Mother
By Justin
strikes matches
through alleys
under bridges
finding me
eggshells
in my palms
she whispers: flesh
is a constraint that splits
overshadows our illuminations
her words ripple
on the air
morph
into pigeons
circling my feet
I continue
to look away
she disappears
—feathers hanging
from the corners
of my mouth
Justin is a young resident of Santa Barbara, currently housed and attending school.
By Wayne Myers
here is mystery:
that he lay like a seed
in the heart of the earth
or like an insentient caterpillar
entombed for the sake of
a butterfly
he lay stiff and dry
and by most accounts
as dead as a dog
for three days or three
years or three thousand
years and yet i saw him
alive
stinking with life: his beard
matted, his clothes greasy
and ill-fitted, his eyes shining
with zodiacal madness. He
was still dragging his twelve
disciples around but they
looked like a bunch of
junkies now, pale, and the
way they shuffled their feet
like cats on fire-escapes
coughing hard into their clenched
fists sometimes because they all
smoked too much and
spent too many nights rushing
head-down in the rain up
one alleyway and down
another till they were home.
II.
He told them stories
while they sat on the dusty roadside
eating figs, stories about water-carriers
and fish and the vast, celestial distances
that lay between them. He peeled his apple
in one long red coil while he described
the brooding emptiness of space and the
stirring of protons as they began to fall
headlong toward the sun.
He lay back then,
pillowing His head upon
a smooth stone and soon
He was asleep.
By L. E. Hulse
Light from the passing car
Dances back and forth across the sidewalk
Stepping in and out on the pools of water
Scattered out over the broken concrete
Like landmines ready to claim you as
Another victim in the on going struggle
To survive on the wet and lonely streets.
If you’re not careful
The struggle can turn into survival
And time can wander off
Only to vanish into the sunset.
But sometimes the different seasons
Can come around
And provide a little hope like
Flowers to pick
Stories to tell
Songs to sing
People to meet
And mountains to climb
And maybe…
If you’re lucky
Even another chance to reach the top.
L. E. Hulse is a frequent contributor to this blog. He was homeless for several years, but recently moved into a studio apartment in the City of Santa Barbara.
Wayne Myers is a prolific writer and poet and homeless in the City of Santa Barbara.
By Wayne Myers
My dear, brilliant boy,
how like a sword art thou,
how tall and straight and remorselessly sharp,
how grim and final and driven by neither god nor the devil
but by the ugly fuckin’ truth, the truth which is often a violent truth,
a truth full of blue despair and abcesses and lies
and men in stiff, black, patent-leather shoes crashing through rain puddles
and lurking in dark alleyways with clubs, herding people, herding them.
People we don’t even know. People of whom we only catch glimpses,
through bus windows or sometimes on television or even in that little,
yellow room at the end of the hall where the blonde,
pale but pretty dopefiend lives
and burns candles
for Jesus and
to stay warm.
Depression
By Marc Garrett
Dark rain pours onto my mind scape; Oily sticky and putrid.
It soils my soul; taints it with Depression.
It slows my body and my mind. Makes me slow thinking and lazy;
Moved to be inert, immobile.
Frustrated anger whips through my mind snapping at my nerves which scream stress
Back at me. I want to be rid of it all; To go on without the dark clouds
Pouring from over my head.
Marc Garrett is a local poet who enjoyes sharing his work with the community at Alameda Park and online at poetry.com
Written by Katie Pryor
My Brother
sleeps between our cinderblock wall
and the dumpster. I slump in my wheelchair
under a blanket. It’s about five a.m.
I leave to get more liquor, pass
the baseball diamond and hotel
to the QuickMart. It only takes ten
minutes to get what I need.
I come back to a couple of pigs
prodding at my brother’s body, one muffles
his mouth over a walkie talkie. I look up
at the silver flecks on his badge;
I already know what happened.
Months later in the morning silence
I wrestle my crippled knees out of my chair,
beat my fists into the dirt, look
into the creases of my palms.
I see my brother in a room
paid for with another man’s wages.
He puts his clothes in a handmade
cedar dresser, walks to the open
window, and breathes.
Katie Pryor is a local poet. She wrote “My Brother” in response to the death of Shaky, a good friend and a good man who lived and died in Pershing Park.
