Hand Up Ministries Resident Poets
Poems from the hearts of men rebuilding their lives at Hand Up Ministries
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Untold Poems
Poetry from the Soul is a national faith-based outreach initiative of
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Formerly incarcerated men share their redemption journeys through poetry, creative expression, and testimony.
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Hand Up Ministries, Inc.
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
COMING SOON
A Collection of Faith-filled poems born from struggle
Meet Hand Up Ministries' Poets
My Story
Otis Cole/Poet
I began writing poetry and prayers as a way to express my true thoughts, feelings, and emotions in a positive and meaningful way. Writing became an outlet for my heart—a place where I could honestly share my joys, struggles, prayers, and gratitude to God.
Sometimes spoken words cannot fully capture what I am feeling, but when I write, my heart seems to speak more clearly through the Holy Spirit. Through poetry and prayer, I am able to reflect upon God's goodness, work through life's challenges, and draw closer to Him during both difficult and joyful seasons.
Over time, writing has become much more than a personal expression. It has become a source of healing, comfort, and spiritual growth in my own life. It allows me to place my burdens before the Lord, give thanks for His many blessings, and find peace in His presence.
What began as a personal journey has also become a ministry. Through my poems and prayers, I strive to encourage, uplift, and inspire others while pointing them toward faith, hope, love, and the saving grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. My prayer is that the words God places upon my heart will bring comfort to the hurting, strength to the weary, and encouragement to those who need to be reminded that they are never alone.
Writing has become both a gift and a calling—one that allows me to share God's love, mercy, and faithfulness with others, one poem and one prayer at a time.
Above all else, I give all praise, honor, and glory to God, for without Him none of this would be possible. Every poem, every prayer, every word of encouragement, and every blessing that has come through this journey belongs to Him alone. He is the source of my strength, the healer of my heart, the author of my testimony, and the inspiration behind every word I write.
I thank God for His amazing grace, endless mercy, unfailing love, and faithfulness throughout my life. He has taken my brokenness and transformed it into purpose, my struggles into testimonies, and my words into a ministry of hope and encouragement. He has guided my steps, strengthened my faith, and continually reminded me that His plans are greater than my own.
I sincerely hope and pray that God will continue to use me as His willing vessel for as long as He sees fit, and that through every poem and every prayer, others will come to know His love, His forgiveness, and the saving grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
To God alone be all the praise, thanks, honor, and glory, now and forever. May everything I write, every word I share, and every life that may be touched through my ministry here at Hand Up bring glory to His Holy Name.
In the Wonderful, Mighty, Powerful, and Most Precious name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Amen.
Luv & Faith of a Prayer Warrior.
Luv Ya Lot'z, Otis ❤️
Otis Cole/Poet/ Artist
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.
“Otis the Prayer Warrior & Sissy the Rescue”
by Otis Cole
Once a small pup with no place to call home.
Sissy was lost, afraid, and alone.
But God had a plan, love never delayed.
He led her to Otis, where prayers had been prayed.
Otis, a Prayer Warrior with faith shining bright,
Lifts hearts to Heaven in the still of the night.
Knees bent in prayer, his heart open wide, Sissy, his rescue,
Right there by his side.
They’re cherished by neighbors, by family, by friends,
For their love in return simply never ends.
A wagging tail, a kind, caring word.
A bond overflowing felt and heard.
Through storms and through sunshine,
God’s blessings they share,
Too blessed to be stressed, they show how to care.
A man and his dog, both rescued by grace,
Spreading God’s love in each warm embrace.
These are not just words on a page. They are testimonies of transformation
Learning to Stay the Course
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
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
My Story: Why I Write
Ray Riddle
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.
Learning to Walk Beyond Yesterday
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
Where Happiness Begins
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
Otis Cole-Poetry Artist
Note to my readers
If you have ever been blessed, encouraged, or uplifted by a prayer or message that I have shared, I want you to know something very important.
It's not me.
I am simply an obedient servant doing my small part in what God has called me to do. The wisdom, the words, the comfort, and the encouragement come from the Lord Himself through the power of the Holy Spirit. I just make myself available.
Sometimes it may seem like I'm always the one sending the message, but in truth, I am only the vessel. God is the Source. He knows who needs encouragement. He knows who is struggling. He knows when a word of hope nees to be spoken. I simply say, "Here am I, Lord," and trust Him to use me.
If something I share touches your heart, gives you peace, strengthens your faith, or brings you closer to Jesus, please give Him the glory. That is my greatest joy.
I don't do this for recognition. I do it out of love, obedience, and gratitude for all that God has done for me.
