Writing to engage the mind and stir the heart.
It’s an old, old castle – and the dining room
is the dumpster deli – behind The Spoon.
And the chef is a pro and the smells of heaven
reach to a man by hunger driven.
Now the menu’s not all that I might choose
and I’ve thought of firing him – What would I lose?
For he curses when he sees me – though I am King
of the street and the grate, and this mess we’re in.
And I give my orders as the traffic roars
and I get the finger and I get the stares.
But that’s all right – for I “own” this grate
with its stingy warmth – that I love to hate.
It’s warmth scarce enough to maintain life
but it won’t let me die and end the strife.
So I’ll sit on this grate – like a King on his throne
as you chase your dreams to work and home.
And I might dream too – though I am King
for it’s not all roses – this bed I’m in.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Published in "Laughter & Tears" Book and Audio CD
All rights reserved
is the dumpster deli – behind The Spoon.
And the chef is a pro and the smells of heaven
reach to a man by hunger driven.
Now the menu’s not all that I might choose
and I’ve thought of firing him – What would I lose?
For he curses when he sees me – though I am King
of the street and the grate, and this mess we’re in.
And I give my orders as the traffic roars
and I get the finger and I get the stares.
But that’s all right – for I “own” this grate
with its stingy warmth – that I love to hate.
It’s warmth scarce enough to maintain life
but it won’t let me die and end the strife.
So I’ll sit on this grate – like a King on his throne
as you chase your dreams to work and home.
And I might dream too – though I am King
for it’s not all roses – this bed I’m in.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Published in "Laughter & Tears" Book and Audio CD
All rights reserved
But strength is needed for surviving
while losses mourned keep piling up.
And strong I’ve grown through life’s abuses.
I’ll laugh to drink this bitter cup.
Although the WHY of my surviving
raises questions – no answers given.
So mocks my mind with bitter laughter
and calls this rusty steel – Heaven.
For rising from the grate beneath me
a meager warmth, grudging supply.
This hard-edged steel defines my prison
fails to give life – nor lets me die.
While memories of some far-past lifetime . .
a wedding ring – a bed to share
Softer. Warmer. Passion. Laughter.
Someone to love. Someone to care.
Just mocks the hateful, vengeful present
as with empty belly I smell a feast
and count the hours until the dumpster
draws me like some gutter-beast
To a meal I blush to speak of.
You’d think of pride I’d have none left.
THIS IS MY HOME! COME! SHARE MY RICHES!
We’ll toast a world of hope bereft.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Published in "Laughter & Tears" Book and Audio CD
all rights reserved
while losses mourned keep piling up.
And strong I’ve grown through life’s abuses.
I’ll laugh to drink this bitter cup.
Although the WHY of my surviving
raises questions – no answers given.
So mocks my mind with bitter laughter
and calls this rusty steel – Heaven.
For rising from the grate beneath me
a meager warmth, grudging supply.
This hard-edged steel defines my prison
fails to give life – nor lets me die.
While memories of some far-past lifetime . .
a wedding ring – a bed to share
Softer. Warmer. Passion. Laughter.
Someone to love. Someone to care.
Just mocks the hateful, vengeful present
as with empty belly I smell a feast
and count the hours until the dumpster
draws me like some gutter-beast
To a meal I blush to speak of.
You’d think of pride I’d have none left.
THIS IS MY HOME! COME! SHARE MY RICHES!
We’ll toast a world of hope bereft.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Published in "Laughter & Tears" Book and Audio CD
all rights reserved
The Ventilation Grate
Ah, just a glimpse, the briefest glimpse
of a face that I once knew,
And the gentle touch of a loving hand
would be enough to see me through . . .
This night as cold as the heart of Hell
and as lonely as the grave
as I crouch here on this steel grate,
to its grudging warmth – a slave.
And the memories mock and the traffic roars
and the crowds walk blindly by
as I curse the warmth that gives no life
but still won’t let me die.
Ha!
Did you know I held a job once?
And walked with head held high?
And dreamed my dreams and chased my goals
with sights set on the sky?
Did you know I wore a wedding ring
in some lifetime long ago?
And shared a bed with its wonders warm
and my spirit all aglow?
And I drove a Thunderbird once
and I gazed with boastful scorn
on an old gray-beard – on this very grate
and I blasted with the horn.
And I rolled my window down once
and I shouted, “GET A JOB.”
And I felt disgust as he chewed a crust
from the gutter – like a dog.
But the old gray-beard is gone now.
Another fills his place.
And the grate gives stingy, meager warmth
to another in disgrace.
And the mocking hasn’t changed much
though I hear it with new ears.
The joke’s lost all its laughter.
I’m the target of the jeers.
And I haven’t seen that face now
and I haven’t felt that touch
of a loving hand with gentle warmth
that I long for – oh so much.
