#homelessness
I approached the familiar chair,
And sat, breathing out the stress of the day.
Looking around, familiar faces with almost-remembered names
Flashing back and forth on the TV.
In my hand is just water,
But it feels like a tell.
I sit, all my possessions within reach.
Everything that makes me what I thought was
Unique
Fearless
Strong
Is hidden behind my leg.
Embarrassment and shame engulfs me again.
Another hotel lobby, because no bed welcomes me.
A bag filled with donated miscellaneous mystery meat
Cans I bow down for, gratitude for something
For something someone found.
From Easter, or Christmas, 15-20-30 years past.
No good for people,
To the homeless it's passed.
The chair is familiar.
It is the chair I sat in when I realised -
Pity is not low enough,
Disgust is not deep enough.
You know how you feel when you see them.
Sat outside because no one welcomes us in.
Mar 18
Mar 18, 2026 at 1:11 AM UTC
The word homelessness
sounds like the word hopelessness
and no doubt, it should.
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 11:04 AM UTC
To sum it all up, taking a piece of word from his version of Psalms;
“Twenty-four doesn’t sound that old,” so said the ugly *** Today I
borrowed a homeless man a cigarette, his words were an ashtray –
burned out like the filter; sounding ashy. You could start a fire with
the knots inside his hair; eyes dimmed to the colour of ash, smoke
curling off the edges of memory. Twenty-four years of breathing in
what he could never let go, still clinging to the cracked seams of his
face.
His hands were black and oily, fingers stiff with factory life — each
line a map of labour leading nowhere but back to rust. No kids, no
wife. He mumbled verses from the Word, a sermon half-lost in static,
holy words turned cryptic; by too many nights without rest. Still, he
was a humble addict.
He struck a matchstick against a box, wrapped in a cloth —the flame
trembling in the wind, his jacket pocket rustling like paper filled with
forgotten names. From living under locks; mostly the locks of others,
he never found the key to his dreams. As the world counted his body,
but not his breath; once shining through the seams - now just empty
dreams.
Steel teeth, a dusty cap, a gambling hand; a whiskey flask half full of
forgetting. He drank like a man who mistook warmth for home; never
regretting. Some nights he slept on steel — bench or bed, I couldn’t
tell. But don’t assume he was sad; some men make peace with their
ghosts —some paint their heaven with the smoke of hell.
They said he’s just another one, a mumbling story in torn clothes,
words scattered like receipts for a lifelong spent. A man treading
the thin line toward his own end. But I still walk that street — the one
where he talks to no one, and everyone avoids his eyes. They say not
to mind the words he mumbles; but that man, the one they cross the
road to miss — __that man is our uncle.__
And I still check up on him.
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 6:01 AM UTC
Watered out into this cold, cruel world
My parents are still trying to survive
Can I blame them for wanting not to?
I don't either.
Want to lose what I love.
Home.
What's the cost if what I love harms me?
Isolate again insearch for home.
Where my soul can finally rest.
My human can thrive without love's conditions.
My mind loses its grip.
Who I had to be is no more.
My heart numb.
Overwhelmed.
Trying not to care.
Making myself invisible.
Still yearning for deep relief.
I've tried creating a home in falsehood
Belonging to causes & thoughtforms.
Soul is now their prize, imprisoned.
These mental bars amplify the internal echo.
My ancestors' screams through every DNA strand.
You can't fully experience what you don't give yourself first.
Overflow all that energy they want from me from within.
Protect our essence.
Your wholeness is home.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 4:35 PM UTC
Most days are an empty worn
Out house
On 1300 south block
It sees all the wealthy
From Costco
to it's front door -
If, you heed the need.
No one pays attention
Or spends on empty houses
with broken boards for steps
or bed springs to sleep on.
Most walk by
thinking something like,
That house did it to itself.
To get to where it is.
But they would be dead wrong.
It takes years for a house to empty out
Because of neglect
from all sources, for a time,
For misfortune,
no matter all
the life inside.
This was a yellowbird house
proud to be built.
