This is a poem I wrote almost a year ago for my creative writing: poetry class. This was meant to be an epic poem inspired by both the homeless people I see driving around Tempe and industrial cities like Detroit (where I grew up) that are deteriorating at an alarming rate. It's broken up into three parts, each revolving around a different character, but yet they are all linked together. Hope you enjoy it:

THE FORGOTTEN PEOPLE

In a mecca of urban decay,
Daily newspaper print the latest blues,
And politicians preach their malicious ruse,
Which the TV stations believe is news.
But amongst the cluttered maze of barbed wire
And empty souls choking on the bronze horizon,
A woman sits underneath an overpass
Holding her baby in her arms,
Rocking him back and forth
As he sucks on her breast
Like a starving puppy.
She tries to soothe him to sleep,
But that's nearly impossible
With all the cars roaring over their heads,
A society on the run just passing them by.
And underneath the dirty blood tangles
And body bag white skin
Lies a disillusioned soul with a will
To grant her son the hopes and dreams
She wishes could have come true for her.

Now having dozed off into an innocent slumber,
She carries him in his shopping cart cradle
To the strip club she works at during the night.
And on her way there, she sees a frail man,
With little teeth, abundant wrinkles,
Ripped jeans and a coat caked in stains
Preaching to the passer-byers.
"Every human being," he screams from his lungs,
"Can blossom into a beautiful rose
If you feed, water and nurture it.
But if you abandon and leave them for dead,
They will wilt and wither away."
Once he finished, she gazed into his eyes
And nodded in agreement.

She parks her cart at the back of the club
Under the careful watch of an employee,
Walks in, changes her clothes,
Puts on her make-up and steps on stage.
The whistles of the chauvinists
Pierces her ears like an oncoming train
Barreling toward her at full speed
With no signs of slowing down,
The bright stage lights blinding her
Of any sense of hope.
And if you listen close enough,
Beneath the screams you can hear the sound
Of her destiny derailing and erupting
In a blazing inferno.

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Another Christmas Eve in the Henderson household.
On the TV, news unfolds of the rape and murder
Of a mother and her child at a cabaret,
Her crucifixion photographed for mass consumption.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Henderson puts dinner on the table,
5 Big 'N' Tasty's from the dollar menu
Next to a Christmas tree made of clothes hangers
And stickers on strings.
She gathers her children at the table,
Makes them do the sign of the cross
And say Grace. And afterwards,
Just as she's about to bite into her food,
Her youngest daughter, Cindy,
Gives her a tiny present wrapped in aluminum foil,
And once she opens it, she discovers a shiny new penny.

"Remember, mom, when you told me that
If you pick up a penny, you'll have good luck?
Well I found this in front of a 7-11,
And I'm giving it to you,
So that you and daddy will have good luck forever.
No more worrying about what we're gonna eat,
No more people calling you for money,
No more having to worry about daddy's job.
I just want you to be happy, mom.
I love you."

She collapses to her knees on the floor,
Tears pouring down her face,
And she grabs Cindy in a loving embrace
And kisses her cheek.
"I love you too" she whispers in her ear,
"And I will keep this with me wherever I go."
She then wiped the tears from her eyes,
And once all her children are finished with dinner,
She washes their hands and tucks them into bed.

Daddy, though, was immune to it all,
Staring at the screen, his portal to the world,
Hypnotized by the day's news,
Hoping those rumors he heard weren't true,
That his plant will fall victim to the wrecking ball.

With the children in bed
And mommy reading them a bedtime story,
He walks over to the window
To marvel at the sunset,
A polluted cocktail of sky and smog
Manufactured by human hands
That pierces the downtown skyline.
He gazed at it as if it were an image
That was being painted in his dreams.
"God's opening Heaven's gate for me,"
He whispered beneath his breath,
"He's calling me. My time has come."
Then he grabs his rifle
Coats the color of death,
Grips his rosemary
That's wrapped around his neck,
Says a final Hail Mary, and inhales his last breath.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

John sits at a smoky bar,
Having downed at least 5 scotch on the rocks
With many more to come,
Pondering how his life went the direction it has.
He knows his outlook could be bleaker.
Fuck, he just heard a story on the news
Of a father who committed suicide
Only two hours before Christmas day,
But for some reason sympathy spilled for him
As if they were cut from the very same cloth.
His faith was laid out for him before he was born.
As a baby, instead of a blanket,
He was covered in a white flag.
His dad fed all his demons at the liquor store,
His personal Shangri-La,
And the only remnant of his childhood
Is the teddy bear his mom planned to give him
Before she died after his birth.
He was destined to die before he even lived,
But he survived the odds,
Though he still hangs on from the weakest of threads.

Biting into his Coney dog,
Hot mustard drips down his mouth,
Landing on his only pair of denim jeans,
Leaving a bright yellow stain.
He stares at it for a moment,
Then thinks to himself,
"That's my life:
A hideous stain on society."

In need of a smoke,
He heads to the back alley
And stands next to a garbage can.
Under a dim streetlight.
But just as he's about to light one up,
And old man huddled next to the steps
Whistles to him.

"Did ya just get done eatin'?"
"Ya, for once," he chuckled.
"Well ya want some Coke to wash it down?"
"Sure, why not" John replied.
So they each snort a line,
And together, they plunge
Into the abyss of depression and despair,
Falling into a haze of hopelessness.
They are among the weak that manage to stay strong,
The unseen who struggle to survive,
And the ones who cries are never heard.
They are the forgotten people.

How has this gone almost a month without a comment? Psh..Considering the quality of some of the work on this board, this forum deserves at least 30 more viewers a day.

This is really good stuff...there's some lovely lines and imagery in there ('A polluted cocktail of sky and smog' stuck out to me)...and the piece as a whole tied together really well...

If you have more stuff floating about, feel free to post it, this was a great read

i liked it. only it felt more like prose to me, like a short story. if you had written one line after the other, using commas, it would have a faster pace that would enhance the feeling of hopelessness. it kinda reminds me of Bukowsky (18 poems), because of the bitter realism.