I don’t know what will happen but my mind goes back to the spider web and my thoughts keep asking am I the spider or the prey?
Osmus Garfield

Osmus is ensnared in his thoughts, worrying the rough edge of self-doubt; can he count on his future self (later today, tomorrow, ten years in the future) to act in his best interest? The carceral system is a never-ending labyrinth. In my short time engaged in prison work, I’ve come to understand how people are unwittingly consumed. Prison’s impact can be felt at any point in life, because once it touches a family the threads wrap around every heart in the circle. These are impossible stories that have powerfully tragic beginnings and endings, stumbles, and fall after fall after fall. Becoming a member of these communities ensures disappointment, heartbreak, painful goodbyes, swimming through fear. Incarcerated folks are navigating a seemingly arbitrary series of rules and regulations, sometimes ignored, sometimes enforced. This maze of bureaucracy and cruelty is centered in the human realm of foibles and inconsistency. The autonomy of a person you love is controlled by the state and navigating it requires resilience and grit and grace.

This is containment.

Perfidy by Mitchell Adair:
Unfeeling and quelled I fell to those who would wield me.
Saints and sinners merge, indistinguishable.
No substance save pain and relief,
a mercenary of alleviation arbitrarily found.

Hard Time in IMU by Marcus Standing Crow:
That’s why I stay busy, remaining in motion, reading ‘til I go to sleep, writing ‘til my hands hurt, getting lost in my thoughts, scratching the paper making my pen bleed my truest of trues, and highest of highs, killing time with a passion, keeping misery’s angels at bay.

Inside/Outside by Richard Owens
some take the form of liquids, powders or smoke
some burst your back; work you down to the bone
others turn serious topics to jokes
yet others appear when we feel all alone

Heeling by R. Miranda.
I stare at a stone-cold wall,
it glares back, reflecting my blinding rage.
My naked eyes helplessly exposed, lids fall
slowly, immediately like an umbrella collapsing,

There are myriad entrances into the labyrinth: growing up accepting calls from an inmate at Oregon State Penitentiary; MacLaren youth facility; addiction; a catalog of stupid mistakes; a bad choice, or no choice. Once inside, the people and stories you will encounter defy your expectations … including the brain trust of brilliantly creative, resourceful people.

Long time readers will recognize Granny’s name. With less than a year left on her sentence, Granny was transferred to minimum. The energetic bustle of the minimum dorm life was not ideal for an 81-year-old woman who relies on a walker, so she requested a transfer back to her handicapped-access cell in medium. One of the units has been closed, and no handicapped cells are available in the honor dorms. The only solution for Granny is living with intakes. As you can image, the atmosphere in a unit filled with new prisoners can be rather intense. The woman who spent her career as a teacher returns to instruction. Crochet, coloring, crafts, and writing were activities that have kept Granny grounded during the time she has served and so she is doing what she knows best — passing along this knowledge to the woman around her. The women living on Granny’s unit have no idea how fortunate they are to have her sitting at the head of the table.

Carolyn Stickley asks Why Am I Here?
There is a calmness to a time lived in gratitude. Relaxation is the body’s natural antidote to stress with coloring and drawing. This causes us to cope with our new prison community and rules.

In Worthy of a Life — Dear Me, Shane Espinoza writes about his friendship with a man who struggles with suicidal ideation. Shane describes the man’s difficulty in finding hope and how his music has helped him make peace during his prison sentence.
There are very few people he called friend. He had difficulty with relationships, especially in prison. The loneliness prevented him from sharing his fears. Not a healthy place to be.

There are many roads into prison but very few ways out. A few weeks ago, we were rerouted through the passage at OSP that the incarcerated travel for intake and release. I wonder if I am exaggerating when I say that the metal gates that opened for us and closed quickly behind seemed louder and more menacing. That afternoon, we crossed the same gates that our released writers walked through after 20+ years inside.

Those of who work in the labyrinth are fundamentally changed. We know folks who work in prisons who are deeply committed to improving the lives inside. Danny and I feel such respect for the people with whom we work directly. They do everything possible to aid our efforts. We arrive, go through security, and run a workshop. These folks are there day in and day out, navigating the human field. All the while, answering to the bureaucracy of budget cuts and staffing shortages. And like everywhere in the world, they deal with coworkers who are simply punching a timeclock.

Once a week, we encounter a guard who we only seen through the darkened glass of Control. We ding in our badges and then hand them through the port. Every week, he seems as if he has never seen us before. He looks closely at the badge front and back; he studies as if it is the first time. I will say a chippy good morning and hold open my tote for his inspection. Keep in mind, we have been through a metal detector, shoes off, bag and coats through the conveyer and another officer has checked our badges. He’s so stiff, I thought he was just being a jerk. One day he told us (albeit sternly) that our badges were soon to expire and we better renew them. In that exchange, I realized that in fact he has our backs.

As Osmus says, it’s a web. Once you are woven in, you are sometimes spider, sometimes prey. You can try to quit, but the stories will haunt you. | TDS

Editor’s note: This piece describes suicidal ideation.

Dear me,

This man told me a story about hanging a rope and noose in a tree in his backyard. Most of the tree was an above ground pool ladder. He said the rope was in that tree for a year before he actually used it.

He had to have a neck surgery as a result of the attempt. The surgeon fused vertebrates C3 through C7. This surgery was three years ago while he was incarcerated. He experienced a long recovery that was painful and miserable. During this process he made a decision to learn to play the guitar. He practiced one to three hours per day. Learning the chords and practicing focused his attention on creating. In a way it helped him with his recovery. since then, playing has become a source of self-expression and stress relief. He’s written songs and learned to play popular songs from memory. There have been times when I sat and listened to him practice. He sings and plays with a passion that is rarely seen in prison.

