the present.

In the gathering,
there is, gift by gift, selflessly given
from one to the next. 

I see a gathering of men,
a gathering prepping potential,
each sword here has
the great ability
to sharpen the next.  

Self-realization has been uplifted
in this gathering.  

A circle that gathers together. | LH

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

It started with a longing for organic
inspiration through music.
Connecting
belonging to something that made sense. 
Learning to hold space
long enough to quiet the noise pollution,
to get lost in the rhythm of our silent heart beats,
to find ourselves in the state of collective belief.

Desperate,
I wanted to preserve what was said — never losebut traumas surfaced.
Masks were disregarded.
People became targets, a means for profit.

When really it was a quest to employ individual dreams. Business takes the soul out of things —whatever happened to just being?

 Now we’re deceiving our inner voice of reason, grief
reaching,
preaching,
believing,
seeking,
needing. 

Please, let’s get back to reading into something, expecting nothing. 
Peacefully. | LFDR

LUIS FERNANDO DEL RIO WRITES FROM EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION.

Old shopping carts stuffed with broken bikes and bricks, zip-tied shut and riveted together. Unused iron weights, got on the cheap digging through unattended Goodwill donation bins in the predawn hours, netted together and attached to a Tow Truck chain.

Contingent myths of successful rebellion fighting the law, pretending to win, in revelries at 4 AM. The wavy gravy and biscuit spot where we bestow accolades about multiplayer bumper car adventures, all stolen and totaled, even before the police chase, all along the 405.

A massive tree stump roots a tangle nearly puncturing the vessel in our hauling of it. So heavy we could barely heave the dead trees's remnant. Taking four full-grown men, an anxious and barking K9, and a rail-thin malcontent woman to worry it into position.

The streets that accommodate a pirate's life with block-chain enabling. Everything that's laid to waste at the bottom of a dirty river. The visceral reality bound and chained to the enormity of the unseen, unspoken, though solemn, often formerly friendly, roster of victims.

Multiple baggies in various states of chock-a-block, a liquor store of bottles incuriously empty, and intractable piles of misplaced motel keys. A stolen car, at least once for real, and still down there somewhere to be sure, and boatloads of lost and hard to forget time.

Defunct out board motors that have long ceased to put-put, scavenged or stolen from old dinghies, for the environment’s sake, emptied of their fuels and solvents, of course. Also tied with nylon cord to avoid line corruption weighted just so in the muck and miry currents.

A hapless throb of hurt people, hurting people on consignment. Portland's lay-away sales pitch of epigenetic oppression. The City's amalgamated struggle and suffering imploded to the point of truly cold-fusion. A Dark sparkling power, requiring God's hand to break.

And the dead, countless, even from before the city itself was born. This weird city and the Shanghai climate that spawned it. The Naga's need. The lust of a rivers bed for bodies and the souls of the lost, the lonely, the cast aside, or the heave-ho'd. Overlooked but for the anchor and chain. | JM

JAI WRITES FROM OSP. HE IS A CONSTANT GARDENER.

Camaraderie forced upon us,
enemies on the street
but roommates behind these walls,
we’re not so different after all. 
I never would have thought, never would have known —
foes turned friends.
Walking up and down four flights of stairs
because we can't miss bacon on Sundays,
freezing cold temps,
short choppy steps making sure we don't fall.
It feels like the coldest winter ever,
but at least we're not alone. 

If I would have known what summer was like out east,
I would appreciate the coldest winter a little more. | ME

MARSHAWN EDWARDS WAS BORN IN PORTLAND, OR. HE SENDS LOVE AND RESPECT TO ALL WHO TAKE THEIR TIME TO READ. HE WRITES FROM EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION.

I know my daughter cries
but I’m not there.
Not there to console her
not there to just be there
or to hear why she’s scared

Is she scared? Or just scarred
cause I chose drugs over her?
Yet my love for her ascends like
the flight of a bird.

ALEX PIERSON, OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY

Last week, we dropped our kid off for her first year of college. I made her bed and started helping with the dorm room set up. Roommate Anna and her father were unpacking computer equipment in the adjoining room. Both spaces were filling with emptied books and packaging, clothes strewn about. The midday heat was rising as five people nervously discussed the effectiveness of Command Strips (who knew there were such things?) and the best way to secure fairy lights. My daughter was concentrating on how to best organize and fill her desk drawers, and I could see it was time. She needed to set the stage for her new story — alone.