And the memories mock and the traffic roars
and the crowds walk blindly by
as I curse the warmth that gives no life,
but still won’t let me die.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Published in "Laughter & Tears" Book and Audio CD
and also in Hot Apple Cider
used by Permission
all rights reserved
Ah, just a glimpse, the briefest glimpse
of a face that I once knew,
And the gentle touch of a loving hand
would be enough to see me through . . .
This night as cold as the heart of Hell
and as lonely as the grave
as I crouch here on this steel grate,
to its grudging warmth – a slave.
And the memories mock and the traffic roars
and the crowds walk blindly by
as I curse the warmth that gives no life
but still won’t let me die.
Ha!
Did you know I held a job once?
And walked with head held high?
And dreamed my dreams and chased my goals
with sights set on the sky?
Did you know I wore a wedding ring
in some lifetime long ago?
And shared a bed with its wonders warm
and my spirit all aglow?
And I drove a Thunderbird once
and I gazed with boastful scorn
on an old gray-beard – on this very grate
and I blasted with the horn.
And I rolled my window down once
and I shouted, “GET A JOB.”
And I felt disgust as he chewed a crust
from the gutter – like a dog.
But the old gray-beard is gone now.
Another fills his place.
And the grate gives stingy, meager warmth
to another in disgrace.
And the mocking hasn’t changed much
though I hear it with new ears.
The joke’s lost all its laughter.
I’m the target of the jeers.
And I haven’t seen that face now
and I haven’t felt that touch
of a loving hand with gentle warmth
that I long for – oh so much.
And the memories mock and the traffic roars
and the crowds walk blindly by
as I curse the warmth that gives no life,
but still won’t let me die.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Published in "Laughter & Tears" Book and Audio CD
and also in Hot Apple Cider
used by Permission
all rights reserved
The Homeless Trilogy
audio of the following three Poems
The voice of Brian C. Austin & Alanna Rusnak
John Doe
There on the street they huddle.
The cold is not so bad
if you’re watching from a heated van
anticipating a warm, soft bed.
But to walk with empty pockets,
no money and no I.D.
Well – a toonie you might be hording.
From past abuse you might be free.
But the night stretches before you
so endless, cold and dark.
The new life you have dreamed of fades
‘gainst realities so stark.
The streetlights glare with a cold, cruel light
casting shadows all around.
Your courage shrinks as terrors creep
from each outline on the ground.
You hate the one who forced you
to finally run away.
You hate your helplessness and fear
of this night and coming day.
You cry to God. But you don’t believe
that he hears you – or he cares.
For painful years have led to this.
When has he heard your prayers?
And the toonie in your pocket
might ease your hunger’s pain.
But you can’t yet bear to spend it
so you shuffle on again.
Still the smells from the hotdog vender
are a torture you’ve never known.
They force your memories to look back
on the good you once called home.
But that good was stained by a trust betrayed.
Pain’s an overflowing well
that rises, stirring up the murk
of shame – flushed straight from hell.
You can’t go back! You won’t go back!
You swear it once again.
But your empty belly mocks you
on this dark night full of shame.
And the streetlights glare in the bitter cold
casting shadows on the ground.
The darkness seems inside of you.
Hope cannot be found.
Desperate though you are to trust
you can’t trust anyone.
You cry inside, though the tears don’t spill
as you begin to make a plan.
Your toonie would buy a token,
down to the subway train.
A single step could bring relief;
an end to all your pain.
Your eyes begin that bitter search
and your feet move on as well.
Then you’re stumbling down a long, long stair,
descending into – Hell?
But the love of life is still too strong
and you turn and rush away.
Your tears this time you cannot hide
and your pain, they must betray.
So your feet go on their endless tramp.
It doesn’t matter where.
You’re dead – you’re just not lying down.
Those who pass by just stare.
No one reaches out a hand
or offers just a smile.
Your weary feet still pound the concrete
mile after mile.
The shadows fade. The sun appears.
One endless night is done.
You find a corner free from wind
and stand there in the sun.
You’ve almost ceased to shiver.
You hardly feel the cold.
It doesn’t seem to matter now,
the death of your plans bold.
The sun’s soon covered by a cloud.
The cloud spits freezing rain.
Your strength is gone. You half believe
you must deserve this pain.
You cry to God, a wordless cry.
You wonder, does he hear?
You’re empty now of bitter rage.
You’ve almost ceased to fear.
Your knees buckle beneath you.
Head sags against your chest.
One more John Doe, on memorial role
will say – you found your rest.
.. .. .. ..
There on the street they huddle.
The cold is not so bad
if you’re watching from a heated van
anticipating a warm, soft bed.
I drove that van on Toronto’s streets.
I saw them huddled there.
My cry to God – a wordless groan
was an anguished, pain-filled prayer.
The memorial plaque with its list of names
in my memory is burned,
and the purplish red of a cold, cold hand
and the help so often spurned . . .