One day I asked him how the practicing was going and he admitted that he hadn’t been playing much over the past month. There was an elevated amount of stress outside these walls that concerned him. This had woken the voices and demons in his mind. They were worse at night when it was quiet and he was trying to relax. During the day he worked 8 hours with his hands and the activity kept the voices at bay.

He would experience thoughts of taking his life on a daily basis. Most of the time it was for brief moments that would easily fade away. Other times the voices would latch on and refuse to leave him alone. In those times his anxiety would elevate making it hard to breathe or concentrate. The feeling of helplessness was extreme.

There are very few people he actually called friend. He had difficulty with relationships, especially in prison. The loneliness prevented him from sharing his fears. Not a healthy place to be. I was lucky enough to be called his friend and together we did some creative coaching. I asked him deep and thought-provoking questions that he agreed to answer.

In his core he felt deeply. Those emotions show up and occupy his mind completely. So, we discussed his fears and ascertained that his biggest fear is dying. Sounds odd. Where does he turn for comfort, to feel safe and free of the greyness in his life?

His guitar.

He has had people tell him to be grateful for his life and what he has. Yet, this does not bring him peace. His hope is in the guitar. At first, he did not think that he found solace there. He chose to learn to play the guitar because prison offered him the time to practice. That was the initial drive. He practiced, joined a prison band and wrote songs. The more he played the better he felt. He challenged himself with progressively harder pieces. Joy came when the song flowed, his suicidal thoughts diminished the more creative he was.

The thoughts have not gone completely away. However, they no longer occupy the majority of his thoughts. Over the past few years people have complimented his playing offered words of encouragement. His sense of self-worth has grown stronger and he feels worthy of this life he has been given. His resolve to live has unconsciously grown stronger. He is driven to continue making progress.

He does not ignore his thoughts. He realizes that by remaining true to the raw emotions, he has allowed himself to continue on a path that leads away from ordinary values and towards a life filled with meaning that goes beyond the limitations of life and death. Over time he has learned how to embrace those feelings. He has gained a sense of clarity and confidence which allows him to help others in any way he can. This is what keeps those feelings from turning into despair. He now cherishes the gift of life.

As he became more sensitive, He realized that the true cause of his suffering was not out there in the world, but in the present moment of his mind. Having focused the answer to the question he has taken massive action. He doesn’t deny the insights that inspire those intense emotions in the first place. He has had time to reflect on them. He now stays with them when they show up. He understands they are a part of him. He acknowledges their existence. Through these actions he has gained a power over the helplessness he once felt. He now lives a life filled with generosity, virtue and reflection. These are what strengthened the qualities of the mind that bring inner peace and joy.

We all endure a wide range of emotions and circumstances while incarcerated. There are few places or times when one feels safe enough and trusts enough to share a piece of themselves. Prison isn’t always centered on hierarchies, gangs, hustles, etc. Sometimes one can find the space to self-reflect and a friend with whom to share the journey. There is ugliness in prison, however, when one chooses to focus on one good thing, then the universe pours energy into it and the energy starts to flow. There is good in this place. One only needs to do the work to find it. This man found a way to grow and he is better for it. | SE

I stare at a stone-cold wall,
it glares back, reflecting my blinding rage.
My naked eyes helplessly exposed, lids fall
slowly, immediately like an umbrella collapsing,
an eternal link caught in slow-mo time escaping.
Bending, twisting, images I no longer recall,
purposeless suffering … this time in a cage.
I conjure the courage, I must, I must stand tall. | RM

I woke up today thinking of my life — what will come of it? I sit here and think: Will I take action on my goals so I could live a healthier, better life? I find myself trapped in my spiderweb, stuck on thinking the same thing over and over but end up still sitting in the spider web. I don’t know it I am the spider or the pray of my own thoughts. So, I sit here stuck waiting for the day to end hoping for a new coming. I don’t know what will happen but my mind goes back to the spider web and my thoughts keep asking am I the spider or the prey? | OG

some have plush new carpet
some have beautiful smiles
many have two weeks vacation
and others go many a mile,

some have amenities; state of the art
some force your focus to a line on a chart
many have rings, flowers, witnesses, vows
others distract from what’s happening now,

some take the form of liquids, powders or smoke
some burst your back; work you down to the bone
others turn serious topics to jokes
yet others appear when we feel all alone,

some crystallize patterns repeated intime
some stream into view: connected online
many attract with glamour, glittering shine
others inescapably lie within minds,

some are created through generations of lives
some we all share; body’s burden in kind
no matter in which types of prison you find
yourself trapped; know we’re all here inside | RO

Killing Time, Inside the Belly of The Beast

My time, and ways of pushing through the belly of the beast … I have been in and out of this hell. You can call me (Son of a Beast). Life in here is misery’s home, waiting for that moment to get inside your dome, playing mind games, making you think hard and loudly. You try to fight it, but deep down inside, you yourself and I know it’s too late. The seeds have been planted — misery’s angels are growing inside your mind, heart, and soul with names like Depression, Stress, and Psychosis.

