My hand held out...
...to guard your back
When your friendships lacked
...to give money or supplies
When you couldn't survive
...to hold your hand
When you needed support
...to give you a hug
When you needed love
...to high five yours
At all of your endeavors
...to pat on your back
When you succeeded this or that
...to throw a thumbs-up
Because you never gave up

My hand held out...
...to cover my eyes
Through all of the lies
...to hide evidence
When you lacked common sense
...to understand the unreal
Amounts of items you'd steal
...to my chin to stipulate
The way you'd manipulate
...to cover my heart and divert
From your stories that hurt.

I could do this when I had two hands.
I could juggle these separate demands.
My dominant hand is limp now.
The tasks I take on are now simple.
I can only do one thing at a time.
Like, write out this single line rhyme.

When you see my hand out...
...from utter desperation
Please don't tabulate your accommodation
...remember I never asked before my disability
That you had previously admired my stability
...homeless, ***** and hungry
Offer to help me, without charging money
...keep in mind, it's the only one I have
My abilities and tasks all need to be halves
...perhaps don't act put-out or surprised
Because the person who's asking is paralyzed.

My freedom of expression,
Or, freedom to exist...
I've had to suppress, any implication,
That I was free, IT was free,
Or that I could rest.
My obligations became innovations,
My "freedom" was a serious test.

Shut my mouth.
Silence my thought.
Burn holes in my own sky...
To survive,
Just to... Get by.

There's no blood on the hand
of the devil begging for a gun...
But, the blood of my son,
My thoughts, my thighs,
My sun, my sky...
I'm paralyzed.
I idealized and fantasised
...a metaphor...
Something in-between dead and alive.

But this is literal.

Cry freedom for a body that fails.
An existing breath that bent steel.
Locked in the prison with 10 wardens.
Slave to a super power.
And I'm furious you sent me a bill.
I ate your currency.
I'm... Fed... Up.

Your devil is free to stare,
poke fun and share
...the misery...
...my suffering...
I'm paralyzed.

This is literal.

His name was poverty
he's the symptomn of a system that bleeds greed

The rich exploit the young, the poor, so they may feast off the backs of children
Bodies of those lost to the system pile up underneath them

Never shedding a tear for those lost to the streets laying in cold dirt beds with grass sheets

In the private hostel
and
a tiny bit of gospel
because we still have to
sing for our supper.

They still try to sell you
on things that they tell you
and we listen and
pretend we believe.

I saw Satan in the soup dish
and an angel in the cake,
fourteen knights and old King Arthur
who were
standing by the lake

I take communion with the lady
in the shower meant for men
and a mass for me at midnight
when the lady comes again.

We are eighteen carat diamonds
Methuselah wears us well
and we're in the private hostel
halfway home
half way to hell.

When it’s spring on the ocean
The wind is clear and warm
And the campers pull in
To wait out summer storms.
And one of them spends time
As he spends his time in Egypt
Making flutes of bamboo
To find his living in it.

He seems to be immune
To states and times and towns.
Whatever is his story
He's glad he's still around.
And when the campers waken
To sniff the fog of dawn
The ocean will still be there
But the flute man will be gone.

Gone to seek his being
Where no man is alone
Where no one rubs his shoulder
And each soul is his own.
You know he's glad he met you
But he is moving on.
He leaves the waves behind him
But the flute man has moved on.

It was a cart once made for shopping
Now lost and long forgoten
It was a cart once silver and shiny
Now old, disgusting and grimy

She found it there in an unused lot
It was exactly what she had sought
In it she placed her worldly belongings
Including her hopes, her dreams, and longings

She took it with her wherever she went
Hours organizing it where spent
Not one thing about that cart was inept
She knew every scrap of paper, and were it was kept
There was room for her clothes, she had very few
Far less than anyone knew
A spot for the table scraps she managed to find
Who knew you could live on less than a dime

But there in the middle you'll find two old tattered tins
Her most prized possessions where tucked safely within

One tin was for the past and things that are no more
With child like eyes, she'd peek in and explore
For both Joy and Sorrow are contained inside
Amongst the Polaroids of life, a lock of child's hair did reside

The other was for her hopes and dreams
They carried her on, when there seemed to be no means
Even when all the dreams eventually explode and collide
Hope will still be standing strong by her side

Her life as it is now, out here on the streets
Was unexpected, not planned...... the memory repeats

A bright sunny day
Soaking up the sun's rays
Both out by their pool
Him sitting at the bar on a stool
But little boys sure do like to giggle
They squirm, and they wiggle

Her out stretched fingers grazed his shirt as he fell
Her screams of anguish no one could quail
As she held his limp body pleading for him to open his eyes
Screaming at the heavens..... WHY.... WHY.... WHY

Now on this block you can find her every day
Pushing that shopping cart as she limps and she sways
Come bare witness to the sad aftermath
One split second, changed a life's path

©Pauline Russell

Two doors down
from a bar
two people,
strangers to me,
sit in a doorway
up on sixth street;
Wearing winter caps,
winter coats,
even though,
I’m sure they know
it isn’t winter yet,
but it’s so cold.
They have each other
as they sit in separate chairs
leaning together.
I wanted to give them
a dollar or some food
but they are sleeping
and I know how hard
it is to get good sleep
in this life.

If I told you they
were children
would you care?

If I told you
they were women
would you care?

If I told you they
were white men
again would
you care?

If I told you
they were black
brown skin
would it matter
At all?    

If I told you
at one time
over fifteen years ago
I slept on a couch
in a hallway
in a building
with cracked
and shattered glass
windows that
let cold winds in.
Cuddling next
to my oldest friend
one head poking out
at each end
from under the thick
sleeping bag I had.
Fully loaded for winter,
except between us
we only had one ski mask
and one pair of gloves,
so we switched off and on.

If I told you what was wrong
so you could find what’s right
how our lives our deeply intertwined
and that this soap box is yours
as much as it is mine?

Would you take the time to see
and help the myriad of yous and mes
that are still suffering,
no matter what they look like?