Quotes about hobo, page 5
I Am Human, I Am Love!
i am the stranger,
the drifter, the hobo...
the rebel, and the lost one....
my voice is a small whisper,
my body a twig.
i am the gift left
on the doorstep of the unwanted.
i am the prayer
that even god does not hear!
i am the child no one wants,
the woman no one loves.
i am blood on the hands,
i am guilt, and forgiveness.
i am the old man's touch,
that no one wants.
i am the child and the dog,
that love the old man.
i am the stray cat,
curled against the step.
i am Judas weeping,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Mad
Call me mad as a love crazed moon
Beaming to a lonely sea
Aching so silently
Bleeding since you left me.
Mad, as the night for the gift of sight
Candle lit your cheek
Your beauty had me seek
Words only the dumb would speak.
Say i'm insane as i ride grey train
Your smiles are left behind
Some hobo wind will find
And fly them in my mind.
Put me in chains every time it rains
Or i will run with you
Down leafy avenue
And bid the world adieu.
Inject my soul if protocol
Brushes the heart from my sleeve
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poem by Kevin East
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City Night
Night is lively.
Night is stunning
Night is pleasurable.
Night is sugary like apple pie.
Night is walking towards with hobo.
Night will never end.
Night is dark.
Night is now simple, sweet, calm, amusing.
I am in love with this city night.
City is covered with this pleasant night.
Night is having the shine of city.
Night is getting wilder.
Night is getting cruel.
Time will never stop running.
Night will over with the time.
Another night will come in this city.
I am waiting for the night.
Here city shed tears
Here city chuckle like a little kid.
Here city dance with the mysterious wind.
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poem by Farzana Hossain
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We Are Not Strangers
we are not strangers,
you and i!
we have walked through history together.
and the dust on our feet,
be it from Atlantis or Peru,
glimmers in the starlight when we make love.
i made the ink you penned with,
you cut the trees for my pages.
perhaps i was a turtle, or a wild stallion,
and you were a mermaid, or a moth.
or perhaps i was branches gathered,
and you were the very fire.
or i was a prisoner of war,
and you the officer in charge.
or i was the plague, and you the cure.
the black man they hanged,
as you hid and wept.
perhaps i was the cross Jesus carried,
and you were Magdelene watching from afar.
or perhaps i was the star that fell,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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11-15-09***- - I Miss Mirth
I've recently taken a long hard look
To see what's missing in this world
Things seem to be getting worse
What is making modern life so cold
Thinking back - - - what did we used to have
That made us eager to get out of bed
What did we have then
That was bouncing around in our head
I think it was the potential for mirth
I awoke expecting some joke to come
I knew a friend or my uncle would dropp by
Or I'd hear a story from an old bum
Sometimes a hobo's stories were best
He's tell us of his travels by rail
And for a nickel
Of lands he'd set sail
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poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Bindle Stiff
When I was brash and gallant-gay
Just fifty years ago,
I hit the ties and beat my way
From Maine to Mexico;
For though to Glasgow gutter bred
A hobo heart had I,
And followed where adventure led,
Beneath a brazen sky.
And as I tramped the railway track
I owned a single shirt;
Like canny Scot I bought it black
So's not to show the dirt;
A handkerchief held all my gear,
My razor and my comb;
I was a freckless lad, I fear,
With all the world for home.
Yet oh I thought the life was grand
And loved my liberty!
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poem by Robert William Service
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Trick Or Treat
It is time for Halloween
oh yes that time of year
We carry bags of candy
trick or treat we shall hear
They gather on the porch
or maybe the front gate
Arms holding their bags open
saying trick or treat as they wait
Count Dracula is waiting
and Wolf Man is too
There may be a Hobo
or a Princess or two
I dropp candy in each bag
and act as if filled with fright
For this is Halloween
it is a children's night
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poem by Terry Mar
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Prelude
To smite Apollo's lyre I am unable;
Of loveliness, alas! I cannot sing.
My lot it i, across the tavern table,
To start a chorus to the strumming string.
I have no gift to touch your heart to pity;
I have no power to ring the note of pain:
All I can do is pipe a pot-house ditty,
Or roar a Rabelaisian refrain.
Behold yon minstrel of the empty belly,
Who seeks to please the bored and waiting throng,
Outside the Opera with ukulele,
And raucous strains of syncopated song.
His rag-time mocks their eager hearts a-hunger
For golden voices, melody divine:
Yet . . . throw a penny to the ballad-monger;
Yet . . . listen idly to this song of mine.
For with a humble heart I clank rhyme's fetters,
And bare my buttocks to the critic knout;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Which Flower Is This
Which flower is this? They don’t have penny Candy
Anymore- They have plenty of dollar stores
With dollar candy, which used to be penny candy:
They aren’t accepting applications; they’ve got a stack
Of them so high,
The skyscrapers cause falls of shadows in the heart of
A Midwestern city,
But not enough time: I write this because I brag I
Gave a hobo all my pennies today,
Two fifty cent pieces I stole from home:
They were both worth fifty cents;
He can buy a little beer. Look at the scars on
This side of my face, mirror- Now look away;
And I haven’t been to visit your grave, I’m sorry;
I’m too depressed to get out the door- Its too long a drive
Now that you’re my neighbor, honey-
Those silent green neighborhoods they don’t make anymore.
Now its all cemeteries:
Like Viking Kings in their houses, what great dogs
And chattel rubbed together it makes for
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Grand Central Lonely
At Grand Central 'lonely'
The workers are all going home
Leaving the dregs of the day
The littered side streets
The delinquent and the hobo
And the street musician
Those who are oblivious to time
Who move in and out of it
With drifting thoughts
More lonely than lonely?
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poem by Yvette Smith
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