The past seems to haunt you, making you toss and turn, feeling like there’s no way out. The quietness of the night makes you hold your breath. Time seems to be killing you slowly, trying to escape. It feels like you’re trapped in a concrete coffin. Tears and sweat fill your bed, misery’s loving every drip, and the sound of your heart beating fast. Feeding on your fear, and weakness. Finally, you fall asleep with a dream of happiness, love and good memories. Only to wake up and face a real-life nightmare that goes on and on if you let it.

That’s why I stay busy, remaining in motion, reading ‘til I go to sleep, writing ‘til my hands hurt, getting lost in my thoughts, scratching the paper making my pen bleed my truest of trues, and highest of highs, killing time with a passion, keeping misery’s angels at bay. Working out with a vengeance, sweating out those tears, losing weakness and gaining strength.

Mind, Body, and Spirit. Remaining with better days inside my prayers, knowing this too shall pass, built for the struggle, turning a curse into a blessing. Running into concrete and steel, breaking away, to make away, knowing they can lock my body up, but can’t trap my mind, never letting a hard time humble me, through blue, sweat, and tears, trials, and tribulations. The marathon continues. My ways of living inside the Belly of the Beast.

My Sacred Values and Solitary Freedom. | MSC

“You say anything and I’ll crush your head with a hammer just like this can.”

*CRUNCH!*

Hollering, howling I hail the protectors.
Saints of justice, sovereignty of kingdom,
a boy’s hero.

Pressure expands, elucidating no enunciation.
Hands enshrouding my mouth whisper,
“That doesn’t happen to boys.”
“A big boy wouldn’t let that happen.”
“I’ll crush your head.”
“It’s your word against mine.”

Incessant years of silent shouting, screaming supplication.
Bleeding.

“A big boy wouldn’t let that happen!”
“A BIG BOY WOULDN’T LET THAT HAPPEN!!”

Unfeeling and quelled I fell to those who would wield me.
Saints and sinners merge, indistinguishable.
No substance save pain and relief,
a mercenary of alleviation arbitrarily found.

Eyes of justice, truant of truth, proclimate
my castigation be served now in high-handed fashion.
The only service be that of pain.

Relief came to me, in
being jettisoned and tattered.
Persistence of malevolence but cessation of manipulation.
Beatings merely upon my body, my heart enveloped in desolation.

My soul established enshroud,
justice simply confected concrete about a concealed soul.
Justice, entrusted the name in irony.

If she be just, she would have
liberated, extricated, credited credence, championed, loved
the little me.
Me, she newly christened with equivalent name
to the fiends that ensconced my soul.

Hands of justice do not liberate nor champion.
Hands cold and clammy cloak my cries.
“Nobody will believe a little freak like you.”
Hands senseless and deluded, feature me as fiend.

Saints and sinners still merged, tantamount.
My soul still bridled and alone. | MJA

When I had escaped death (actual or metaphorically) is when I left my past behind. Where there muck, there’s luck. I only learned to move through life with such ease in recent years.

Teaching the Intakes (on C unit for 40-60 days) to create with colored pencils their own bookmark might be my job. We are not allowed the use of scissors on C unit (only J unit), so I fold and tear to make bookmarks.

There is a calmness to a time lived in gratitude. Relaxation is the body’s natural antidote to stress with coloring and drawing. This causes us to cope with our new prison community and rules. Bookmarks facilitate individual expression. Beyond being a creative outlet, often also a personal outlet, a means of speaking out. Expressions and preferences are reflections of our unique identities. Bookmarks are imbued with hope working with hands and eyes, they can even be enjoyed as your art.

The best things in life aren’t things! I plan on living forever. So far, so good. | CS

There is the container. There is capacity. And there is overflow — catastrophic if it is a second-floor bathtub and just another day in paradise if it is a pint of beer. Tears spill over, a laugh fills a room, and big emotions demand attention. This passage — and frankly, most of Lewis Hyde’s brilliant A Primer for Forgetting: Getting Past the Past — fills me with incurable writer’s envy. He demands that we pay attention to the hold grief and rage take on not just one body, but on generations to follow:

THE UNFORGETTABLE.
Some emotions grip us, then fall away. A great happiness can bring sleepless nights when first it blooms, but the possession eventually fades. Two years out, no one says, “I cannot shake my joy!”

Grief and rage, however — these can go on and on. Decades go by and still a loss or wound from childhood colors our days. Two decades have passed since Odysseus left for war, and still the old swineherd Eumaeus grieves “unforgettingly” for his absent master. Rage may be the more troubling of the unforgettables, and especially rage knit together with grief because these don’t just persist; they call for action, and in action taken, they reseed themselves generation after generation.

All the years of the Trojan War have passed, and still Clytemnestra cannot forget how Agamemnon sacrificed their daughter to put a wind in his sails, and so she takes her revenge, a revenge that plants the seed in turn for their children, Orestes and Electra, to seek vengeance against her. In Sophocles’s play that bears her name, Electra speaks of her father’s murder as a sorrow (or evil) that cannot be forgotten and describes her own passion (or anger) in similar terms, though in this case the Greek for “not forgetting” (our láthei) might better be translated from its root meaning — “it does not escape notice,” “it is not hidden.” The image is of anger as a thing that the mind cannot bury, cannot help being aware of. Electra’s passion won’t let her alone. It’s intrusive. It bugs her. We do not control the unforgettable; it controls us. The spirits of such unforgetting are called the Furies, the Erinyes. They cling to the memory of hurt and harm, injury and insult. Their names are Grievance, Ceaseless, and Bloodlust. Their names are Grudge, Relentless, and Payback, They bloat the present with the undigested past. “Most dreaded of the forces of insomnia,” they harry the mind, demanding for its release a ransom paid in blood.