People, a cat or two,
maybe an obedient dog
walked in and out
Someone cared enough to put a roof on
It thought complete.
Some people are like empty houses,
Neglected, cobwebs and sticky.
But, people bleed,
that get torn down
by so many things.
One thing in common though,
houses and people are eventually
demolished
if no one cares.
Someone may crash
into your car of goods
as you exit the fancy box stores
that make you think more is better.
But then your son collapses at home
from an overdose.
You, clueless.
What were you paying attention to?
Just barely 26.
What was, your yellowbird home,
will now be remembered
When the sound you heard
of your son's thump as he hit
the bathroom floor,
as you readied for work.
Split in half.
Someone dies.
You didn't plan on being
an empty house now
today,
did you?
So, what will you do about it?
Abandoned like an empty parking lot
Sorrow the only true begger
Grasping for something,
A currency
To take you back.
So stop flirting with birds
As they come and go.
Time is not for sale.
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
Echos of the forgotten children
dance along the
breeze.
With tired eyes and weary smiles
as they
sleep along the streets.
No kind words or helping hands
from the strangers
passing by,
just echos of forgotten children
an
endless
hopeless cry.
Nowhere to turn, no place to run.
Just lonely
damaged souls.
They try to hide or numb the pain
of being left out
in the cold.
Years its been,
since they felt warmth;
most do not remember love.
So the echos of forgotten children
are quietly swept,
under
the rug.
Their tears trace familiar paths
across their
*****
cheeks.
The echos of forgotten ones
that sleep along
the streets.
Its cold its dark,
they are alone.
They fear the end
is soon.
So they numb their pain
in any way
even if it brings their
doom.
The echos of forgotten children
forced to grow up
much to fast,
dance their way
through lonely streets.
Reminders of
their
tragic
past.
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 6:15 PM UTC
too late to hold me
too late to promise yourself a savior
too late to cry and say you're sorry
too little, too late
i'm gone
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 10:07 PM UTC
There's a city where people are asleep on the streets,
with nothing to eat,
some of them even lack shoes on their feet.
A city where overdose deaths are the "norm"
People are fighting for the doorways at night to keep warm.
Fentynal is everywhere and the addicts need help.
But with all of the stigma,
they're to ashamed of themselves.
In this city where people smoke drugs on the street,
and burn hand sanitizer at night for the heat.
Where the rents are to high and income assistance to low.
If you can manage the rent here,
there'll be no food in your home.
Moneys not spent on saving their lives,
no its spent on public art and yet another high-rise.
Tourist attractions and random art pieces,
are great when the overdose deaths AREN'T INCREASING.
We need social programing and addiction resources,
some good low cost housing or more food supports.
In a city like this what are the addicts to do,
just stay out of your sight,
as to not offend you?
Cops do Illegal searches and seizes,
and your friends tell you about,
the POLICE LEAD Stanley Park BEATINGS.
In the mornings on Hastings Street the city workers come through,
now destruction of peoples belongings ensues.
They can't even protest this or put up a fight,
because the City Workers come armed with VPD by their side.
This city treats homelessness as if it was a crime,
they are treated like **** that is not worth your time.
If you're homeless here dont expect any respect,
in fact your human rights don't even have an effect.
This city is sick and its priorities need help.
Vancouver B.C you should be ashamed of yourself.
Aug 13, 2022
Aug 13, 2022 at 3:47 AM UTC
in this country, we waste so much food
in a country where people go to bed hungry
if food doesn't sell
then it gets thrown away
perfectly good and edible food
just wasted
it could have been handed out
to homeless people
or people struggling to provide
for their family
they could've gotten many meals
if only we didn't waste food
poverty and homelessness
would decrease
it's so amazing what people can do
when they have a full stomach
the work they can accomplish
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
Fifty years ago, the future came,
built in concrete, tile, and bright lights,
underground station, undergirding the fame
of this city, adding to its manifold sights.
Now the future’s a place that smells of stale beer,
barely lit by futuristic lamps in disrepair,
wallpapered in graffiti, strewn with gear
of the pale homeless who’ve made this their lair.
