Writing Through Hard Times — May 2020

Each month, the Denver VOICE publishes a selection of writing from workshops sponsored by Lighthouse Writers Workshop.

The Hard Times Writing Workshop is a collaboration between Denver Public Library and Lighthouse Writers Workshop. This workshop is open to all members of the public—especially those experiencing homelessness.  

Contact the Lighthouse Writers Workshop for details about virtual Hard Times writing workshops: lighthousewriters.org/workshop/denver-public-library-hard-times

The Lighthouse sponsored workshop at The Gathering Place is specifically for that organization’s clients.

To check out more writing by the poets featured in this column, go to writedenver.org


Frances Ford

Poppoo’s Strawberry Patch

To quiver and sway on the crux of a big earth

clod sun-dried pale, cracked hard and rough

beneath east Texas’ lonely sky—

To look high as my head’s hinge let me,

squint my eyes and see Poppoo,

his face lined in smiles chin to brow—

To watch flagpole legs wrapped in baggy denim

crossing deep furrows in a breath, a beat,

and wonder at the wide strides—

To trust gnarled hands and lanky arms

to catch me up and steady me on bony shoulders,

and to hear all the calm in the soft baritone—

To gather whiffs of dust and sage,

blue bonnets, cottonwoods, pipe tobacco,

but over those the arching tang

of strawberries rubbed on a sleeve and fed to me,

or dropped with tenor plonks into a tin pail,

or crushed, just a few, by careless boots,

of strawberries fat and red on corkscrew vines

flung in ecstatic plenitude, strawberries, strawberries,

strawberries small and crimson peeking

from clustered leaves whose wild, green sprays,

bunches and twists, shooters and falls,

conquered and banished so much furrowed earth

that they grew into a tangled worldhood of their own,

the red and green that I gawked over

past the top of Poppoo’s silver head

as I wiggled my toddler toes—

I do this today:

clutch to earliest memory

one that’s purely kind.


Habeel Harney

Far Away Place

I paced straight forward

Head down

Pocket holding hand tightly

Calculating every step

My thoughts are on tomorrow

Promises not kept

Secrets told

Secrets hidden

Unwanting equation that plagues my existence

I paced straight forward

Confused

Bewildered

Guessing what if’s

Solving each problem.....not mine

Escaping to a reality existed only in my past

If but for a moment


Shaleen Figueroa

Dear God

Dear God,

Your finger is wagging at me.

Your palms crying out to hold my tears.

I am not listening.

Your great Almighty heart is outpouring to me......

Pouring out compassion and mercy,

And here I sit, not listening.

Daddy, I don’t listen.  Maybe it’s a flaw in me that I pray that you may one day fix.  I await on you patiently, though I know that your patience is to the Hilt...

Travel this journey with me. 


Daniel Angel Martinez

John Doe 

At long last--

The cold city concrete cracks

                                         me open.

At this moment--

Steam, a shapeless dream, escapes

                             from my lifeless form.

Denver VOICE