We do not control the unforgettable; it controls us.

As our writers work alone in their journals, they circle back through what they remember of the past and pull forward evidence to better understand how they have ended in a cell. Generational trauma underscores every piece. In Anger, Brittany Vogeli writes: Imprisonment accomplished by our enemies. Trying to escape this fire day and night. We howl and throw things about. Shouting cruel insults. Anxious to be set free. Suspected apology never to come. Determination and desperation showing on our faces. When will it end?

A child who enters life into a struggling household learns to step around gaping holes of anger and neglect. This state of un-wellbeing is described in the free write Suffering is Long by Dustin Smith: How could I possibly gaze at all this seemingly endless suffering and not feel totally overwhelmed by it? Drowning is the only rational response to such a vast sea of sorrow.

In Anxiety, Shane Espinoza identifies the sensations:
There are too many sounds,
too much noise,
the heartbeat quickens
the body tense

In these pieces, the writers identify their symptoms and then lay out a personal prescription for how to manage overflowing emotions — a release with an exhale, and an attempt to move those feelings into the corner. It’s survival training after growing up in a world of shaking ground. The stakes are high, not just for our writers’ lives, but for the next generation. Somewhere at home there is a child waiting for them to return.

In Assumption Michael Wise came to a place where he challenged the solutions that moved him through the world. When they stopped working, he had to build a new set of tools:
I assumed I had to become hardened so
I would be accepted.
My many traumas helped create many masks,
I assumed I had to wear them,
with each mask I transformed into their
perception.

Ryan Poffenberger’s primary solution came in the form of disconnection, and like Michael he found another way for himself: For so long I was diligent at being disconnected from emotion and I used a temporary shield to stay alive in the streets. I now have embodied the calling upon my life I now cherish that my spirit is able to be moved by emotion! My tears are a reminder of the reset in my life…

In the discovery, Ryan found his way to not only connecting with himself but extending himself to others. You can read the galloping enthusiasm in his piece, the joy he has found choosing to live a full-color emotional life. As I read through this collection, I wonder how we reform this unforgettable into manageable bites that can cohabitate with mundane happiness of everyday life?

In the spirit of Ryan’s desire to share, we have one more piece. It is a love letter to the PonyXpress workshop and our writers written by a member of the Snake River collective in minimum security, Travis Carroll. The reason we share this with you is to convey the deep gratitude we feel for one another, Travis writes: Most importantly, all my peers, brothers, sisters who are the collective of collaborators to the greatness that this is, thank you. I love reading all your truly rad works that come to fruition. The mind, heart, pen, paper, connection holds immeasurable power and value.

Travis comes into the workshop and unbottles what is in his heart to a room full of equally bottled-up men. We watch this happen each visit, we start with the clear ring of the bell, and then, shake up the whole mess to bubble and brew a conversation. I don’t hold back when I read our opening poem — I’ll use a Whitmanesque barbaric yarp, if the text requires it. We laugh and yes, we see tears, shaking hands, downcast eyes. There is rage in the room at times. There may be a story of a fall… of a lost relationship with a child. We navigate conversations from the perspective of folks who have lived profoundly difficult lives, caused devastation and harm, and we write together every visit to manage the unforgettable.

What comes to the mind at the end of our time — whether it has been heavy or buoyant — is collective effervescence and “I cannot shake that joy!” | TDS

The PonyXpress is here again, how eagerly I have awaited your arrival. So incredibly grateful I am that Tracy and Danny have taken the time from their lives to travel our way again, to lead up on another fun-filled, wonderful journey into the endless vistas, the world of writing.

They always bring with them the flame of provocation of such profound thoughts, feelings, expressions, and creation. I struggle to find words to adequately convey, articulate, and give their due diligence in illustrating the moments I’ve had the privilege, grace, and opportunity to experience and absolutely enjoy their presence.

The space and time that is the PonyXpress is one of warmth, sincerity, growth, and freedom from the monotony of these confines. Internal and external confines I am set free from while you are in town.

This space is filled with electricity that binds us together, each one of us men being our own semi-conductor charging and growing a network of good vibrations and artistic expressions. In these moments, I am redeemed in spirit, recharged with vitality and humanity.

Every time the outcome is truly amazing to me. The epic synergy ensues from the collective mind of the willing and active participants I choose to call my brothers and sisters statewide is inspiring in and of itself.

Once the first bell rings, and we begin to share and do so from a place of unfiltered genuine vulnerability. The masks of plasticity, façade and superficial egocentric masculinity are removed. I can then relinquish my armor, sheath my sword, and replace it with a pen.

Saddle up and embark on a journey of personal growth, creativity, emotional, and artistic expression. Bestowing us with modes, forms, methods, and tools to express, harness and learn from one another. We create and grow with each other in amazing ways and in a manner I’ve only ever experience in the PonyXpress writing workshops. Tracy and Danny thank you!

Most importantly, all my peers, brothers, sisters who are the collective of collaborators to the greatness that this is, thank you. I love reading all your truly rad works that come to fruition. The mind, heart, pen, paper, connection holds immeasurable power and value.

Furthermore, the conversation we create, the narratives we hold the power to make a stand in changing. Thank you all for fanning the flames of introspections and inspiration, that burn so hot within this space that is the PonyXpress.

You are the medium that will spread this fire of humanity. Change and personal growth into our communities, families, and society at large should we choose to feed the fire of good with good for goodness sakes.

