Homeless Poetry

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? 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