Best Hobo Poems

Hobo Walking Past Our House

He looked like man walking with rocks in his shoes,
a bit edgy, with shadows flitting about.
Dark clouds about him, sending the...

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My whole life waits, just this moment, the ink still

wet; for sunrise this clear May morning.

My shaman up already,
hair askance, dancing and trilling his flute
to...

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The bells are calling as the snowflakes fall
Illuminations twinkle with delight
A goodwill message sent to one and all
The joys of Christmas fill this festive night.

Excited...

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Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds...

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Turkey's on the table, both legs up
Everything was fine, 'til I made the first cut!

The turkey unleashed a "CACKLE!", then jumped onto the floor
All you...

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Of parrots and parakeets, no one knows
now numbering in the thousands
no longer Mexico's bucolic birds
new urbanized citizens migrated 
to the suburbs. 

If you travel to...

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Paula parrot is my name. I'm from the wild, but now I'm tame
A chatterbox who likes to talk! 
Have news to share? Let's take a...

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The excitement mounted as we rummaged around in the attic looking through old steamer trunks for discarded clothes and props to make Halloween costumes. With...

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A short little guy,
walks by,
"please don't mind me,"
he wobbles.

His shadowed face it asks,
"is it five o'clock already?"
He hasn't had a meal,
his belly rumbles.

He sits outside...

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Just wanted to say a very big thank you to all you amazing poets who took the time to comment 
on my last post ‘Sunny...

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A summer's evening stroll
in the downtown.
Tiny flying bugs
maneuver in the wind.
A hobo with one hand
strums a guitar,
his traumas grate against the air
as his style
-the blues-
echoes...

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“The carcass of beauty spent and done”
William Shakespeare.


The carcass of beauty spent and done
picked clean by scavengers of time,
whose sated memories of summer
ask for no...

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I flip the history of Bojangles
On a cool Sunday evening
Los Angeles coming down
A flow of oboes breathing
Through the lung of the street
The hobo not stopping...

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HOW TO LIVE FOREVER

When you look into your daughter’s brown eyes 
And see  the eyes of your own mother long gone
But  still smiling...

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One September morn, Barry is born, one day a little man that society will chastises every day, poisoned with dour memories of a life passing,...

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