Most of the stories we tell ourselves are not tidy. Where would be if all the words fit neatly into predetermined categories? If we looked at the world myopically? Sure, we could make an image, but that image would lack the grist of life. There would be no need for multiple viewpoints, for new information, for growth.

We have writers expressing their world view and then, within the piece refocus their gaze which allows them to take a new tack, one that helps them navigate to safety, from MDKS’s A Frozen Wasteland:
One father works his hand to bone,
Another left them never known.
They live each day in this danger,
Their only shield hateful anger.
My only wish is to be bold,
As these kids in this world so cold.

And from Teresa Whitesides Falling Wishes:
Later, in high school, I would stay up late,
just to find that one falling star.
Shimmering in the dark sky,
leaving hope in its wake.

These pieces do not require a tight and consistent narrative. In many writers’ pre-carceral lives there was little stability and so turning on a dime meant survival. Word play tumbles the meaning, like the pinball — hitting and turning direction, the result knocks words from one place to the next until we arrive in all together new spot — as we read in When Gifts Lack Presents by OH!:
When you
reach for embrace, I am numb. When you
smell of a house, damn, I meant a home,
my presence is the wind updraft from it,
alone.

Within the movement of Michael Wise’s Wait there is the still moment. In a place where all is held celled, contained, and waiting, there exists dimensions that march along. Changing and aging. Here we have that pinball again moving us through the poem.
Seen and unseen … still
Before and after … still
Good and bad … still
Rise and fall … still

Letting go of an identity that no longer suits you provides powerful, redefining release. Amir’ Whadi Hassan considers this in What’s In a Name?
Why answer to a name that is not mine? A name passed down from a lineage that is not mine; a name to replace one lost to oppression; a name of a thief of culture, heritage, pride, and dignity.

The scent of his mother’s perfume, the smell of bread yeast he carries away from his job, and the anticipated cooking smells from the great first date link these pieces by AM Morrow. In Triptych, he sketches three different eras of his life — son, new father, and suitor. We have a sense of things that he needed to release to uncover what needs to be held: Yet the second I inhale one particulate of White Diamonds all the ill will and bad memories of my life get flushed away. What remains are pure thoughts of a beautiful woman who would regularly get told she looked like a movie star or even more commonly, Shania Twain the country singer.

Back in the stuffy dorm room, I asked if we should go. My daughter gave a resounding yes. I needed clarification, “Back to Portland?” and her face clouded, “No! Just leave for a bit so I can get this set up and show you.” We left, returned with a cold root beer, and wandered off again to explore the campus, waiting until she was ready to release us for our drive home. | TDS

WHITE DIAMONDS
We’ve all experienced nostalgia. That split second when your mind leaves your body, transporting you to a past memory. Invoking the exact feeling you felt the moment you first lived that experience. Whether it be a place, taste, or phrase that zaps you back to what I hope is a good memory. A special smell that always returns me to my childhood is the perfume by Elizabeth Taylor, White Diamonds. One sniff of that sweet, sophisticated scent sends me to a simpler place, one when I knew dinner would be served five nights a week at 7pm sharp. It reminds me of an attractive woman who entered a room and everyone stopped and stared as if she was gliding on air, feet never reaching the floor. I saw my mother as angel on earth with the heavenly scent to match. Not having a father, my mother filled the roll of both Mom and Dad. To say I was a momma's boy would be an understatement. The aroma that emanated from my mom was so distinct, I could've picked her out of a lineup with my eyes closed. A refined fragrance that smells like new money, I refuse to let any woman I'm dating partake in — the last thing I want is to kiss a woman's neck and think of my mother.

White Diamonds is one of two fragrances that make me think of the woman who birthed me. The second Deja vu moment comes each time I smell the slightest whiff off burnt popcorn. It's a sad reminder knowing the woman (I named my only child after) is hooked on fentanyl. Most refer to it as smoking blues and the last time she visited my apartment; she left the bathroom smelling like a microwave exploded from 10 pounds of charred popcorn. I've lost a lot of that whimsical nostalgia for my mother over the years, making me wonder if she was ever what I thought she was. Yet the second I inhale one particulate of White Diamonds all the ill will and bad memories of my life get flushed away. What remains are pure thoughts of a beautiful woman who would regularly get told she looked like a movie star or even more commonly, Shania Twain the country singer.