They, like this chipped, grimy, forsaken place
are left in the dust of our dreams’ mercury pace.
Jan 17, 2025
Jan 17, 2025 at 2:40 PM UTC
Homeless and roaming the
streets like an orphan.
It was the dead of winter, and
I was still alive—barely.
My ex-girlfriend let
me crash on her couch for
a few days.
She didn't smoke.
I did,
so whenever I wanted
a cigarette, I went out in
front of her
apartment and lit up.
One night, bent on nicotine,
I entered the January thaw.
As I had my
smoke fix,
a man with a
huge Rottweiler slowly
walked by.
The dog caught sight of
me, and gave me a low growl.
The guy talked to
his pet like he was
his best friend.
'Leave him alone, that's his home;
let him smoke.'
The dog knew better, and
glared at me.
He barked loud and viciously.
'Leave that poor man alone.
Let him enjoy his cigarette,
that's his home, ' the man said.
A small dog began
yapping in the distance.
The man said,
'Oh great, you've upset that little dog.
Come on, let's go.'
The Rott gave me an evil look, and
sauntered off.
He recognized his own
kind.
He also knew that there
was something different about me.
He could smell it,
almost taste it.
He knew I was a mongrel
and a stray.
He knew I didn't
belong.
Aug 23, 2024
Aug 23, 2024 at 5:33 PM UTC
The tempest tears roofs
away from attic secrets --
devours people's pasts.
Mar 12, 2024
Mar 12, 2024 at 4:34 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Homeless Man Found Murdered
He had nothing
And even that nothing
Was stolen from him
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 10:36 PM UTC
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
Jun 2, 2023
Jun 2, 2023 at 7:32 AM UTC
#
*What is it about that elusive word?
I will throw my arms around it,
--if it could only become
tangible to me.
Children sit in families..
(and there was bonding from the beginning)
I don't know what that means
I don't know how that feels..
I don't..
...
I ... don't...
kn--....
...
I ..* .
....
#
May 5, 2023
May 5, 2023 at 8:23 PM UTC
Everywhere you go
Every where you are promised
Every where you land
Is not for a slab of steel
But are places you imagined to be
Only in your mind
You are where you want to go
You are where you lead
You are all the broken plans
Intended to lift you high above the land
You are air, as light as your intentions
As strong a wind, as your heart can stand
For there you are
Three times over
Where you must be
As you wait on this drifting sand
There may be another path
Just wait long enough
To take a stand
Jul 3, 2022
Jul 3, 2022 at 3:12 PM UTC
You give one man a home address and that my friend is not addressing homelessness but it's a beginning and we have to start there, don't we?
but this piece is about anxiety and the way it affects your chemistry,
suddenly you're shaking, feeling dreadful, scared of daylight and more so of nightfall
so
you sit and drink and have a skinful,
wishful thinking doesn't cure you,
and you still need to get through
the gnawing feeling that you're dealing
with the devil or his disciples,
the home you've got becomes a hell
and you, the prisoner sat inside a room
which to all intents and purposes is just
another prison cell
do not feel well
they'll tell you it will be alright
even as the day and night conspire
against you
and you're still wishful thinking
hoping that will cure you,
yeah
good luck with that.
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 11:41 AM UTC
The tree bears that fickle fruit;
slouched figures swaying in the midnight wind
like its leaves above the garden.
Ripe and sweet to the core;
never satisfied, and wanting more
as the sordid souls ignore
the elements beyond the door.
Hellfire ignites
and sandy scripture lies upon the bay,
like plastic bits of dogma
with infected red resin in its tray.
Rotting fingers of snakeskin
grasp at survival throughout the day.
Make the apple last
in cardboard crematories, they pray
the temptations of Eden away.
Nov 24, 2021
Nov 24, 2021 at 2:16 AM UTC
I just have to write.
**** everything else.
I've suffered for my art,
and there's no doubt that
I will suffer more.
We all have our agony,
that's life and I accept
my plight.
I am what I am
(as Popeye would say.)
And I couldn't change
it if I wanted to.