This is my futile attempt at articulating all that the PonyXpress is and has been to me. Tracy and Danny thank you for giving us a voice and making our voices heard around the state of Oregon. I love when the PonyXpress is here from bell to bell. Always over too soon.

It is all the above and so much more, can anyone relate? Care to share or expand on if you please . It is the sharing of others’ ideas, believes, thoughts, and perspectives that helps me see the world through another lens. With all due respect for each other that is so cool, you are all so gifted.

Tracy and Danny, your purpose, passion, and poise are truly remarkable. | TC

For so long I was diligent at being disconnected from emotion and I used a temporary shield to stay alive in the streets. I now have embodied the calling upon my life I now cherish that my spirit is able to be moved by emotion! My tears are a reminder of the reset in my life, that I have humbly been given the privilege to experience. I now share the true impact of the transformation in my life through the cleansing you see pouring from my eyes, that comes with confiding my bottled up emotions.

I wouldn’t dare to attempt to quench expressing this stage of vulnerability, because to do so I feel it would take the power out of my testimony, which would be depriving others from the truth of their capabilities to overcome adversity. I am filled with the sincere desire to be genuine, unique, and helpful. I pray I can be uplifting to other’s spirits in any way positive way possible. Even if the inspiration comes from me exposing the mistakes I made in the dark period with hope that it brings them to the light.

That way they can begin to develop the courage to believe in their self, see their true value, and allow the power of change in their life to water this seed being planted, to share their personal stories of despair with deliverance and humility.

I embrace my ability to capture my different seasons of emotion. Because through my writing, I have been able to transmute my passion and emotions into strength and devotion. This is the power of emotion! | RP

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

There are too many sounds,
too much noise,
the heartbeat quickens
the body tense,
eyes close for a moment,
Breathe.

Noise enters thought
Where is the quiet?
A deep breath — there it is.
Stay with it, even though it’s painful.
It’s a struggle.
Give up, it’s too much.
No, this is meant to be understood,
embrace it, accept it.
It begins to fade,
the intensity is gone,
another deep breath.
Peace once again. | SE

Suffering is long. How could I possibly gaze at all this seemingly endless suffering and not feel totally overwhelmed by it? Drowning is the only rational response to such a vast sea of sorrow. And so, there are times that I must turn away from it: when my eyes have to lower to the ground to be spared from the sight of so much suffering; when I can feel the heat of shame and flush in my cheeks and a dull aching throb in the empty sorrowful cavern of my chest; when I have had my fill. It is at these times that I need reminders of the simpler things. The little joys and pleasant moments that ease the burden of existence. The small joys that excuse the original sin, that haunt us. The connections, however faint, that act as a salve against the wound of mortality. | DS

Feel the flames ripple around us. The smell of ash in the air. Vivid humiliation dancing around us. We let the fire consume us for far too long. If we wish to survive this mess we must do it one step at a time. Frustration from not feeling valued making us self-conscious. Surprisingly, we apologize for things we have not done.

Punishment meant for the wicked handed out to the innocent. Imprisonment accomplished by our enemies. Trying to escape this fire day and night. We howl and throw things about. Shouting cruel insults. Anxious to be set free. Suspected apology never to come. Determination and desperation showing on our faces. When will it end? Frustration from conversations going nowhere. Heathen behavior takes over our minds. Our tongues absently speaking out of temper rather than truth. Communication skills failing us. Tongues twisted with irritation. To gain and keep control of one’s temper becomes surprising difficult. You become horrified at the person you see in the mirror. Reflection, a flickered flame of evil in one’s eyes. | BV

The Pacific Northwest is consumed by wildfire and the sandy-eyed persistence of unhealthy air. Yesterday, the Portland metro area claimed the dubious title of worst air quality in the world. Danny and I spent the front part of the week traveling past the Grasshopper fire at Mount Hood, various hot spots along the Gorge, and then south through the Powder River and Tartar fire areas. Along 84 there was some evidence of scorched earth, but most of our view was enveloped in thick smoke, the ghosts of trees. The smoke knows no boundary. Today, winds off the Pacific are clearing my view across the river ever so slowly.

The Pony travels away from the fires, south to Oregon State Penitentiary’s Memorial Healing Garden in Salem. A jewel created by the community, the traditionally structured garden illustrates an ideal nature. Pathways cut precise boundaries between designated spaces — pond, zen garden, meditation bench — a framework to help us see with new eyes. The edges are softened by the cycle of the seasons, such as beautiful, tiny maples leaves that fall on the paths. The prison gardeners sweep and painstakingly prune the trees. Care is the vocation; the garden teaches patience and the experience of seasonal time. Centered within the confines of a prison yard, the garden contrasts sharply with the chain-link fence, razor wire, and guard towers. Like the garden lessons, the writing from our workshops investigates the edges of living a better life when that life is limited and contained by the very nature of imprisonment. Jai’s four-part piece Living Zen meditates on the work of raking. He does this alongside the “avenue” a strip of roadway that separates the Memorial Healing Garden from the bustle of the prison yard. We see nature’s version of this contrast along the Oregon freeways where fires blacken the land right up to the point where it turns lush and green.