By: Courtney Caswell-Peyton
The 90 days of Summer
Start technically in May
But, June 21rst, the number
Of this season’s “real” first day.
The longest day, it stretches—
One hour more is saved.
The Solstice celebration–
Is christened with a parade.
It’s when the sun’s scorching rises
Glare nighttime into day.
It’s when the hot and humid weather
Lingers, just to stay.
It’s when the cool, dancing water
Crashes the shore with waves–
It’s when unruly, playful children
Don’t have to behave.
It seems that school is out forever
Vacations, all away—
To honor our forefathers
On June 14th—
Flag Day.
The 90 Days of Summer
One month more—July
We save up for firecrackers
And watch overhead sparks fly.
We pay tribute to our nation
An independent mass—
And on our way to picnics,
Our cars run out of gas!
Sitting atop beach blankets
In front of a tasty spread–
Our heart’s desires spotted
Make us dizzy in our heads!
Bolt up to get attention,
Streak across the sand,
Soon, one lonely walker
Becomes two lovers holding hands.
Off they run, all floaty
Their minds blissful and adrift.
We might see them on the beach later,
Running grunion, abalone,
Or wading with the fish!
Soon, moonlight casts a shadow,
On the people watching near—
To kiss in front of others,
Bashful—none should leer.
Impossible affections
Inappropriate ‘til clear.
Besides, July is almost over
August is drawing near.
And then September will be looming
Meaning the start of a new school year!
The 90 days of Summer
With only August left,
I’d like to make the best
Of the last 30 days I’ll spend.
I could sun tan on my rooftop,
Or go for a sail in a boat
Yet the chances of that likely
Seem awfully remote.
With September fast approaching,
There’s so much work to do
I’ve got to pre-pack my lunches
And buy pens and pencils, too!
Maybe in the midst
Of August’s buggy, muggy heat
I’ll stop my frantic labor
And take a short stroll down my street.
On the right day if I’m lucky,
The fair will be in town
I’ll get hot dogs and cotton candy
And paint on my face a clown.
Then, at least I’ll know I’m ready
For September’s grade let down.
In every year that’s been,
When Summer’s 90 closes,
It’s me my classmates crown
Class clown; I’m aptly chosen!
Courtney is a Santa Barbara local and a talented writer. She is currently on the streets and continues to write beautifully. Thanks, Courtney, for your contribution.
By: Wayne Martin Mellinger
None of us wants to descend into the devil’s den,
to experience absolute terror and unbearable misery,
to sail across the River Styx and suffer horrible bodily pains,
nights of endless tears and days of lost wandering.
But this is an essential part of the sacred journey.
This is “the Ordeal”–and there is no way
to know the deepest spiritual truths if you have not come here.
There is no way to prepare for this.
There is no way to anticipate these hardships,
for the horrors that shall befall you, and the sacrifices
you shall have to make are unfathomable.
Can you imagine running all night screaming like a banshee
having some ghoulish demon chasing you into the dark forest
until you cower under some log shivering like a scared Chihuahua?
At dawn you wonder what was real and quickly return to morning routines
lest some goblin not allow you to come back.
And then comes reflection, begs of forgiveness and promises to never do it again.
If only we would pray like this every morning!
But no, it takes being frightened to death to hold the holy chalice
and recite these magical incantations.
By Wayne Myers
Lambs blood on every stone and no way down:
hushed the slopes and steep
the climb
where every sinew strains and twice the will
and burdens fall away lest we lose the hill.
Up or down it hardly matters, climb or fall,
by and by the air is filled with laughter
and the call
of feathered things and heroes of the air
and golden women spinning shawls of
orphans hair.
By Raymond Trower
Streets that run empty.
So cold is the night,
with shadows dancing freely,
seeming to avoid the light.
Fear within is constant.
I am unable to rest.
Praying this very moment,
and hoping for the best.
Every window barred shut.
The doors all locked tight.
Never really knowing,
what may be lurking out of sight.
Waiting for the sun to rise.
A few more hours to go.
Have they heard my cries?
Do they even know?
Cold concrete is my bed,
thin cardboard covers me.
Again thoughts fill my head. . .
surviving the land of the free.
Raymond Trower is the editor of Santa Barbara Community Street Voice. He lives at The Victoria.
Photo by Paul Wellman