Luv & faith of Prayer Warrior, Otis
HERE AM I, Lord
by Otis Cole/Poet
I tumble from bed, stumble down the hall,
searching for someone-because I heard a call.
I'm pulled along, as if without a choice,
my soul responding to a heavenly voice.
I've heard many voices, but none quite the same; this one is stronger, softly calling my name.
My breath is quickened, my heart beats faster.
I know I'm the servant; the voice is the Master.
The sun has not risen, it's surely still night, not a single lamp burning, yet all is alight.
Again the voice calls, calling my name,
my spirit awakened-I dare not refrain.
I feel in my spirit this voice is adored,
so humbly I answer, "Here am I, Lord."
I find myself kneeling, my heart fully free,
speaking with One who is joined into Three.
No fear in His presence, no doubt in His word, just peace in surrender to all that I've heard.
Whatever You ask, wherever You send, I'll follow in faith-faithful to the end.
Here am I, Lord,
Your servant restored, listening, waiting, and trusting the Lord.
Written with Luv & Faith by a Prayer Warrior, Otis
Ride Through the Valley
by Otis Cole
Through winding roads and fading light,
Where shadows stretch into the night,
I ride with faith, I do not fear.
For I know my Shepherd’s always near.
The roar of wheels, the open sky,
A silent prayer as miles pass by,
No road too dark, no path unknown,
For I am never riding alone.
When valleys deepen, cold and wide,
His hand is steady at my side,
Though storms may rise and trials come,
His voice within still leads me on.
Not by sight, but faith I ride,
With truth and mercy as my guide,
And even in the darkest breath,
There’s no more fear, not even death.
So let the shadows fall behind,
His perfect peace fills heart and mind,
For on this road, come joy or test.
In Him I ride, and in Him I rest.
By Luv & Faith of a Prayer Warrior, Otis Cole
by Otis Cole
Otis once wandered, lost in the night, a bottle his comfort, his soul void of light.
Each morning would fade into one more regret, but the thirst in his heart wasn't quenched by beer yet.
He clung to that can like a ship to the tide, trying to drown all the pain he kept deep inside.
Friends disappeared, and his hope wore thin, but he couldn't escape from the prison within.
Then came a whisper, a knock at his soul, a Man named Jesus who came to make whole.
No thunder, no lightning, just love speaking clear: "Trade what is killing you-lay down your beer."
With trembling hands and tears in his eyes, Otis looked upward and let out his cries.
He reached for a Bible, so dusty, so still, and felt
something shift- a new kind of will.
That beer was his idol, now cast to the floor, the Bible he opened became something more.
A lifeline, a weapon, a map in the night, that led him from darkness and into the Light.
Today he walks humbly, one day at a time, no longer a slave to the drink or the crime.
He's Luv & Faith of a Prayer Warrior, strong in his grace, fighting hard for others in life's hardest place.
He prays for the broken, the hurting, the lost, remembering well what his freedom once cost.
And when someone asks, "How did you survive?" He says, "I traded a beer...for a Bible-and came alive."
Luv & Faith of a Prayer Warrior, Otis
Battles in the Night
by Otis Cole/Poet
Battles in the Night, Peace in God’s Hands Dedicated to those who fight silent battles in the darkness of sleepless nights. I never know what the night holds for me I suffer the cruel symptoms of PTSD.
Every night I long and pray for sleep,
But in my dreams the terrors creep. I find myself sitting on the edge of the bed, reminding myself of the prayer I had said.
At times I wonder, Is God really there? And if He is… does He truly care?
But I know that lie comes straight from hell,
For that’s where the evil one wants my mind to dwell.
He knows when I’m weary and too tired to fight, So he chooses to attack throughout the night.
During these moments it becomes very hard,
Fighting anxiety and depression as I lower my guard.
Then I realize I must come to grips, And a new faith-filled prayer crosses my lips.
This battle isn’t new—in fact, it’s old.
To remain a victor, I must be courageous and bold. I often remember the staff and the rod, Psalm 23 and the promises of God.
Then I remember exactly where I stand
Loved and protected in the palm of God’s hand.
I’ve learned not to waste these sleepless hours of night; Instead, I pray for others in this same fight.
So many things God has taught and shown. Even in sleepless nights, I’m never alone.
So if you can't sleep and the night feels too long,
When fear whispers lies and your heart feels wrong, Just remember this truth in the middle of the fight, God never sleeps… and He watches through the night. "He will not allow your foot to be moved; He who keeps you will not slumber.
Behold, He who keeps Israel Shall neither slumber nor sleep." Psalm 121:3–4 NKJV
Luv & Faith of a Prayer Warrior,
Otis Cole
"The Day God Brought Me Sissy"
by Otis Cole
Ride of Faith
by Otis Cole
Through flames that rise and trials that roar,
He rides with strength like never before.