Driving down from the pass there is a stretch along Highway 20 that I call the boneyard. Remnants of the trees are licked cleaned, weathered by seasons of rain and sun exposure. As we travel these roads year after year, we learn to read the forest. Natural forces author the stories. Chapters are written by fire, and whispers of new growth appear the following spring. This week, we pray for a pause in this passage so that winds might quell, electrical storms subside, and the wildfires reach containment. | TDS

The cross hatch took all morning. Their journey through time and trials brought them among the trees in a forest of splendor. Before long, they would cantor up to ravines hard to cross, past burnt bridges, and retrofit rope ladders weathered and untrustworthy, spanning the gap. The two climbed down the steep and perilous cliff sides, they swam the rivers of hope, never quite certain but building confidence. Their pace slowed a bit slogging through the mires of despair, but the cross hatch constantly progressed from one sacred corner of the Zen Garden to the other. Working with a will to heal, they crafted their way beyond the boulders that are people, grandfathers, and fathers of old, and other dead relatives, obstacular bits and pieces disrupting the intended pattern. The intrinsic beauty made surreal and all the more evident as they climbed together up the other side of the rifts, no longer pitfalls and deathtraps, but a set of melancholic puzzles along the journey. he youngster becoming far less bound by the unseen dangers and as yet unprocessed tribulations of limbic embrace, they continued to climb, and talk, and laugh. Memories loomed at first then fell away like so much morning mist. The past was observed, memories heard, and a process was experienced. With the bright yellow sun counterpoised to the endless deep blue of unsullied sky above and all around its glow, here and now, the son was high and his light was bright. By that time, the seemingly turbulent cross hatch pattern was nearly completed. In this garden of tranquil introspection, they had resolved to set up base camp on the side of the youngster’s mountain. Snow white, impossible peaks were the backdrop, rife with numinous crags and crevices, marbled grey granite hues in their constancy. The pinnacle was shrouded in wispy mystical cloud cover. From that distance, vacuous winds could scarcely be discerned, calling out a warning to them about former fruitless efforts and false bravado. And the Sherpa knew, from previous pilgrimages, it would take genuine courage not foolish bravery to accomplish the climb ahead. Fortunately, the kid had it and this trek would be worth it. The cross hatch was finally finished, with a sweaty smile and gratitude, by count time mid-day.

LIVING ZEN 2

He woke up that morning with a grin. The sun was shining another molten summers day was about to begin. The summer of ’25, with all its angst and turmoil couldn’t help but to be gorgeous and extraordinary. The atmosphere was full of ambient potential. At base camp three little birds perched upon the loading dock, well wintered wood grain and smooth polished granite pedestals. The perfect all-natural launch pad. The three sang songs of chaotic discontent and mild melodrama from the week before, at first. But slowly the discordant chirping and tweeting edged beyond the party line of discontent, becoming honed, musical and almost reverent. Through simple osmosis, the three with he, and the wind and the trees, the gravel and skree, found a peace and began to climb in earnest. Their adopted proximity to here and now, in the garden, this temple of refuge and restoration at the mountains edge, they had discovered together, at base camp, the little birds found harmony. Flowing, functionally, in and out with novel purity. They became the breath, and the life, and a Living Zen. Twittering into actual accord, together again, after trying times in separate conclaves, the Sherpa saw the pattern and proceeded to work. Subtle in approach, sturdy in example, silent, as much as possible. Together, scaling the ladders and sliding the shoots of historic trauma and emotive discharge, the three birds worked up a magnificent mandala that day. The Sherpa carried the bits too cumbersome, healing may have taken place but the point is the journey, the mystical process, their fellowship, and the practice of it all. Finally, together, the three, like musketeers, smiling in revolt of a rueful past and a crazy baldheaded system that never cared to ask why; which had been holding them down. With their wings not yet formed, still stubby and featherless but growing, they climbed the path, laid the pattern, and sang songs of freedom that Bob Marley would be proud of. It is quite a sight, still seen in the wave and the weave of the rocky skree and its emanating sense of pure serenity.

LIVING ZEN 3

Later, in a week that will be forever forsaken in the mundane, surrounded by featureless miles of austere grey walls, the Sherpa in the hidden garden sat in silent repose; observing the flash and glimmer of bikes and cars. Another year goes by, some with show, others without. Always the mountain remains. The climb must persist and the work is more lifestyle than occupation. This day, at here and in the now base camp, the Sherpa, gardening his own cerebral plot; heard a call across the lane, on the other side of any of the given fences. A not so authoritarian sang out in revelry, from a state of active reprieve. She had received this stasis and internal space despite the doldrums of a hard-pressed day. She sang a song of peace and fostered serenity sharing the experience of her visit to base camp, the more enriched by the pattern which gave her pause and energized her smile. The pattern that was created, climbing the mountains of limbic frustration and malcontent, seeking pure air and the light at the top of the world. The Sherpa was taken aback in the midst of preparing lines and plotting courses for the coming weeks trek, unexpectedly she reminded him of the spot at here in the now and the active Living Zen. She spoke of daily trails and weeks of struggle and a decision while fuming to go to the garden and breath. She sang of thrilling insights and a smile, being tickled in the color of pink. She recalled with joy how happy the pattern left in the sands of the garden made her. “It looks like a vagina and it makes me happy” she said loud enough for the whole mountain to hear, also just as bold and filled with joy she exclaimed “Hooray for the Lesbians!” The Sherpa grinned and waved a hand knowing for sure that lesbians must have mountains to climb too, and in her struggle at here in now the Sherpa knew, they were united. And the mountain remains, and the struggle continues, and the joy is everywhere and available here in the now of every moment. As he considered the blueprint from yet another novel perspective, the Sherpa could not help but see a vagina layered in the pattern. Smiling he went back to preparing the lines and plotting the course, packing for the next trek.

