Beneath the glowing Christmas lights
That illuminate the dark
There is a world of dark, lost souls
Homeless, sleeping in the park

Among the scattered tinselled trees
On benches and in tents
Lie many, lost and scattered souls
For whom, faith...got up and went

Christmas dreams don't dance around
These people who are lost
They huddle close and tend the flame
To survive and beat the frost

Children skate upon the rink
Laughing, chirping at the snow
While just behind the skating rink
Is a world, they do not know

The smell of cups of chocolate
Tantalizing ...just a taste
But, they dare not move from where they are
They stay hidden , just in case

The Christmas lights show false hope
To those fallen through the cracks
Most of their possessions
Are in carts, or on their backs

It's Christmas time, no matter what
And these people dare to dream
Of a life, like one they came from
A life of sweetness and of cream

The lights hold little wonder
They just signify false hope
For those here in the shadows
At the end of their life's rope

It's better in the darkness
When the lights are put away
When the chocolate smells are missing
It helps keep hunger pangs away

The Christmas lights burn brightly
But not for those who dwell
In the park, behind the ice rink
In a Winter Wonderland of hell

Poverty stricken
Looking for a sign?
Constrained , Confined?
Nothing here is divine

They look at me as if i were a ***
But what i am is a mother’s son.

Hard to tell who here isn’t a victim
Of the political capitalist system

No need for a new flags
We already have enough
Glam rags

Money spends fast
Poverty doesn’t live in the past

Sitting in Starbucks
drinking sweet coffee from Christmas red cap.
Not many people inside. Table for two, me and I,
music in background, quite nice,
at least I don't mind, but who does mind
anything,
when festive time has just arrived?

Enjoy your coffee, my friend,
but in the meantime, have a look outside
the window,
at rough sleepers and their hands,
open and empty.
This year
Christmas came early again.

Hail the  hobo King sitting  on his throne of
A stripped ford, engine no longer their
Dismantled  of all that was worth a dime.

His subjects bring offerings of dinner trash
Food, fresh from the dumpster. Given to
Those of ill health and malnourished need.

He sits in clothes matted with his trails of
The moments his feet have hit the pavement.
Of life not as others had the chance to live.

He wandered the land every concrete jungle
Knew him as the hobo King, no crown gestured
His head, only the word, the word of mouth.

Settling disputes of those in homes of cardboard
Of wood and used plastic sheeting sheltering from
Those who would do harm and the relentless cold.

He wonders the streets, knows the secrets of each
City of the unseen spaces where those whom roam
Now lay. The vulnerable have a guardian a keeper.

Ignorance of those who do not see that which in
Doorways sleep, of huddled masses under bridges
Buildings to keep dry and an uneasy sleep.

He is the hobo king a crown of matted hair he
Wears, always does he have time for those
Less fortunate because he is one with the street.

Every penny looks the same
When you find it on the street.
Scratches cover its surface;
Unknown junk makes it unclean.

I wonder who was the first to use it
I wonder whose hands had held it close
I wonder where that one penny has traveled
I wonder who let it go.

Every beggar looks the same
When you find them on the street.
Scratches cover their surface;
Unknown junk makes them unclean.

I wonder who was the first to meet him
I wonder whose hands had held her close.
I wonder where that beggar traveled
I wonder who let them go.

Every girl looks the same
When you find her on the street.
Scratches cover her surface;
Unknown hands make her unclean.

I wonder who was the first to hurt her
I wonder whose arms had held her close
I wonder if that girl would travel
I wonder why she doesn’t go.

-ARI