what days are these
when we sit to ponder
lifes big and small mysteries
with tea brewing
in the ***
and biscuits crumbling
in our hands

we sit and watch
the colour leach
from trees
and grass wither
underfoot

we gather
old clothes and blankets
to give to those
whose houses
are sky and ground
whose airconditioning
is frost and wind

we dread the winter's
count and the summers
harvest of those elderly
left frozen and unfound

some lose just little bits
who needs fingers and toes
some lose more and more again
we puase to remind ourselves
a life is a life no matter the choice
of the living....there is a purpose
to be found in each soul set upon
the ground

so we gather small comforts
to be bestowed on those
who live harder and meaner than
ourselves  and then sit in front
of roaring fires and suppose
our good deeds become us

yet we have treated but a symptom
of the cancer that is fed by greed
we have tried to answer need
but while we give a pittance
with one hand, the larger
beings of this land,
take with both, leaving
nothing but grist and sand
and lives with little
have a little less

it is hard to live
on crumbs

harder still
when the
big end
of town
is blind
and numb

to those who
are suffering
they do not see
the social buffering
blinkers their sight
and so continues
the cycle

whilst blankets and swags
and soup kitchens  all help
something more is needed
to bring the homeless, home

the leaves are pretty this year

Every time I say "goodbye",
my chest aches and I feel hopeless.
Will I ever see you again?
Was this even worth all the pain?

As I think of our journey together,
my head fills with regret;
while my heart feels empty and heavy.
I almost forget how to breathe.

In the end I know it was worth the fight,
but why does such a wonderful ride have to hurt so much?
I trust that life will bring us together again,
but my doubt leaves me with sorrowful sighs.

The day you tried to live,
you could not,
and passed on to the
Superunknown
and let us fall on
black days.
You finally let yourself drown
in a way much
like suicide,
a spoon in your hand?
Spoonman?
You could never quite break
your rusty cages,
outshined by your own light,
burdened by your own hand.
You roll on like a stone,
the final hunger strike.
Someone forgot to
show you how to live,
and now you will be missed.

On the counter sat a faded black and white photograph
a young woman’s face smiled bright with hope for the future
a future that included me and my brother, a husband,
and one lover only she really liked.
A cough caught my attention and I looked at her wrinkled face
it had been days since any eye contact
since food had passed those dry, cracked, and peeling lips,
instead a small pink swab attached to a plastic white stick
brought dabs of moisture to a shriveling tongue.
Candles burned around her high school graduation picture
dark wisps of ashy smoke braided itself and disappeared
I took a cold unresponsive hand in my own
and thought about how many more times I would be able to touch her.
Each room in the facility held the same story
though none of us spoke to each other during those days
aside from an overly friendly care giver trying to delicately
flop a body around to change sheets or clean soiled sundries.
Mom’s breath stopped…
just at the moment when fear of being an orphan
had locked my chest in God’s own vice grip
she exhaled.
I laid my head against a cold steel bar
there to protect her from falling out of bed, but also
to  keep me from crawling in and wrapping my arms around her body
in an effort to keep her warm.  /

I used to walk to your home
It took me an hour and a half
But I didn't mind, mom
Was worth it to hear you laugh

Every day come rain or shine
I was by your side
You were my light sublime
You were my guide

But then you had to go away
And leave me behind
The pain I feel every day
You are always on my mind

So now I walk a lonely road
In my heart you are safe
With heavy feet and an empty soul
I bring flowers to your grave