Not by might, nor by his own hand,
But guided by God, he takes his stand.
With heaven’s wings stretched wide and bright,
He moves in courage, fueled by light.
A cross behind him, glowing true,
A reminder of grace that carries him through.
The road may burn, the path unclear,
But faith drives out every fear.
For where God leads, no soul walks alone,
Each step is covered, each seed is sown.
Through storms and fire, through darkest night,
He presses on in holy fight.
For with the Lord, come what may,
All things are possible—He makes a way.
So ride on strong, don’t turn aside,
With heaven’s power as your guide.
For no flame can consume, no trial can fall,
A heart that trusts God above all.
By Luv & Faith of a Prayer Warrior, Otis Cole
One day my niece Katie called me out of the blue, "Do you want a dog?" she asked-simple and true.
I answered her quickly, without much delay, "No, not right now...I'm okay this way."
But Katie, determined, had already made a move, she had rescued a little dog with something to prove.
"I'm almost there", she said with a tone I couldn't fight, and soon she was pulling into my driveway that night.
When she arrived, I saw a small trembling soul, shaking like the world took its toll.
I picked her up gently, held her close to my chest, and in that very moment....my heart failed the test.
I told Katie kindly, "Now listen to me, if she's not house broke, she just cannot stay with me."
That's when I learned her name
-Sissy so sweet, a fragile little life that had been through defeat.
I brought her inside, unsure what would be, but within the first hour, she surprised even me.
She went to the door, as if trying to say,
"I know where to go.....please show me the way."
Not long after that, another trial came near, Sissy had kennel cough, and I was filled with fear.
No money for a vet, no place left to turn,
so I prayed to God with a heart that would yearn.
"Lord, please heal her," was all I could say, and by His great mercy...He healed her the next day.
A miracle given through love and through grace, God's healing hand no sickness could erase.
Sissy had been hurt, she carried that pain, but she quickly learned she was safe once again.
No harm would come to her, not here, not with me, just love, patience, and security.
Day by day, our bond grew strong,
A connection so deep, it felt lifelong.
From strangers at first to something divine, her heart healing mine healing thine.
Now seven years later, we're closer than close, more than just companions-God knows us both.
They say she's like me in so many ways,
same spirit, same heart, through all of our days.
Through battles with PTSD, dark nights I've known, God gave me a friend so I'm never alone.
A registered ESA, but so much more,
she's a blessing I never could ignore.
I thank God daily for what He knew,
that Sissy needed me...and I needed her too.
In His wisdom, His mercy, His love so true, He brought us together...and saw us through.
By Luv & Faith of a Prayer Warrior, Otis Cole & Sissy
RAY RIDDLE Poet
Winter Inside
Winter always felt colder inside the walls.
Not because of snow alone,
or frozen wind pushing against the fences,
but because cold settled deeper there—
down into the soul.
The trees stood bare outside the yard,
their empty branches reaching upward
like tired hands asking questions
no one answered.
Gray skies lingered for weeks,
matching the silence inside him.
Winter in prison
was more than a season.
It was loneliness wearing weather.
The holidays came and went
like distant trains he could hear
but never board.
Pictures arrived sometimes—
children growing older,
family gathered around tables
where his chair remained empty.
And the cold grew heavier.
Nights stretched long in narrow beds.
Steel felt colder in December.
Even conversations seemed thinner,
as if hope itself pulled blankets tighter.
He learned how winter mirrors incarceration.
Both strip things bare.
Both isolate.
Both test whether something living
can survive harsh conditions.
Some men hardened like ice.
Others quietly broke beneath the frost.
And yet—
even in the deepest winter—
he noticed small things.
A sunrise over razor wire.
A letter arriving unexpectedly.
A laugh shared in dark times.
Tiny signs
that warmth still existed somewhere.
Because winter, no matter how cruel,
is never forever.
And somewhere beneath frozen ground,
life waits patiently for spring.
So did he.
Waiting through gray days.
Waiting through regret.
Waiting through seasons that seemed endless.
Holding on to the fragile belief
that one day the cold would break—
and the man buried beneath years of ice
would feel warmth again.
- Ray Riddle
NO WHERE TO GO
by Ray Riddle
No Where To Go
I walked out free—
but didn’t know where to walk to.
The gate closed behind me
like a chapter finished,
but no one handed me the next page.
No welcome line.
No clear direction.
Just a world moving fast
and me standing still.
I had people once—
or at least I thought I did.
Numbers that don’t answer now.
Doors that don’t open.
Eyes that look past me
like I’m already gone again.
No where to go.