LIVING ZEN 4

Crystal clear pond
Glass-like surface of living water
The mirror reflection of serene blue heavens
Pristine rake lines
Concentric circles and razor straight rows
Reflection of natures mid morning harmony
Dappled koi colors
Crafting chaotic rippled beauty
Reflection of truth in harmonious imperfection
Meandering footprints
Necessarily utilitarian or thoughtless in play
The mirror reflection of Living Zen. | JM

Confined in space and time, a mental state of my own
design. Submerged in the love from within.
Inside this container of mine.
Amir’Whadi Hassan, “This Container of Mine”

Our bodies contain it all — the thoughts, the blood, the guts, the memories and pain, the articulation of our ancestors, the genetic material of the future. Filled with hope and energetic exuberance, they are bound and they are universal. As our friend Walt Whitman asserted: “I contain multitudes.” Well, this week, our writers share myriad insights into strategies for survival when bodily autonomy has been removed by the conditions of incarceration. Travis Asbill stood today in the OSP workshop to deliver a poem with full-bodied expression, the words spilled out in an elegant cascade of truth, profanity, and the faith. He was a cathedral.

We move through the world in these containers that we may forget to adequately acknowledge with the reverence they deserve. Take a moment to simply marvel at your hands. They labor all day with little protest. My fingers are tapping across the keyboard in perfect concert with my language center, moving as quickly as my thoughts command. Of course, these bodies of ours rebel after too little sleep or nourishment, when they have been pushed too far with emotional overload or physical exertion and like a tantrumming two-year-old, they shut down. Fingers refuse to move, brain fogs, eyes close, until there is a physical respite: a nap, a coffee, a walk, a dose of loud music — each of us has a way to reorient and reset our bodies.

To that end, we start with Angela Kim who writes a reflective piece from home — a place of her own (thankfully) far from prison. Angela documents the excruciating realities and dangers faced by women who are incarcerated. In “The Hunger for Validation: Women, Incarceration, and Rebuilding of Self.” Angela shares an honest and moving account of her prison experience, and the insight she gained about herself and her peers:
During my 17.5 years of incarceration, I watched this happen over and over again. Women entered the system already carrying wounds — trauma, poverty, addiction, abuse — and the criminal justice system rarely offered healing. Instead, it compounded their pain. They were processed, reduced to numbers, and treated as less than human. Over time, many began to believe that was all they were worth.
That erosion is not abstract; it is enforced in deeply physical and psychological ways.

Forty-eight percent of women incarcerated were themselves victims of crimes and 95% of women were victims of domestic abuse or sexual violence in their lifetime. With these numbers in mind, it is self-evident our population of female-identified prisoners require great care than a carceral experience provides. While incarcerated Angela taught music lessons and participated in as many programs as possible. She built strong friendships with like-minded and supportive women.

Next we have “One Man’s Hobby Born in a Bomb Shelter” a profile of Ali Mattar by Kurtis Thompson, a prison journalist writing from Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution. Living in the trauma of war-torn Beirut, Ali Mattar found refuge in his writing. His fingers writing over the fear center an occupation that helped him survive:
“It helped me get through that moment,” he said. “Every time we went to the bomb shelter, when we had to segregate ourselves from the conflict, writing came to mind. So, I just stuck with it. All that caused me to focus on writing.”

We end with Jai’s “Jazz Mam” a three-part poem written to the bodily experience of listening to Dave Brubeck quartet. Read the loose-limbed play of keyboard and horn. Here we have dancing fingertips, in this case, they keep time with the ear and the explosion in the heart that only music releases:
A horn, of clear distinction, muddles
it’s way through foggy morning eyes.
With a breath and a shudder,
another breath and a shake,
a surreal hushhh tisk, hushhhh tisk,
the whispering whisk slides across snare.

Jai expresses whole body listening, the transportation that moves a soul over 30-foot walls. Let’s end on this note:
Brubeck! With a
Summer Song for a morning cathedral,
a review where the church pews all sing.
With a smile, I invent a brand-new day.

Thank you for reading to the end. If you found something that resonated with you, consider making a Substack restack, or sharing the work in your socials. We hope to draw more eyes to the beautiful work created by our PonyXpress pool. | TDS

Ali Mattar, an incarcerated person in eastern Oregon, was published in the Quill of Umatilla County Literary Magazine’s second edition. The magazine, created by Pendleton Public Library, accepted his essay in May. Mattar credits his success partly to his childhood environment, where his writing was born.

“Melja!” he said his mother would scream.

This is Arabic for “bomb shelter.” During the Lebanese civil war, Mattar and his family would rush to the basement of a 22-floor apartment building to escape waves of heavy missile strikes in the civilian suburbs.

“I was born and raised in Beirut, Lebanon, so as we lived in the bomb shelters during skirmishes, I learned to write,” he said. “I learned to write voraciously because that’s the only thing you could do.”

Beirut was occupied by Syrian forces from 1976 to 2005. Lebanon-based Hizballah militia car bombings, Israeli invasion and indiscriminate strikes by Lebanon’s own government were part of Mattar’s childhood. From ’76 to ’93, Mattar sometimes spent months underground.

He said between the ages of 10 and 12 in the ‘80s were the worst for him, and writing was his escape.

“I wrote anything a kid would write,” he said. “At the same time, I’d write about the sounds I’d hear, the bombings and what have you, how that scared me … I’d write about it just to try and forget, to help process it all the best I could.”

The fighting was so intense that at one point a bomb partially penetrated the bunker he and his family were in.

