We fed the poor and homeless there
Our stew and bread we went to share
A rosy glow it brought to faces
and spread some cheer around that place.
Then out on the street and down the way
and scattered around, the folks did stay,
in a parking lot stood a woman there
with shopping cart who lives nowhere.
Her countenance I recognize
that look of lost was in her eyes...
We sat her down upon a chair
and fed her stew ...two bowls - her share.
'Twas all we had left in the pot.
We dished it out, it hit the spot.
She showed up looking dazed and rough
we served it up, 'twas just enough...
The Master's hand was on that spoon
that fed the hungry by full of moon.
I felt a warmth from sharing thus
by twist of fate it could be us...
on other side of slotted spoon
standing in line by fullest moon
with blanket there and checkerboard
and hungry stare to ill afford
a home to stay and food to store
and yearn for comfort evermore.
Forever will the homeless be
an analyzing soul once said to me.
I think on this and draw a frown
forever's such a long time sound.
Yet what is their purpose there
to teach compassion and how to share
to show us all a contrast,
measure our blessings far more
rich to treasure.
Could it be so this is their role
so humble yet sometimes so bold
part of a plan we can't quite see
worked by the Master Deity...
Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.