Quotes about hobo, page 4
Spam & Eggs
Hobo stands in rain, on bandy legs
Singin “Hoover days are here again”
Begs just enough, for Spam & eggs
This sad and broken businessman
(Taxes not enough, they plundered savings and 401k’s)
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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Where are They Now?
Where are the bunkhouses
Where they once washed up - ate - slept
Where is the work we used to have for them
Where is the next freight train out of town
Where are the freight trains
They used to jump on and off
To get to the next work camp
The next job -the next hobo camp -
The last train pulled out
Of our abandoned station long ago
They're stuck in our town with
No jobs - homeless under a bridge
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Four Liners
Ladies, when he says he's yours
Better check those swinging doors.
Quick to come in, quicker to leave.
Better to lock the doors, I believe.
Oh to be the first to go
is an easier thing to bear.
For the one that's left is lonely
and feels that life's not fair.
Oh to hop a train, a rail
and see where it is going
used to be the hobo's life.
The fun was in not knowing?
Make some money. Stowe it away.
Save it for a rainy day.
If your days don't bring the rain.
Spend the money. Don't complain.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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What A Feeling
What a feeling it is to say, “This is my own house”
For one who lived years in a rented residence
What a feeling it is to say, “I’m full to my neck”
For one who starved for weeks, being out of work
What a feeling it is to say, “This rag is so warm”
For a half-nude hobo who lives under sky-dome
Small pleasures, yet great gratifications they are,
For those grieving souls, in sheer indigence
The poor are poor; but poorer are the ravenous rich
Who can never reach these richer indulgences
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Hobo
Comments, moments, arrangements, managements;
I am Hobo in the land of your muse but, i do miss her!
Cent, prominet, sent, went, bent, rent, tent, lent, dent, Kent, spent, vent;
With words of peace and love but, i do miss you!
The source of love and the source of peace,
But, try to drive the change to live in unity on this earth!
Charger, larger, dagger, anger, bagger, manager, ranger, finger, singer!
But, who owns the water on this earth?
Winger, linger, stranger, hanger, banger, changer, beggar;
But, why can't we all share the water on this earth?
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Not lying there, but dying
Nobody saw him, the dead man
but still he was there
lying in the sun in the park
as he did the day before.
Poor guy, homeless, always was alone
a weathered man, some would call him a hobo
weathering the sun, sometimes the rain,
the winter chill,
having nothing to eat
and suddenly he was dead
and thought by everyone to be lying in the sun
and the last part of his life
he was weathering the elements
caught a nasty cough,
was days without food
and wasn’t lying there but dying.
[References: This poem was inspired by a article in the local newspaper (The Springs Advertiser) with the title: Left to die. Not Waving But Drowning by Stevie Smith.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Writing Is Painful
Poverty cannot be romantic
If anything it is a sea bed
Of suffering and therein the hobo
And the money lender can sink
But the poverty of the soul and
The empty basket of the spirit
And the begging bowl of the
Mind are the modern sins
Into which the unwary will drown
Some spend life times and effort to
Acquire acquire money and power
This they say gives them status
There is power hidden in the leaves
Of the little things in life to whose
Pleading we pay scarce attention
Poetry is devastating like limpid
Water in less ignorant vicious ways
Best of all like music like a delightful
Beautiful woman poetry makes us happy
But writing is painful
[...] Read more
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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I Am... (A Man)
i am...
both the disease and the cure,
the sin and the sinner.
i am the hunger and the taste,
the arrow and the strike.
i am both penis and spirit,
the hunt, and the hunter.
the hint of love, and raw longing...
i am an old man,
and an ageless storm!
i am romantic, and sensual,
a warrior of the spirit.
i am failure and excrement,
jeans torn at the knee.
i am anger and compassion,
the bitter, and the bittersweet.
i am beginning, dust, and formation...
i am ending, death, and the unknown.
i am the memory of life before,
and the hobo soul that will return.
[...] Read more
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Last Poet
the last poet
marched the last simile
to a barren hillside
made it kneel
and fired a round
into its neck.
It collapsed
like a….
like a….
like a….
The last poet
gave the last metaphor
a death sentence
and executed it
by the banks
of the river of no…
of the river of no ret….
[...] Read more
poem by Percy Dovetonsils
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In Response to a Rumor That the Oldest Whorehouse in Wheeling, West Virginia, Has Been Condemned
I will grieve alone,
As I strolled alone, years ago, down along
The Ohio shore.
I hid in the hobo jungle weeds
Upstream from the sewer main,
Pondering, gazing.
I saw, down river,
At Twenty-third and Water Streets
By the vinegar works,
The doors open in early evening.
Swinging their purses, the women
Poured down the long street to the river
And into the river.
I do not know how it was
They could drown every evening.
What time near dawn did they climb up the other shore,
Drying their wings?
[...] Read more
poem by James Arlington Wright
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