A hot sandwich and hot coffee
there on the freezing street . . .
Is that all I can give them
their needs to somehow meet?
For I the poet – full of words
was dumb there by their side.
And home now in my comfort,
sat with pen in hand, and cried.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Part of the Let Heaven Weep Collection
Self Distributed
all rights reserved
There on the street they huddle.
The cold is not so bad
if you’re watching from a heated van
anticipating a warm, soft bed.
But to walk with empty pockets,
no money and no I.D.
Well – a toonie you might be hording.
From past abuse you might be free.
But the night stretches before you
so endless, cold and dark.
The new life you have dreamed of fades
‘gainst realities so stark.
The streetlights glare with a cold, cruel light
casting shadows all around.
Your courage shrinks as terrors creep
from each outline on the ground.
You hate the one who forced you
to finally run away.
You hate your helplessness and fear
of this night and coming day.
You cry to God. But you don’t believe
that he hears you – or he cares.
For painful years have led to this.
When has he heard your prayers?
And the toonie in your pocket
might ease your hunger’s pain.
But you can’t yet bear to spend it
so you shuffle on again.
Still the smells from the hotdog vender
are a torture you’ve never known.
They force your memories to look back
on the good you once called home.
But that good was stained by a trust betrayed.
Pain’s an overflowing well
that rises, stirring up the murk
of shame – flushed straight from hell.
You can’t go back! You won’t go back!
You swear it once again.
But your empty belly mocks you
on this dark night full of shame.
And the streetlights glare in the bitter cold
casting shadows on the ground.
The darkness seems inside of you.
Hope cannot be found.
Desperate though you are to trust
you can’t trust anyone.
You cry inside, though the tears don’t spill
as you begin to make a plan.
Your toonie would buy a token,
down to the subway train.
A single step could bring relief;
an end to all your pain.
Your eyes begin that bitter search
and your feet move on as well.
Then you’re stumbling down a long, long stair,
descending into – Hell?
But the love of life is still too strong
and you turn and rush away.
Your tears this time you cannot hide
and your pain, they must betray.
So your feet go on their endless tramp.
It doesn’t matter where.
You’re dead – you’re just not lying down.
Those who pass by just stare.
No one reaches out a hand
or offers just a smile.
Your weary feet still pound the concrete
mile after mile.
The shadows fade. The sun appears.
One endless night is done.
You find a corner free from wind
and stand there in the sun.
You’ve almost ceased to shiver.
You hardly feel the cold.
It doesn’t seem to matter now,
the death of your plans bold.
The sun’s soon covered by a cloud.
The cloud spits freezing rain.
Your strength is gone. You half believe
you must deserve this pain.
You cry to God, a wordless cry.
You wonder, does he hear?
You’re empty now of bitter rage.
You’ve almost ceased to fear.
Your knees buckle beneath you.
Head sags against your chest.
One more John Doe, on memorial role
will say – you found your rest.
.. .. .. ..
There on the street they huddle.
The cold is not so bad
if you’re watching from a heated van
anticipating a warm, soft bed.
I drove that van on Toronto’s streets.
I saw them huddled there.
My cry to God – a wordless groan
was an anguished, pain-filled prayer.
The memorial plaque with its list of names
in my memory is burned,
and the purplish red of a cold, cold hand
and the help so often spurned . . .
A hot sandwich and hot coffee
there on the freezing street . . .
Is that all I can give them
their needs to somehow meet?
For I the poet – full of words
was dumb there by their side.
And home now in my comfort,
sat with pen in hand, and cried.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Part of the Let Heaven Weep Collection
Self Distributed
all rights reserved
Comments are Welcome
Your Contact Information is Invited, but Optional
Your Contact Information is Invited, but Optional
The voice of Brian C. Austin
A Bed of Roses Welcome to the Great-Room of my palatial home
where I watch from my grate, like a King from his throne
as the traffic rumbles from dusk to dawn,
people rushing to nowhere – each one a pawn
in a frantic game where there are no rules
and the busiest ones are the biggest fools.
Well – I’m not too busy – as I sit on this grate
and watch the masses chasing fate.
Though the wind finds the cracks in the castle walls
and cuts like a knife down these old, wide halls.
And the sky is my roof and it sometimes leaks
and I haven’t been truly warm in weeks.
Homeless? Disappointment on disappointment
as lifelong dreams decay and rust.
The ashes of a life of promise
paint mocking memories – fade to dust.
The wind that knifes through my thin jacket
brings stinging tears upon my cheek.
To cry would bring a twisted pleasure
weeping for the things I seek.
Homeless
for an OUTSTANDING photojournalist look at hurting people, check the book
ONE: A Face Behind the Numbers
Vaden Earle
ISBN 9780973727982
ONE: A Face Behind the Numbers
Vaden Earle
ISBN 9780973727982
