Poetry

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She walked the streets again last night,
with bloodied fists, she chose to fight
against a smelly, drug fuelled fellow.
'There must be other ways to earn
a buck or two, when will I learn
to make a life that's oh, so mellow?"

Then there is Jim from number nine,
his parents vowed life would be fine
[as long as they sucked on their bottles].
While hunger soon became Jim's friend,
a message he would never send was that
he knew he'd been forgotten!

Lines and lines of unemployed,
sickness rife in every ward.
Doctors shake their heads in sorrow.
Hospitals run out of beds,
elderly folk left unfed,
hoping for a new tomorrow.

Prayer circles soon start to unfold,
belief in God becomes two-fold.
People do deals like; well, whatever!
They promise God a life so pure
because they feel so insecure,
not unlike cloudy, stormy weather.


This life, two thousand and fifteen
still has an answer to be seen,
which is to help our homeless fellows.
Because their sufferings immense,
why should this be? It makes no sense
that their lives are so very hollow.

We need to reach them, don't you see?
They're not alone, nor should they be.
Whilst you and I walk and work wealthy.
As for the millionaires on earth, it's time
they gave too, love is worth
the breath of life which is so valued.

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