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.
Shut it down . . . judgments/thoughts/the brain
Open up, open wide & know the dark carries light
One day – well actually one night on a full moon clear night sky, you will have the opportunity (most likely at least once before this ride on earth is over).
Step out of yourself (even in the city you can do it) into a yard, or any patch of earth (concrete & asphalt simply won’t do as they block the connection).
When you see a moonbeam laying a path across the earth
you will know it is for you
naked is best - you want to absorb as much of the moon as possible (other than the fairies, gnomes, elves, & other creatures out & about, but they will leave you be, as they know & respect moon bathing as a solo private time
Know you ARE
bathe in the light – bask in the quiet – breathe deep as you welcome the glow softly entering – let your soul be lit with the aura – see with your heart/soul’s eye
DO IT, (then you’ll understand) the
What, Crazy, Why
Things That Move
I sit down, shut up.
The digital clock shapes, reshapes
its red semaphore lines into numbers.
Three becomes four, with always, barely visible,
a potential eight, unavoidable,
on its way.
Along the east wall, northern light
speed brakes and skids into a crawl,
stops all together for a corner loll,
a slow-mo stretch
across the sofa.
Outside, out of sight, a trash truck
beats up a helpless dumpster,
or maybe it’s a car stereo
booming like a dinosaur.
Glass quivers in the window.
A bit of dust, loosened from the ceiling,
drifts down through light and shadow,
on a journey so like mine that
I rejoice when the little speck
finds a resting place.
If not for things that move,
even when I don’t,
I’d stop believing
and things I have to do.
Simple Just Us
If I were you
who would you be?
Would you be the me
I was, before I was you,
or would you be the me
(you see?) I need to be
just to be me? Why not
be who you need to be
and I will go on
just being plain old me
until one of these days
when we float out to sea?