homeless

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  • Life

    Poem Commentary

    A scene on Santa Monica Blvd.

    homeless

    HOMELESS

    The morning was steel blue cold,
    still only a few hours old.
    I looked down upon the city streeet,
    thankful for the hotels abundant heat.

    I saw her walking, unsteady, bent.
    Soon she stopped, energy spent.
    I studied her hair, tangled, gray
    I wondered her destination on such a cold day

    Pushing a cart full of trash, rags,
    arms weighted with old shopping bags.
    Suddenly, down she sat on the dirty walk,
    stared blankly ahead, began to talk.

    What is she saying, to whom does she speak?
    This old woman, some sort of freak?
    Not wanting to see I looked away,
    down the street, towards the bay.

    NO. I saw dozens more just like her.
    Oh God, how could this occur?
    In America, how could this group form?
    She's not a freak, she is the norm.

                                                             Ruby Jean Sanders



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    Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    rubyjeansanders’s Poems (5)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    Youth Awaiting Age 0
    homeless 0
    Eighteeth Thanksgiving 0
    Still Southern Night 1
    The Farm 3