homelessness poems

Living with Regret | Wayne Russell

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Profound brown leaves,
crushed underneath my
feet, like memories; swirling
and forlorn.
I dream of us and our children,
it’s the good times that I cling
onto in the noonday sun.
It’s the memories that shelter
me, from the onslaught of winter
woe.
It’s the knowledge of loneliness,
that mortifies me the most, lost
without my family.
It’s facing a craggy city, threading
a bleak needle of homelessness,
asleep in some derelict house, long
abandoned by inhabitants, encased
now by only the darkness and me.
—–
Wayne Russell is an amateur photographer and creative writer who was born and raised in Florida. Wayne’s musings have been published online and in print since about 1990. Wayne is a recovering alcoholic who currently roams the streets of Columbus, OH.

Rough | Chris Byrne

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Rain lashes down
Cold concrete
Cardboard mattress
Aching joints
Sleeping one eye open
Tired, cold, and hungry
Wandering aimlessly
Through crowded
Empty streets.

And the Rain Fell | Chris Byrne

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As I sat, cold and hungry
In the rain, not knowing
If anyone cared,
Pondering, would anybody
Miss me? I was just another
Figure on the list
Tomorrow will be better,
I’d think,
Dark dismal thoughts
Flooded my brain
Not knowing if I’d get
A bed for the night
Or have to face the
Night
Life flashed before
My eyes, could I make it?
Could I?
Now I look back
Wonder how I
Survived.

Imagine Being Me | Chris Byrne

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Lost and alone
No one to turn to
Homeless, on the Street
An abundance of
Friends, acquaintances
Came and went
Old haunts became
Mere streets,
Cities became blurred
Lost in a haze
Hostels became one
Unloved, always seen,
Yet never looked
Upon.

Plain Ole Streets | Chris Byrne

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The cold was biting,
Sent chills through my bones
As I sat wondering
Where would I sleep that
Night
As rain lashed down,
Sitting on the side of the
Road pondering life.
Is this it? Is this my future?
Wet, cold, and hungry,
Drinking beer to pass the time,
Now I drink beer after work
And still feel the cold.

Vagrant Soup | Paul Tristram

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You can tell when the first frost is on its way…
the Down-And-Outs don’t talk in the soup-run queue.
Instead, they stand there in silent huddles,
like mourners at a bewildered funeral,
at the back of the opened-doored, volunteer van.
Steams of breath floating up into the evening, Winter air,
mostly statue-like, apart from the shivering.
It’s a shame to have to park down on this quayside,
the wind rips straight up this river from yonder estuary
something mercilessly and almost with a vengeance.
But, the Council have banned the Homeless
from the City Centre, whether sober or not, doesn’t matter.
The sight of them was upsetting the Christmas shoppers…
as they vulture in and out of the decorated stores,
tasting free wine samples and spending thousands.
Stocking up on more than enough ‘Merry’
to see them safely through their warm, magical, full of love
and gift-sharing Holiday Season… God bless us one and all!

More at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

Mental Health | J.K. Durick

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We settled it years ago, closed asylums, so many,
those Dickensian places, exposed, closed, patients,
inmates released into the world, often just left off
with few plans and fewer places to go; streets are
never enough; homeless they haunt us, we jail them,
fill emergency rooms with them, with no beds for
them; instead of doctors we give them the police,
instead of treatment, we jail them, instead of solutions
we get statistics, how many of the homeless, how
many crimes, how many dollars we spend to no end,
and we’re getting to know that solutions are never
as easy as they seem to be.

Better at Worst | Ndifreke George

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She wraps herself all in one rough piece
Away from the universe filled with cruel voices
Beautiful demons and charming dark angels
Smiling their deadly fangs
Her heart is plagued
With endless slaps and stabs
Scorched by the sun
Soaked in the rain
But she is safe in her tattered refuge
The gutter is safer than the estates
The dumpster cooks better meals
Her tattered rags fit better than shimmering apparel
Once beaten, twice shy
She is safe in others’ danger
She has nothing to worry about
Let her worries worry over her
She is not schizophrenic
Because she can still remember
That she is one of those widows
Abused, beaten and deprived of her life.

There but for the… Go I | J.K. Durick

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I passed by
Yet another homeless guy
And thought
What if
He were me
And me were he
Roles reversed
Me with my cardboard sign
And those shabby clothes
Asking for help
And he the guy
Who passed me by
Wondering why
I ended up that way

Just Another Day | Shawn Aveningo

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“Must the hunger become anger and the anger fury, before anything will be done?” John Steinbeck

Another night of dreams upon corrugated pillows—survived,
mother and child in their daily trek to Loaves and Fishes,

line stretching ‘round a city block. Escalades flaunting
Jesus Fish, Little Nemo playing on flip-down plasmas,

unload youngsters in tartan skirts & poplin blouses. “Ma’am
could you spare a little change?” echoes from the shadows

to those who are deaf to their cries. The cries of infants with
bellies swollen from hunger, mothers too famished to produce

nature’s nourishment, fathers desperate, ashamed. Hunger
to anger. Anger to Fury. Fury to blood spilled on the streets.

Public outcries as pie charts in papers show crime on the rise.
It’s November. Politicians’ promises tallied. Soon bells ring,

coins collect in red buckets, ‘tis the season for giving. Until
Spring cleaning sweeps poverty under the rug as CPA’s tally

charity on Schedule A’s. Just another day in paradise.

More at http://www.redshoepoet.com.

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