MEMORIES
The cold winter air stinging my nose, the only flesh exposed to this harsh environment. I'm almost home. The bus always runs late when it snows in Portland. I should have been there an hour ago. Work felt unbearably long today, let alone the second I walk through the door I'll be bombarded with requests to "do something" not simply, let's go out to the movies or, maybe we could try a new restaurant. Nope. Only the dreaded, "Let's do something." My brain is drained, my energy zapped, Why can't plans be set when I arrive and I'm able to just, go along for the ride ... too simple Andrew.

I awake each morning at 4:30am and don't return home until 3:00pm each day. Mind you, today I've been out and about for almost 12 hours and only want to rest my feet. I'm so cold and tired, I don't even want to shower but I smell of yeast from the bread proofing behind me most of the afternoon. I call myself assistant manager but I’m just the opener. I have no official title though I am bestowed keys to the castle. When I was hired they informed me only management responsibility would be possessing a key to the establishment. I should be happy the owners trust me with that responsibility. But, trust doesn't pay my rent and having a newborn at home, I'm in need of a raise.

Each night before bed, I scour the internet searching for new employment. This felony on my record is holding me back, I swear that's why I get no respect at work. They know about my past and are holding it against me. My phone rings, "Hello?" It's a new job telling me they found a conviction during the background check and wanted to verify. "l appealed the case, it's been expunged," I stammered. Slight pause, "I'm sorry, since you said you've been convicted of a felony we can't hire you." Silence on the line. My honesty got in the way again. Hanging up, I vowed to never bring up this felony ever again.

The next application I chose to leave out the details of my past I try to forget daily. Worked like a charm, my management career began that moment. Looking back on how far I had come in life gave me motivation to lead by example. I truly enjoy being in charge for the simple fact I won't tell someone to do something I wouldn't do myself. A few of my favorite go-to quotes are "act accordingly, we're paid to be here. I just got paid to sit on my butt for a 15-minute break." Or "put a smile on, even if it's fake. Give it two hours, you'll forget it's fake."

After years of training I feel as though I've mastered the art of management. The sad thing is now I'll be back where I started, forced to mark down felon on my next application. This time is like last time. It takes years to rebuild financially, let alone mentally, physically, and emotionally after these traumatic events I've continually gone through in life.

GREAT FIRST DATE
It seems my life has been one trauma after the next. At age 20, I fell on particularly hard times when framed for a crime I didn't commit. I won’t dwell on the three years I spent fighting the case. Yet upon release I was homeless, jobless, and had to turn myself in to a federal halfway house until I could find employment and room to rent in Portland. I'd like to focus on the first day I began renting a room from a meth addict named M, l' d met while living at the halfway house.

For a few months I had been texting a young woman named T (who later became the mother of my daughter, A.) when I finally had the opportunity to invite her over for dinner. We decided to meet at a Fred Meyer, right along the Blue Line Max Rail that went from Beaverton to Gresham so she could help pick out the meal I'd be preparing that night. Boneless pork chops breaded and fried to perfection with mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, and a side of fresh green beans.

She sat at the kitchen table and we got to know each other as I cooked. Time flew by and she was amazed at how fast a somewhat gourmet meal came together. Before she knew it, the table was set and right as we began to eat the doorbell rang. I thought nothing of it, but when my roommate "Merle the meth head" looked through the peephole, he jumped in the linen closet begging me to tell them he's not home. I swung open the door to see that it wasn't his probation officer like he'd thought, it was mine. Caught off guard, I stood at the doorway, "Hi, Jeremy."

More than surprised, I was frozen in shock. "Aren't you gonna let me in?" He said as he walked in the apartment. "Who's this?" "JC, this is T. My date." I looked at her. "l swear I was going to tell you, I was just waiting until after dinner." I must have looked like a big fat liar, but I promise I had planned on telling her that night. I just wanted to break it to her in person. Being a felon is and always will be an embarrassment. JC got a good laugh and left in a hurry. M popped out of the closet and we finished a wonderful meal. What a "great first date." | AMM

AM MORROW WRITES FROM DEER RIDGE CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION IN MADRAS, OREGON.