<%@LANGUAGE="JAVASCRIPT" CODEPAGE="1252"%> Poetry of the Streets



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another homeless person died

by Judy Jones

another homeless person just died
another homeless person died
and not one person cried
not one person cried

cause its just another
homeless person that died
not people like you and me
like you and me

someone's dying in the gutter
dying in the gutter somewhere
with nothing but their soul laid bare
nothin but their soul laid bare

a homeless chile is eating from a
garbage can
eating from a garbage can
and not one person sees
not one person sees

an old woman fell on the street
cause she'd had nothin to eat
nothin to eat
an old woman fell on the street

tonight i looked in the mirror and cried
for i saw my own soul had died
my soul had died


Holocaust Museum for the Poorest of the Poor

by Judy Jones

In the holocaust museum
for the poorest of the poor will lie
all the tears fears
shrieks and moans
of the millions who died
on cold concrete streets

walking in the door
walls seep blood
coffin after coffin
of no-name graves
will haunt each
visitor's face

no one can escape nor change
the holocaust
of the poorest of the poor
all over earth's shores

each visitor may claim
a grave of their own and
their names will stand for
the no-name that died

and before our eyes will be
pictures of those living on the streets
hands stretched out
for one tiny morsel of
human love

all their misery and pain
coming back to claim
those hardened hearts
that refused to see
the homeless person
dying on the streets
was, is, you and me


the reappearance of marie antoinette

by Randy Fingland

the wonders in the numbers
of folks who remember
the dismissal of charity's place
with let them eat cakes
to the french press
attending her husband's court
overthrown by the revolution
extended to new heights
of hunger
these many centuries later
because certainly
there's insufficient bread
to go around now
and once again
such a deficit's acceptable.



by Edvino Ugolini

Nature has swept away
For a moment
The indifference of the people
Towards the destiny
Of their brothers.
We must rebuild this moment
And create endless chains of solidarity
From the remote village
Until the suburbs of the cities
Where too many people are suffering
In front of those who
Run away to ignore all that.
The mosaic of suffering
On the path of those
Who sowed death and injustice
Has to be recomposed
And from every tear
Must spring up
A bud of hope for a new world.


Who Scares Who?

by Andy Block

You wear on your sleeve
your disdain for me.
When we pass on the street
we do not meet or greet.
Instead, I see eyes downcast and sneers,
Snickering, and fear.



by Eileen Corder

a young adolescent leans against her mother
I stare at the little dresses and caps
visitors break down in the corridors

candles burn in the snow
in front of the Wall of Death
bouquets of flowers are covered with snow

there is no heat
we have been here for hours
I am glad I am cold



by Joan Clair

Oh god, not another!
Day after day when I walked my dog
I saw her sitting on a bench by a bus stop.
She always had bundles around her,
a tall, elegant-looking woman.
She seemed fixed there.
Was she waiting for a bus?
Was she homeless?
I hoped not.
And now the cart,
The bundles inside look familiar,
right by the bus stop.
It is getting dark.
And now, no woman.



by Claire Baker

The "have nots" are really
the "haves," like (have) no job,
no place to sleep or weep,
little hope that isn't yanked
right back from under
their faltering feet.

Have to move on, no matter
what time of night or day.
By the time this poem is read
by anyone with an iota of care,
too many homeless will have
faced extreme deprivation...


Turkey in the Straw

by Joel Fallon

Summer time and there's no breeze anywhere
on the east side of town.
Four days till payday and the kids beg for money
when the ice cream truck plays
"Turkey in the Straw."

Mothers crouch in dim, warm rooms
watching Jerry Springer,
slowly going mad, wondering if
the meatloaf has gone bad.
No breeze anywhere on the east side of town.

The ice cream truck plays "Turkey in the Straw,"
and kids, like Pavlov's dog, begin to salivate.
Four days till payday. The water bill is overdue.
The car is on the fritz. The old man took a pay cut.
And the ice cream truck plays
"Turkey in the Straw."

The government says we're better off than ever,
but there are no coins under the couch cushions,
and the meatloaf has gone bad.
Summer, four days till payday
on the east side of town,
and the ice cream truck plays
"Turkey in the Straw."





1515 Webster St,#303
Oakland, CA 94612

© 2002-2005 STREET SPIRIT. All rights reserved.

Published by American Friends Service Committee
Editor, Layout, Design:
Terry Messman