Hi HotCoffee and All!

I'm glad to see that others, such as Russell Brand, are keeping this story alive. It deserves far more attention than any worthless election. Chef Arnold deserves a plaque of honor for selflessly helping his fellow man, not a citation and jail time.

I'm reading Brand's book, Revolution, and in it, he mentions something near and dear to my heart - altruism. And I mean SNEAKY altruism. No ribbon cutting, no name on a hospital wing, no tax write-off - not even a thank you. You give on the sly and never ever take credit for it. No one knows, except you. It is its own reward - and it is incredibly rewarding. I highly recommend it... :)

In 1990, I wrote a poem about homelessness. It's never been published, as I write my poetry as an outlet, a release valve, if you will. Reading about Chef Arnold brought this poem to mind and I've decided to share it here.

Blessings and Namaste,

Gaian

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Helpless… Hopeless… Homeless

From the apartment
She walks the empty hall alone

No money for the rent
She has lost her only home

A small bag she carries
With that she is blessed
A frail, aged widow
With no forwarding address

Bravely she trods
With her head held high
She has no place to go
And no place to hide

Clearing her mind
She tries not to worry
Her pace is slow
While the others all hurry

She finds a park bench
To part from the crowd
There’s trash on the ground
And the traffic is loud

A man begs her for money
But she has none to give
She is like him
With nowhere to live

For hours she sits
And ponders the while
A child waves to her
And she musters a smile

A chill has blown in
And has settled about
She opens her bag
And pulls a scarf out

Her stomach reminds her
Of the last meal she ate
It was early this morning
And the day is now late

She thinks of her bag
And it in, stale bread
Best not to eat it
But save it instead

The day has grown darker
And the traffic has slowed
She needs to find shelter
For the night has turned cold

A box in an alley
Was her home that first night
Her sleep was not sound
And she’s up at first light

Stale bread for breakfast
That’s all that she had
At least she had something
Of that she is glad

Many months have passed by
And her life’s not the same
All hope has been lost
And in its place, pain

Pain from the hunger
Pain from the cold
But she pities the people
Whose souls have been sold

So many people
With so little time
They pass by her, uncaring
Not offering a dime

A year has since passed
From her first day on the street
And frostbite has taken
The use from her feet

Against an old building
She sits all day long
Unseeing, unfeeling
She doesn’t belong

An ambulance is summoned
To carry away
The remains of a woman
Found early that day

Face down in a gutter
Was where she had died
A gutsy old woman
Who was so full of pride

She lived a year on the streets
And no one had cared
Now that she’s dead
A crowd stood and stared