Writing Through Hard Times – January 2019
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. Hard Times meets every Tuesday from 3-5 p.m. on the fourth floor of DPL’s Central branch. 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.
Patricia Jayne
A Rant with Odes To John Trudell and Andrea Menard
Haha laughter
Invades my space
Emotional roller coaster
Feel nothing?
Without passion
Nah
I will stand solid
Speaking my heart
Fully unfiltered
Crushed at times
By the opinions
Of my voice
Loudly echoing
Through my whole being
Moments of strength
It takes resistance
To come to a place of calm
Of oneness
Separation clings like a blanket
I must find balance to sustain composer
Wandering strongly in emotions
Passionate about to much
Longing to feel numb
About something
Nah
I will stand firmly
In my conviction to
Protect the Sacred
I will NOT stand down
The Earth
Has called me
Passionately
I will Walk into the role of my spirit
Standing Silent No More
The song of my heart
To heal calls me to my highest light.
I sit
Entangled
In the web of spiny swords
That cascade off the tongues of
Radio talk show hosts
Invaded by their violence
Both sides of the forked tongue
Biting itself
As it rambles
on to convince us It is right
The same story
The Wagging Lips of NPR
or Rush’s half gargled words
Voices tainted with the disease of Colonization.
Tortured soul of noise
As planes dump War’s waste
On the soil
On the Being Humans
Hearts of Community
Children’s love surprising
Hand me my coffee
It stands stout
Tortured soul of options
Wipe clean
My pain
Love invade
This stream of thoughts
Free me
My lust
Let me Love
My true Love
The Land
The Sacred
The Mni Wiconi
The Community of Enlightened Beings
Fran Ford
Winter Hunt
Cold night ’neath a crescent’s pale glow,
Skadi skims over bright, fresh snow.
Dark She flits, exquisite shadow.
Strong, swift, softly press Her skis. So
sleek Her traces slip the hollow,
so quick, so keen is Her arrow,
mortal senses cannot follow
Her deadly stealth, Her silent bow.
Marrianne Reid
Refugee
When my kids were growing up, I spoke to them from time to time about the harsh realities for refugees in the world, displaced by some catastrophic political, climatic or spiritual dynamic. I pointed out that even we could become refugees. The kids maintained that it was highly unlikely they would become refugees.
As it turned out, I was the only one to become a refugee, if you can call it that. I chose to go, to put a stop to, my catastrophe of hope-sapping encounters with my husband. It did result in my displacement. Leaving home and country of the past 25 years, I flung myself two hundred miles north, landing up on Capitol Hill, half a block from Colfax.
I went from hearing coyotes at night to hearing the sleep apneic snores of the person passed out up against the bars of my basement apartment window. I know my experience pales in light of the vivid pain of people displaced in this world. Still, I was left with a faint sense of it.