Not back to what I was—
I know where that leads.
Not forward with confidence—
I don’t yet know how.
Just… in between.
Shelters full.
Opportunities thin.
Every application asking questions
I can’t outrun.
“Check the box.”
And just like that,
another door quietly closes.
I carry everything I own
in more ways than one—
a bag in my hand,
a past on my back.
I walk streets I don’t belong to
trying to become someone new
in a world that remembers
who I used to be.
No where to go.
Except forward.
Even if forward feels uncertain.
Even if forward feels alone.
Even if forward is one step
on shaking ground.
Because I’ve been locked up before—
and I won’t live there again.
So I keep moving.
Through closed doors.
Through long nights.
Through silent phones
and heavy thoughts.
And maybe…
just maybe…
if I don’t stop walking—
if I don’t turn back—
if I keep choosing better
one hard day at a time—
this road with no destination
will become a path.
And this man with no place
will become a man
who built one.
Out of nothing.
Out of nowhere.
Out of a life
that refused to end
at the worst part of the story.
by Ray Riddle
Where Strength Is Found
by Ray Riddle
He walked out carrying freedom
and a suitcase full of hope.
But the world did not open like he imagined.
Phones stopped ringing.
Old friends crossed the street.
Family dinners grew quiet
when he entered the room.
Some eyes held doubt.
Some held anger.
Some held nothing at all.
The dreams he once carried—
career, success, respect—
now seemed like buildings
he could see
but could not enter.
Every door asked questions.
Where have you been?
What have you done?
Why should we trust you?
So he started small.
A job no one else wanted.
Long days with tired hands.
A room that barely felt like home.
And just when the ground seemed steady—
another setback.
A job lost.
A promise broken.
A relationship strained.
Hope bending under the weight of yesterday.
He began to ask the hardest question:
Why keep trying?
Positive thinking sounded thin
when bills were real.
Motivation speeches faded
when the night grew long.
Some days giving up
felt almost reasonable.
But somewhere inside him
a quieter voice remained.
It spoke through the memory
of the man he wanted to become.
It spoke through the few people
who still believed.
A mother’s prayer.
A brother’s encouragement.
A friend who refused to walk away.
And slowly he turned toward something deeper.
Not easy faith.
Not perfect faith.
But honest faith.
The kind that whispers
instead of shouts.
Faith that says:
“You are not finished.”
Faith that reminds him
that broken men
can still build strong lives.
Faith that understands
every scar
is a lesson carved in experience.
Some mornings he wakes with courage.
Some mornings he wakes with only stubbornness.
But even stubborn hope
is still hope.
He learns that strength
is not the absence of despair—
it is walking forward
while carrying it.
He keeps working.
Keeps apologizing.
Keeps rebuilding.
Brick by brick.
Step by step.
And one day he realizes
the future was never waiting
for perfect conditions.
It was waiting
for perseverance.
For faith when logic says quit.
For courage when shame says hide.
For belief when the road feels endless.
So he keeps moving.
Not because life is easy.
Not because every door opens.
But because somewhere beyond the struggle
there is still a man worth becoming.
And that reason—
that quiet, stubborn promise—
is enough to keep him walking.
by Ray Riddle
STAYING FREE
Ray Riddle
Freedom came without a sound—
no chains fell off with thunder,
no crowd stood up to cheer.
Just a door that opened quietly,
and a man who stepped through it
carrying all his yesterdays.
At first, the air felt different—
too wide, too still, too honest.
No count times, no concrete echoes,
just choices…
and the weight of making them right.
Because freedom isn’t easy.
It’s not the absence of bars—
it’s the presence of decisions.
It’s waking up every morning
and choosing the narrow road
when the wide one calls your name.
Old habits don’t die overnight.
They whisper.
They wait.
They dress themselves up as comfort
and knock like old friends
you used to run with.
And some days—
if we’re telling the truth—
those voices sound familiar enough
to make you pause.
But this life… this new life…
was never meant to be easy.
It was meant to be worth it.
It’s found in showing up to work
when no one’s watching.
In keeping your word
when breaking it would be easier.
In walking away
when everything in you wants to stay.
It’s in the quiet victories—
a clean day,
an honest dollar,
a repaired relationship,
a prayer whispered when no one else hears.
Freedom is fragile
when it’s not protected.
But strong—
when it’s lived on purpose.
So stand firm, brother.
Stay focused.
Stay hungry for what’s right.
Because the greatest proof
that you’re truly free
is not that you walked out…
…it’s that you keep walking forward.
-
Ray Riddle
WELCOME NEW HUM RESIDENT POET Dustin Priddy
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Contact: Ray Riddle
405-738-8910