Bag Lady Poems - Poems about Bag Lady

BAG-LADY IN THE PORTRAIT GALLERY In all my failed moments of ambitious grace, The truth, swarth-headed, lifts its greenest shape To madly light the curls of whitest lace Edging your throat, and redeem the nape Where a brown knob burnishes the bone. Such well-bred tenants of the proudest hock Like ancient grandees, dawn on my lone Outride of the politic, and who can...

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she has a cart fill with art sleep and eat in a parking lot she must be hot loads of cloth some call her sade the BAG LADY...

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some are young and old like giveing soul about to fold they carry a load mabe gold or cloths i new one her name was sade i call her s BAG LADY...

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She slept upon a bench, Her snores annoyed a guy. He told her to shut up, And stabbed her in the eye. * *A true story about an elderly bag lady, who was murdered at a local bus station....

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Her head hung in shame why is she to blame? Kids took it all from her now all she has is this worthless fur that keeps her warm at night a space to keep warm is a terrible fight a small portion of food is all she may get all day being homeless is a terrible price to pay with no money in...

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Bag Lady Chicago’s North Side This senior citizen whose face is Rushmore still squats with pigeons on the steps of the Rogers Park Masonic Temple. She wears a shawl this snowy day and is beneath the visor of a hunting cap a woman who has paused along the way. Her shopping bags, stuffed, frayed, and each square feature of her face,...

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The clothes she wore were twenty years old Tattered and torn not much protection from the cold The rusty cart she pushed with wheels well worn The hair on her head needed to be shorn Slowly into the emergency room she did enter Just in time for her heart was tender As she sat down in the chair Her lungs no longer...

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Old with wisdom they say A long life she lived Wrinkles tell her story well The crow’s feet gauge her eyes Dull, colored grey now Without a spark in sight. Time is for the birds The clock has not been kind to her. A life of wealth or poverty stricken Neither what the story books foretell Banished to life alone. Her husband, gone He was dead...

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She humbles herself With her lack of ambition A stain of sadness In all that she wears She mumbles through life With words of conviction banished from gladness by guilt that she bears She crumbles inside From a need for contrition A martyr for madness she sits and she stares...

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In the fall of the year leaves arrayed in copper tones crunched underfoot, the crisp air collided with the inner heat of her face. The metal cart grew heavy as she smiled up at the trees, the air, and the faces of the passing Automobile Riders. She laughed aloud as the squeal of brakes and the smell of burning...

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