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George Krokos Oct 2023
I once knew a girl from a north country shore 
as it was some place I had been to before.
We had met one fine day going down the street
each walking in opposite directions sweet.
We were both minding our own business when
an incident happened for us to meet then;
some elderly lady with a shopping bag
was coming along but got caught in a snag;
one of her shoes on the uneven pavement
nearly sent her headlong towards derailment.
Fortunately for her we were both there to
stop her from falling and to save the bag's spew.

As we helped the lady and looked at each other
we caught a gleam of light in our eyes to bother
all preconceived notions of what life was about
and it seemed we were both uneasy to find out.
For we looked up and away with sighs of relief
then back again at each other in disbelief.
I couldn't help seeing then the look on her face;
reflections of my own as from a mirrored place.
Or was it an image from deep within my heart
projected outward being therein from the start?
What happened next was not so amazing to tell
as we spoke certain words of greeting and farewell.
________
Written in January, 2023
Zywa Jun 2023
People in the street

are making jokes with a laugh --


that they give to me.
Collection "Bruises"
Michael R Burch Jun 2023
HOMELESS POETRY

These are poems about the homeless and poems for the homeless.



Epitaph for a Homeless Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



Homeless Us
by Michael R. Burch

The coldest night I ever knew
the wind out of the arctic blew
long frigid blasts; and I was you.

We huddled close then: yes, we two.
For I had lost your house, to rue
such bitter weather, being you.

Our empty tin cup sang the Blues,
clanged—hollow, empty. Carols (few)
were sung to me, for being you.

For homeless us, all men eschew.
They beat us, roust us, jail us too.
It isn’t easy, being you.

Published by Street Smart, First Universalist Church of Denver, Mind Freedom Switzerland and on 20+ web pages supporting the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities



Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

for homeless mothers and their children

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...



For a Homeless Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?



Neglect
by Michael R. Burch

What good are tears?
Will they spare the dying their anguish?
What use, our concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?

What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?

Before this day is over,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, emaciate limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?

I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of theirs departing ...
mournful, and distant.

How pitiful our “effort,”
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.



The childless woman,
how tenderly she caresses
homeless dolls ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Clinging
to the plum tree:
one blossom's worth of warmth
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



What would Mother Teresa do?
Do it too!
—Michael R. Burch



Keywords/Tags: homeless poetry, homeless poems, homelessness, street life, child, children, mom, mother, mothers, America, neglect, starving, dying, perishing, famine, illness, disease, tears, anguish, concern, prayers, inaction, death, charity, love, compassion, kindness, altruism
Robert Ronnow Jul 2022
Tonight I stayed at work until 7:00.
It was dark when I locked the front doors.
Winter approaches again, soon the great coat
huddled like a rug around me. The streets
were active as usual, block residents
hanging out front steps. I said goodnight
to Nydian Figueroa, after school counselor.
I bought a beer at the deli on Third Ave.
from the Arab owner. He’s a bit upset about
the bottle bill.
                          Collecting bottles from small groceries
could be a useful youth employment enterprise.
I walked down Fifth along the park in the dark
drinking my beer and looking at women. I need
a good **** badly. I tried to decide whether
to go to the movies, a Hopi film Howard recommended,
or just go home, watch tv and light a candle.
Maybe I’d meet someone at the film.
                                                                  Can I handle
the malady of going home tonight? If I die,
I die alone.
                      I turned west toward the subway
past the museum, through the park.
I can’t look at the myriad lights in buildings
large enough to hold a small town. It increases
my anxiety and anonymity to the breaking point.
I hoped to be mugged, for the human contact.
Two big guys looked me over, but I lowered
my center of gravity and they passed quietly. Survival
feels fine, proves I am alive.
                                                   The white pines
in this corner of the park hold a cool, earthy air
reminding me of coming winter, that mortality is
restful, of the black bear and swollen river I saw
500 miles away and only one day ago.
Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 2022
Love is a two way street.

I give love; out of a willingness to receive love.
Upon speaking love, I would have heard of it,
Experienced passionately; out of a passion to be loved.

