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.