That song, made popular by Louis Armstrong, paints a world of green trees, red roses, skies of blue, and friends shaking hands, but there is another world I am witnessing.
Late one afternoon, I drove into the edge of town and parked up my car on a short-stay kerbside slot just a block away from my destination, my bank, to post a letter in the mailbox.
My walk took me past a small group of agitated men who were all in need of a good wash and a hearty meal.
Having completed my errand, I began walking back to my car passing the group. A young man had joined the group, arriving on bicycle several sizes too small for him.
Clearly, he was the centre of attention. By the time I had reached my car, the young man was cycling past me going quite fast on his juvenile bicycle. The small group were dispersing. It was obviously a ‘drop’ at the back wall of the town’s Bus Station.
In 1997, Principal of a Yorkshire College, I was responsible for the provision of education services to three prisons and one Youth Offenders Institution. One day, visiting the YOI, I was chatting to the lady managing the education service on site, when a young offender approached. He was about to be released and came over to say goodbye and ‘thankyou’ to my colleague.
As he walked away, my colleague turned to me and said, “He’ll be back, he has nowhere to go.”
I have often thought about that lad. Has he ended up like that group huddled together by the Bus Station?
It prompted me to put pen to paper and write a poem reflecting life on the streets of many of our towns and cities – a challenge for our Government and Local Authorities.This poem is available in BOOK FIVE of my POEMS BY AN OLD CODGER available on AMAZON BOOKS.
A SAD SIGHT **
Stud in tongue, ring in nose,
There she sat in quiet repose.
Safety pins through each ear,
“Have you got a fag, for this poor dear?”
Tattooed arms covering well-worn flesh,
Hair tied back in an old black silk mesh.
Well-worn daps tied with string,
Blue veined legs with scratches that must sting.
An old grey cardigan that has lost its shape,
Missing buttons and holes that gape.
Her pleated skirt has seen better days,
Stained by food consumed in unusual ways.
Tobacco-stained fingers that tremble and shake,
Stretching out wide for tea and cake
As she used to enjoy, in her place of care,
But now receives just the occasional stare.
Her well-worn bag of unknown possessions,
Supports her back during these daily sessions.
Squatting up against an office wall,
Where cats and dogs have left their call.
This bag lady is not alone on any street,
Take a stroll day or night and you will meet
Homeless, hapless, luckless human beings,
Love lost, neglected, rejected, no finger rings.
How can so many sink so low?
A life and living that drags on so slow.
A future with no care, no horizons,
For them our streets are just open prisons.
Is it a follow-on from child neglect,
Or no-one around to guide and protect?
Wrong company, trauma, mental stress,
Addiction, loss, or from living under duress?
A slippery path that leads nowhere
But crime, ill health, and no-one to share,
To understand, maintain support, turn it around,
Alas, no choice but to beg and sleep on the ground.
** A compilation of street dwellers.
Copyright 2023 Neil Davies
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Thank you, Stay Safe,
Neil.
