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
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
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
Request permission to use this poem