I remember one night,
staying in an abandoned
house.
I wrote some poems on
the walls.
I saw the words in
the moonlight through
a broken window.
Even though I was famished,
I hadn't eaten in
three days,
at that moment, I became
full and complete.
I knew right then,
as long as I had the words;
my words, I would never
feel empty again.
My black satchel full of
writing and the clothes
on my back were all
I owned.
I had no idea where I
was going at dawn,
but I sure the **** knew
who I was.
Jul 21, 2021
Jul 21, 2021 at 9:08 PM UTC
shopping mall charging
hope silent in a corner
windows empty souls
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 6:44 AM UTC
My dad taught me
that placement in society
is ultimately irrelevant.
He taught me you can find
your eager slice of happy
anywhere, not just in between
four familiar walls.
I used to think
that if only he had access
to a mattress and a ceiling
he'd find his happiness.
But, I realized -
Who am I
to dictate what makes
another feel complete?
Here, by the park benches,
His heart blooms like
a grandmother's rose bush.
He lives moment to moment.
Cares not for possessions,
Has no schedule,
No place to be.
Has no bills, no debts,
no credit, no ID.
Scrounges the ground
and kind strangers' gestures
for everything he owns.
But oh, his cold, tired bones!
I worry how long a journey lasts
for a lone vagabond.
Envigorated by the sounds
of the sea
and chance encounters
whether they be familiar
friends or family
or the palpable presence
of all that's imaginary.
It all lurches to him
in a grand symphonic dance,
Linking his hours to days,
and days to weeks,
extending outward and upward
to take the heavens
in his grasp.
A pigeon dove lands
on his tattooed finger.
He laughs, and it flocks
to another's perch.
A tree branch this time.
The animals and children
look into his eyes
and wonder about the stranger.
Alone, raggedy, down on luck
but up in spirits,
and they recognize
a body brimming with
presence.
My dad taught me you can be
nobody and still have everything.
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 4:14 PM UTC
I'm back in the psyche ward again.
It's my home away from home,
next to jail and the emergency room.
I sat under the bridge the other night.
It was January, and extremely cold.
I was jonesing for a drink—I knew what I had to do.
I had only been out of jail for a
couple of days for another public intox.
I narrowly avoided going back to the can today.
My nut-job girlfriend said,
"Why don't you get us some wine? " "Sure, " I said.
Shaking and sick, I walked a mile to
my favorite store that I steal ***** from.
I arrived, and had a bad feeling, but I
don't pay much attention to feelings anymore.
In and out is always the plan.
A bottle of chardonnay down the front
of the pants, and one in the coat.
I thought I had it. I was wrong.
A customer saw me and snitched me off.
I went with the manager to his office.
A cop showed up shortly afterwards.
I engaged the store-guy with talk of literature.
It turned out he was an
English major.
I wrote down the title of my book,
and slipped it to him. He put the paper
in his wallet. He told the cop that I was very cooperative.
Instead of taking me to jail,
the cop gave me a citation with a
court date on it, and let me go.
Sometimes, providence smiles on me.
On my way back to the apartment,
I was already planning the next store to hit,
I needed a drink.
The cop, from the store, pulled up along side of me,
and said,
"Your girlfriend called, she said she didn't
want you at her place anymore.
All your stuff is in front of her door."
I felt like I'd been run over by a rhino.
The cop said,
"I'll give you a lift, jump in."
When I arrived, there were two loosely
packed bags of clothes weighing around 100 pounds.
There was no way in hell that I could
have carried all that crap eight miles to Iowa City.
I grabbed a back pack, and stuffed it with a pair
of jeans, two shirts, my writing, and a copy of Don Quixote.
I went outside and waved to the cop, then headed towards town.
I finally made it back to the bridge.
I waited to get the nerve to make
my next move—steal wine.
I did it, and with no cork *****
I opened it with a broken ink pen.
I'm not complaining, it was the needed elixir
and it went down like nectar of the gods.
I drank it quick, it was three degrees out.
Life had to change.
This was getting real old.
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 12:35 PM UTC