February Poetry of the Streets

The war on poverty's just begun:/ yet two steps forward, four steps back./ The losers? City corners stun./ The war on poverty's just begun?/ Yet safety nets are holey or none —/ anyone care to really keep track?/ The poverty war is just begun —/ two steps forward, four steps back.


He needed to put his affairs in order before disappearing. Earth was on the verge of being uninhabitable, and there would soon be an enormous die-off of most living creatures.. The underground country was a secret, and those destined to relocate there had to sneak out for fear of tipping off the masses.

The Radiant Poetry of Mary Rudge

When she asks spare change/ but you pass by/ her only response is “God bless you”/ and a broken-toothed smile./ She shows you how hearts really break,/ can you feel your own?/ She lets you see a whole country with/ a government full of broken promises.

January Poetry of the Streets

l asked the lord in prayer/ why people are/ begging for food/ I thought god’s goodness/ was for everyone/ and the lord answered me/ the poorest of the poor/ count on you and me/ to be their voice hands and feet/ and when we give until it hurts/ the poorest of the poor/ will be no more

The Poverty Line

More enforcement droids were coming with their weapons readied. But people had taken enough. Those who had been waiting in the long line so that they could continue their meager existences were angry. They surged at the enforcement droids and collectively smashed them to bits in a process of spontaneous rebellion.

A Missing Mother: The Transfer

“I remember staring at barbed wire and armed sentries,” Yuki said. “I remember being engulfed by scattering dust in the whirling wind. I remember laying in my bed at the Topaz internment camp wishing I could raise my voice and say people should not be mean to one another.”

November Poetry from the Streets

A pigeon waits placidly/ for some scraps of bread./ A homeless elder lady waits placidly/ for some scraps of coin./ In a world of uproar/ in which the sun still shines./ In a world of uproar/ in which flowers still show faces divine./ She smiles beatifically./ “God will make it right.”

Finding Refuge in Refuse at the Albany Landfill

Creative women and men have created a flourishing homestead dedicated to art, ecology and freedom at the Albany Bulb. The plants are wild, the art dotting every square inch of the peninsula is unsanctioned, and the residents embrace an alternative lifestyle. All these elements seem to be in harmony with one another.

The Soldier's Box of Memories

Miles and I had a strange bond: I was a conscientious objector and he was a Special Forces guy. He took some shrapnel in Vietnam and walked with a limp. After the war, Miles became a wandering man for years on end, spending time in homeless shelters up and down the East Coast.

The Jazzman Follows The Sky Up To The Roof

“You’re trespassing. This is private property, plus you can’t sleep outside in this city.” The bespectacled cop writes out a ticket and hands it to Hank. “We’ll escort you downstairs.” Once back down on the street, the other cop says, “You’re free to go, but next time it’ll be the county jail.”