“My mother gave us earmuffs to put on to drown out the sounds, but sometimes it wasn’t enough,” he said. “One year, the bombing was so close to our building that the concussion blasted through almost 10 feet of concrete. I didn’t have my earmuffs on all the way, and it blasted me with the concussion. I’ve had ringing in my ears ever since.”

But weathering wartime horrors wouldn’t be the only application for his writing. Mattar’s craft, born in a bunker beneath bombs, bullets and Lebanon’s smoke-filled sky, now gets him through a different kind of concrete container.

Mattar was incarcerated in 2001, just eight years after escaping war by moving to the U.S. He is serving a life sentence, without the possibility of parole.

In his work, “Fuel,” Mattar said writing has been a “way of mentally escaping this aquarium of madness.” The work he submitted to the Quill, however, is a relatively new form of writing to him.

“I’ve only been doing poetry for the last year and a half,” he said. “I usually do essays on several subjects I write about, but this poem was very fun in the moment.”

And despite being a lifelong writer, Mattar’s experience was not a factor for the Quill. In fact, all the submissions were selected through a blind reading.

“The library is thrilled to introduce this collection to Umatilla County residents,” Library Director Jennifer Johnson told Columbia Basin News. “The community is full of talented creators, some of which will be published for the first time through the Quill.”

Institution Work Program Coordinator Ray Peters had encouraged Mattar to participate in the Quill’s submission request.

Peters said, “I’d seen some of his poetry and thought he should try submitting. He’s not just someone interested in writing – he actually writes.”

“Peters has read some of my writing and asked if I wanted to give it a shot,” Mattar said. “I’d told him I publish elsewhere whenever I can, so I said, ‘Why not?’”

But rather than weeks of refining, Mattar relied on a moment’s inspiration for his work.

“After I was approached about this contest, I glanced out my window and wrote about the city of Pendleton,” he said. “It just kind of came to me on Friday, then I worked on it Saturday and Sunday to turn in on Monday.”

Much of Mattar’s writing comes from similar inspiration. His environment continues to play a role in his craft.

“A lot of my inspiration and everything I get is from me sitting on my bunk and looking out the window,” he said.

Back in Lebanon, writing was his window to the outside.

“It helped me get through that moment,” he said. “Every time we went to the bomb shelter, when we had to segregate ourselves from the conflict, writing came to mind. So, I just stuck with it. All that caused me to focus on writing.”

But when first asked about why he entered the Quill’s submission request, he said, “Well, my writing is my hobby.”

What a hobby. | KT

JAZZ, MAN 1
Salubrious secondary notes
Dangling from the cliff faced
Chasms between primary notes

4/4 time
5 6 7 8 time
1 on 1 time
Liquid sonic ripples
Clash and roil together
Like stone pebble raindrops
Endlessly reverberating on a shallow
Half circle lake about the size of the moon

In June wide bright high and fierce
In their laughing leapfrog syncopation
The collaborative fading with seasons turn
The notes seem small distant and alone
Somehow new in the ebb of December
Somehow a betrayal to the uninitiated ear

Tingle tumble jumble
Tapping thumping fingers
Keys attached to cords
Stringed percussion-ary caution
Lithe predawn playing
Brings back the dream
And Muppets scheme

Collaborative efforts of valve
And birdsong with breath
The wind cannot be trusted
Which brings exhilaration
The new song unsung
The old song unmastered
Dishes deconstructed
Foamed and fluoresced

Minstrels of haughty fare
One and all in one, two, three

JAZZ, MAN 2
Black liquorish and mulled brandy wine.
Sweet spicy and seductive notes
Ripple forth from the mind and soul
Of that poor flat head man.
Impossible joy, spiked with dire longing
And deceptively distant hints of loss.
The blues set on holiday in that very special Delta way
That only the nail’s head knows.
His accompaniment seeming just as crafty,
Plucky ducky picking like the petals of some celestial flower.
Timed precisely each fragrant petal perfectly pulled
In forget me not rhythm exactly the same but ever so aloof.
She loves me pluck, she loves me not plick,
She loves me plumb, she loves me not pling,
With a strum held tight, here and there
Just to remind us of a mathematicians sacred key.
She plays the cord with a broken heart
And those nimble spider’s leg fingers.
Strumming out the rhythm like a drum beat
As I sit entranced within her web.
They roil together at the back of the lizard lounge,
With a skinny sweaty man in a green
hard handled suit, bleeding from the ears
having listened so long.
Here’s to their sweet succubus-stations!

Jazz, MAN 3
[Brubeck @ 624 Morning St.]

Cascading falls of percussion,
little soft shoe mallets
on finely tuned tensile strings.
Waterfalls of M.C. Escher sound
roll round and round, cleaning off
the thought rock inside my skull.
Sweet caramel, butter toffee, brazen,
Rum-Ripple-Rikkle and shimmer,
with high bright notes that sparkle
but disassemble my guard.

A horn, of clear distinction, muddles
it’s way through foggy morning eyes.
With a breath and a shudder,
another breath and a shake,
a surreal hushhh tisk, hushhhh tisk,
the whispering whisk slides across snare.
I can hear the metallic chain linking,
it’s trap sings out my own anticipation.
Three play rock steady as one heart,
beating time kept by the master clock,
more intricate than any Swiss chronometer,
as accurate as the universe’s calculus,
keeping even the stars and planets
in line and on time. Brubeck! With a
Summer Song for a morning cathedral,
a review where the church pews all sing.
With a smile, I invent a brand-new day. | JM