Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Eve 17h
There's this distant illusion of water
at a scorching paths' dried border.
It's caused by heat and refracted light
And even intimacy's (closeness) fight
yeilds; one step closer, one step further.
Sometimes happiness is just like that water
Maintaining distance from the grasps
Of those desperate for it, no matter the costs.
And that's just how the future goes,
Day by day, person by person, lows by lows.
No matter the way happily ever afters are sold,
And the ways rainbow after the rain is told,
Or even the way light at the tunnels' exit defends,
Fairytales, dreams and hopes;
For some people, chaos never ends.

-fir.m
I do not want to think.
Don't want to judge. Who am I.
Brooding savagely of death and laughing.

Out of the gloves, the hands
catch the butterflies to write a poem.
The blood dreams. I drop sleep.

Your smile was lethal.
I cannot kiss the moon. It was
cold to receive the hot flame.
We feel each other with gravity and tides,
Sharing warmth at each embrace,
A treasure trove of love and light
That time and distance can't erase.
Dedicated to my PAA fellows
Written with free friendship in mind

Love and live ♥
EA
.
                                smoke
                         ­            of
                                 puff
                                   a
                                like
                      diss­ipates
                                  it
                     ­           until
                               up
                                and
                          ­   up
                                and
                          ­         up
                              and
                           up
                    going
                swirls
             ­       decreasing
                          ever
                ­                in  
                                gyrates
    ­                         and
                        spirals
                    time
   pre-determined
our
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
Kushal 1d
I sat in my room,
A rollup of green
Perched between my lips,
Bellowing away.

Above the clouds and gusts of wind,
I'd write these words.

I'm an artist for work.
It's hard.
There's always a worry for stability.
That worry now sits as the shadow of my works.
All impure,
Tainted by fear and anxiety.
Success is a goal so hard fought for
That I only see my true self in my poetry.

The one haven I've left for myself.
Working as an artist is hard. For me personally, it feels as though I've lost  my spark, always thinking on whether my art would help my career.  My poetry is the thing I publicise the least, and as a result, it's the only bit of art that feels like a hobby and not work.
The only place I can truly find art without any goal but expression.
Now to keep attempting to rekindle my fire for the rest of my art.
Been lost too long to find the right road
To save squandered time thrown away
Backtrack the past but I'm wasting the present
Cannot erase regret
Tried every which way
I am so stuck right now
Dogs are dead.
Wolves are coming. God's anniversary.
You don't meet with me with dignity.

There was a face -off
between lightning and the Buddha tree.
Waiting for the Gautam to come again.

When will the vipers come?
I am indebted to the moon. Tonight
I will drink the hemlock to save you.
Next page