Out of a passion to be loved, experienced passionately.
I would have heard of it, upon speaking love.
Out of a willingness to receive love; I give love.

Love is a two way street.
neth jones Mar 2022
The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
                                          loose yawn of a gob on him
                                              all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
     channels through the public
         and scatters a juggler's performance spot
                  lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles  
                                        he hoicks a resuscitation doll
         and stamps down a posing boot
                                                 on the 'defeated form'

an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :

"i smear to god all the phalluses
      [he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
             a full jug of uglies
tug on       [makes the hand gesture for male *******]
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
                          if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
            and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
       amen ******* !"

he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)
annh Apr 2022
Marge retrogrades lazily towards the hills;
Her name, printed the width of her cab-over dinette
In crinkled cobalt cursive,
Totters eccentrically as her handbrake fails.

SNAP-AP

Oblivious to errant camper vans (and centripetal forces in general),
Barney speeds maniacally along a deserted city street;
Golden coated and joyously poochie,
His tongue flabbers as fast as his bicycle courier dad can pedal.

SNAP-AP-AP

Mr Blue buys buckets at Bunnings
To match his cerulean suit and shinier-than-shiney satin shirt;
Periwinkle rhinestone shoes carry him unabashedly passed the second glances and sideways looks;
There goes the best dressed DIY-er in town…don’t ya know.

SNAP-AP-AP-AP
Oh, and that’s Antigua Street photography not Antigua street photography. :)

‘I only know how to approach a place by walking. For what does a street photographer do but walk and watch and wait and talk, and then watch and wait some more, trying to remain confident that the unexpected, the unknown, or the secret heart of the known awaits just around the corner?’
- Alex Webb
Sitting in  my alleyway
I watch people every day
They see me in my cardboard box
I hear the things they say

It used to bother me, but now
I just let them look and pass
I used to beg for their spare change
But, now I do not ask

I think that as they pass on by
It's my situation that they see
Homeless, living in the cold
They're not seeing me

Some stop, and stare in silence
They don't have the words to say
they see just what they want
While others turn away

Some who pass, they cross the road
On to the other side
They'd rather think I don't exist
Although it's here that I reside

I think that as they pass on by
It's my situation that they see
Homeless, living in the cold
They're not seeing me

If you ask, I'll answer
I'm a man, I have a voice
Although I'm in this alley
I am here by my own choice

Alternatives are out there
But they are not for me
Remember, it's my situation
Not the man I am you see
GaryFairy Oct 2021
Maybe someday people will speak of a great group of logical poets. It will be a group though. Maybe a help group for the more fragile ones. Not the type of fragile you are...the type that breaks. Carry on army, and tend to your fellow army members' wounds. Maybe someday you will see that you have fake bullets. Fully automatic, with hollow points and full metal jackets

You like my poem, then i'll like yours
we don't have to call it reading
even if yours could heal my sores
mine would be all i'm needing

i like your whole style of no style
nothing to do with form or function
you say it's not a one way street
when i see you at every junction

to be honest, it fills me with fear
hitting like becoming my being
then i will get roped into even more
when less is all i'm seeing

because this group is the real world, on a page, in cyberspace. My mind isn't real, because you can't see it, and it can't hit the like button for me. I must be as insane as you think i am.


It tickles my pickle to see the same poets that pointed at me years ago writing the same exact poem over and over. Talking about writers block like it's real. I stick to my guns and my guns are automatic. If you have a block, you're not a writer. You are still used for building though. Building what you hate, building what i love. I know some are blocks of ****, but they fertilize, at least. Thank you truly. If you hadn't kept putting me to sleep, i wouldn't have had so many awakenings. I do see the good, in blocks. One thing about a big block is that it gets cut into pieces, to make smaller blocks. Then you get mixed in with other blocks that you want no part of. I guess then, you and the other blocks just stand for that one building. You know...the 1 million square foot ranch. It has a basement, but no upstairs.
The best thing is, seeing the same poets contradict themselves with real life. Copycats. As far as form and function goes...deformity and disfunction is fine with me. After all, my favorite poet wasn't even a poet. Just some blind guy tripping on acid.
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