Hand Up Ministries Resident Poets
Poems from the hearts of men rebuilding their lives at Hand Up Ministries
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Untold Poems
COMING SOON
A Collection of Faith-filled poems born from struggle
Meet Hand Up Ministries' Poets
My Story
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​ I began writing poetry, and prayers, as a way to express my true thoughts, feelings, and emotions in a positive and meaningful manner. Poetry gives me a safe place to pour out what is in my heart—my joys, my struggles, my prayers, and my gratitude to God. Sometimes words spoken out loud don’t fully capture what I feel, but when I write, my heart seems to speak more clearly. Through poetry and prayers, I can reflect on God’s goodness, work through life’s challenges, and share encouragement with others. It has become both a personal healing tool and a ministry—a way to uplift, inspire, and point people toward faith, hope, and love.
Luv & Faith of a Prayer Warrior. By Otis Cole
He once walked shadows, a soul worn thin,
Hands trembling, chasing fire within.
A glass pipe preacher, lost in the night,
Blind to the dawn, far from the light.
Otis, a name whispered in pain,
Wrestled the devil, danced in the rain.
Cracks in his spirit, scars on his face,
He ran from mercy, outpaced grace.
But God does not forget the lost,
He counts the tears; He pays the cost.
In a gutter's gloom, on a sleepless street,
He met Otis low—then pulled him to His feet.
No thunder cracked, no sky was torn,
But at that moment, Otis was reborn.
Chains fell silent, smoke blew away,
And joy took root where sorrow lay.
Now he walks with a Bible in hand,
A soldier of peace who takes a stand.
He prays like thunder, with tears and fire,
For broken hearts and souls to inspire.
Luv in his voice, faith in his eyes,
He lifts the weak, helps spirits rise.
No pulpit needed, no robe, no fame—
Just a man redeemed, praising God’s name.
Once an addict, now a warrior bold,
Trading street lies for truths untold.
Otis—the prayer warrior, gentle and strong,
Living proof that grace is never wrong.
So, when you fall, when hope seems thin,
Remember Otis and fight to win.
For even the lost, the bruised, the scarred—
Can become a saint, in the arms of God.
Luv & Faith of a Prayer Warrior, Otis.
These are not just words on a page. They are testimonies of transformation
My Story: Why I Write
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I first fell in love with poetry in high school.
It wasn’t the novels or grammar lessons that captured me — it was the rhythm of language. I was fascinated by the different forms: sonnets, limericks, acrostics. There was something about structure and expression living side by side that drew me in. We didn’t spend much time on poetry that year, but it was the part of English class I looked forward to the most. Then life moved on.
I didn’t pursue writing again until years into my marriage. Wanting to celebrate our life together, I tried writing a poem for my wife. I put thought into it. I meant every word. But it didn’t land the way I hoped. I tried again a few years later — same result.
So I drew a conclusion: I must not be very good at this. And I stopped. Years later, incarceration changed everything.
About two years into my sentence, I was wrestling with internal battles — regret, confusion, identity, purpose. I needed clarity. I didn’t sit down intending to write poetry; I simply needed to sort my thoughts. What came out was a poem. Something shifted that day.
The act of shaping my turmoil into words brought relief. Structure gave order to chaos. Emotion found direction. I felt lighter — clearer. So I wrote again the next day. And the next.
Before long, it became a daily discipline. Some mornings I wrote to prepare my heart for the day ahead. Some evenings I wrote to untangle what the day had done to me. Notebook after notebook filled up over the remaining years of my sentence. Those pages carried grief, hope, repentance, growth, faith — they carried me.
When it came time for my release, I packed those notebooks carefully with my property. They represented years of healing.
But when I opened the box in the car on the way home, they
were gone. Every page. Every word. Gone! It felt like losing a part of my journey. And strangely — without fully understanding why — I stopped writing again. For several
years after my release, I didn’t pick up the pen.
Then one of our residents passed away. In the quiet aftermath of that loss, I wrote a poem in his memory. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t strategic. It was necessary. The notebooks were taken from me, but the voice they helped me discover was not. And I remembered. I remembered that poetry wasn’t about being impressive. It wasn’t about applause. It wasn’t about being “good enough.” It was about processing truth.
Since then, writing has become the way I work through emotion. When I’m in turmoil, poetry helps me think clearly. When I’m grateful, it helps me give thanks. When I’m
burdened, it gives me space to breathe. It is no longer about validation — it is about clarity, healing, and purpose.
Today, I try to use this gift to honor God and to serve others. If something I write lifts someone’s mood, brings peace to a troubled heart, or helps another man find words for what he cannot express — then I have fulfilled my mission.
Poetry, for me, is no longer about performance.
It is about transformation.
-
Ray Riddle
Learning to Stay the Course
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Inside, every day was the same —
bells told him when to wake,
lines told him where to stand,
walls told him when to stop.
Out here, freedom has no rhythm.
Mornings come without orders.
Nights stretch without lights-out.
Choices pile high like unwashed clothes,
and discipline must be self-made.
Some days he’s strong as sunrise —
job applications sent,
bills organized,
hope marching forward.
Other days he drifts,
lost in noise, fatigue, temptation,
wondering how life got so loud.
Consistency feels heavier than chains ever did.
No one forces him to show up.
No one counts his steps.
No one punishes missed effort.
And strangely, that’s the hardest part.
Old habits creep back quietly —
sleeping late,
skipping plans,
avoiding what feels overwhelming.
Progress stumbles.
Motivation flickers.
But he keeps trying again.
He learns that growth is not a sprint —
it’s showing up when tired,
choosing right when bored,
staying steady when emotions swing.
Some weeks are victories.
Some are lessons.
He stops chasing perfection
and starts building patterns.
One early morning.
One honest day’s work.
One healthy choice.
One prayer.
One repeat.
Consistency becomes a muscle —
weak at first,
stronger with strain.
And though he falls sometimes,
he rises more often now.
Freedom isn’t just leaving prison.
It’s learning to live disciplined in the open.
And every steady step,
no matter how small,
is the foundation of a new life.
-
Ray Riddle
Learning to Walk Beyond Yesterday
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His past follows quietly —
not in chains,
but in memories,
in looks from strangers,
in nights that replay old choices.
He learns quickly:
you can’t outrun yesterday.
It waits in silence,
in regret,
in questions that start with if only.
But healing begins
when he stops fighting the shadow
and starts walking toward the light.
He faces what he did —
not with excuses,
not with bitterness,
but with truth.
Ownership becomes freedom.
He apologizes where he can,
makes amends where allowed,
changes where words can’t reach.
Some doors open.
Some stay closed.
Both teach him grace.
He learns the past is a teacher,
not a prison.
That shame loses power
when brought into the open.
He fills his days with better choices —
work, faith, discipline, service —
so yesterday has less room to speak.
When memories come heavy,
he prays harder.
When temptation whispers,
he walks farther away.
Slowly,
the past becomes quieter.
Not gone —
but no longer in control.
He understands now:
Escaping the past isn’t erasing it.
It’s transforming it.
Turning scars into wisdom.
Turning failure into purpose.
Turning pain into compassion.
And each time he chooses growth,
the chains of yesterday fall a little more.
He doesn’t forget where he’s been —
he just refuses to live there anymore.
And that…
is freedom.
-
Ray Riddle
Love Beyond the Record
​He wonders in the quiet nights,
when the world finally slows,
if a heart like his —
marked by mistakes —
is still worthy of being chosen.
His past feels heavy in his hands,
like something he must explain
before he’s even known.
Will anyone see the man I am now,
or only the man I was?
He fears the truth will push love away.
That his story is too broken,
too complicated,
too stained.
But love, real love,
does not read only the worst chapter.
It reads the whole book.
It sees the fall —
and the rising.
It notices the effort,
the healing,
the growth written daily in new ink.
The right heart won’t be blind to the past —
but it won’t be trapped in it either.
It will say,
“I see where you’ve been,
and I’m proud of where you’re going.”
Love will meet him in honesty,
not judgment.
In patience,
not fear.
He will learn that scars
do not repel the right person —
they prove survival.
That change is attractive.
That humility is strong.
That redemption is beautiful.
And one day,
someone will hold his hands —
not weighing them down with yesterday,
but lifting them toward tomorrow.
Yes, love may take time.
Yes, trust may grow slowly.
But love is not canceled by a past.
It is shaped by the courage
to become better than it.
And when love comes,
it will not ask him to erase his story —
only to keep writing it well.
He will find love.
Not because he was perfect,
but because he chose growth.
And that kind of love
is the deepest kind there is.
-
Ray Riddle
Where Happiness Begins
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Happiness doesn’t wait at the gate,
wrapped in freedom like a prize.
It walks slowly beside him,
quiet, patient, earned.
It starts with breathing real air,
and thanking God for mornings,
for another chance not promised,
for a life still being written.
It grows in small honest victories —
showing up on time,
working hard when no one’s watching,
choosing peace over old paths.
Happiness is built, not found.
It lives in forgiveness —
for those who hurt him,
for the man he used to be,
for the years he cannot get back.
It blooms in connection —
a meal with family,
a laugh with new friends,
a mentor who believes again.
It strengthens through discipline —
saving instead of spending,
walking instead of running away,
staying when quitting feels easier.
Happiness is purpose waking up.
It’s serving others who struggle,
helping where he once needed help,
turning pain into testimony.
It’s faith steadying his steps,
hope guiding his choices,
love teaching him patience.
And most of all,
happiness comes when he realizes:
His past explains him —
but no longer defines him.
That joy isn’t the absence of struggle,
but the presence of progress.
That every day lived right
is a victory worth smiling about.
Happiness begins
the moment he decides to build a life
he no longer needs to escape from.
-
Ray Riddle
Please support Hand Up Ministries, Inc. "Poetry from the Soul" campaign
To donate or purchase signed copies of the Poet artist's poetry:
Contact: Ray Riddle
405-738-8910
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