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I work by myself by the freeway

Wait all day for the rain to fade

But it doesn’t fade away around you.

So I run with luck until it dries

I flew with the bird until it died

I said a wish into the sky

Dig the ground up before the bottom flies

But flies buzz bad thought clouds

and rain clouds are cold

I saw the rust for the gold

I saw the seams between the folds

Down underground the air gets so cold

As two clouds collide and the sky goes white

the lake turns grey as it turns night

Steady and blue as a gospel hymn

I remembered the good while exploring the sin

Because two sides to anything is hardly enough

Endless angles seep under cuff

Who played till sick, and drank till dawn

And work up in the morning with their dress shirts on

For he who puts down his guard finds trial

The truest happiness be state of denial

Fuel and unrest take one miles

We burned up all the folders just to save on all the files

Cause we go as we want to, come as please

pay the tollman the collection fees

From smashing down upon the floor

to praying on your knees,

could even god himself get a grip on all the sights you have to see?

Cause we were high in the bunker, drunk in the truck

Winding yellow lines with speed and luck

Who wasted in the alley

Who slept in the park

Who’s alarms went off as it got dark

As the cold went lower and the heat turned cold

The wind picked up, those bones were old

But the shake sets in and I knew my fears were

Bigger and closer and realer and nearer and nearer…

Well who cares about the red and black

You missed the dream when you hit the sack

because money was as empty as time was useless

We picked our brains with needles and Q-Tips

But that was not my face in the bathroom mirror

Reflection left as I came clearer

It all suddenly appears and I knew my fears were

Bigger and closer and realer and nearer and nearer and here and

Over and over…

* * *

by: Jason Samilski

This post was originally published at Over and Over (a song) – Jason Samilski (1st Place) on Ve'ahavta - Ve'ahavta - .

By Michael Olarewaju

You stand there, a mix of emotions, bewildered, relieved. It was on the second floor of that house that you spent the evening of your youth. You sit on what’s left of the porch, feeling it all, the opaqueness of the air in the room. You lie down gazing up at where the ceiling used to be, cigarette smoke curling up to a lazy fan, doing it’s best to clear the air.  It was here that you remembered your innocence, where you remember the things you did and now your knees quiver in regret of the things you didn’t do. Tuesday mornings listening to the vinyl your boyfriend bought for you, you find it funny that you ever called him that. The radio still plays the songs you love, but it sounded better on the roof of his car, driving and skidding down the freeway to nowhere. The ashtray sits empty, the trip to the store for a lighter might mean having to talk to someone, so you lay there, staring at the ceiling. You were sure of what you weren’t, the dresses you could always fit into, your hair bound into an artsy sophisto. You remember ignoring the alarm clock, waking up to the sprinkler splashing against your window in the afternoon, wondering how the water was able to get that high. Now you are drowning in the memory of you remembering the people, faces, bottles, toilet seats, mornings, headaches. The telephone rings,  a constant reminder of the street below, the world around. It always starts with the same piercing ring, you run to pick it up and stop halfway reminding yourself of your cynicism. The bed, a complicated montage of the clothes you used to wear to the places you thought you would always go. You stare at the fan, its continuous spin. You watch it twirl and doubt if it will complete another rotation just as you question if you are going wake up to another wet window afternoon. You make yourself coffee, hazelnut, while still wearing the same Pink Floyd t-shirt since your last visitor. You have no reason to stay up, so you don’t drink the coffee. You sit at the computer, you haven’t paid the bill in a while so you continue playing the game of solitaire you believe you’re winning. You go to get the paper, your only interaction with world. On this particular day, Coer de Pirate was in the entertainment section. You saw her live once, in Paris, with him. He’d gotten you the tickets from the redhead at the cafe, whom you forgot to thank. You recycle the paper, remembering Paris, the bicycle. You try pedalling faster, trying to catch the wind. He bought you that bicycle, the one with the little white bells. You thought he was a romantic but he really just had a rich father. Paris was alive, with it’s toe tapping techno, but you sit here with your cold coffee and it all felt so long ago, so unreal. Even more, you now lie here, a world of drilling and deconstruction erupting around you as you stare at where the house used to stand. It was your birthday, so you picked up the phone; it was the phone company. You go to bed in the morning with Buffalo Springfield singing a charm from the radio, songs you once loved, people you never see. As dark as those days were, you want them back, you want the hypnotic fan and useless coffee back. You want to wake up to another afternoon, with a freshly wet window of opportunity, a candle of hope. This was were you grew up, where you threw away the veil of innocence, the run of childhood. This was where you closed the curtains of reality and began to construct halls of memories. This was where you put away your youth, your bare foot nights at the Riviera, freeways to nowhere. Here you have embraced adulthood, a stunted growth. Now you look at the void, reminiscing about the days you remembered. Somewhere deep inside, in some secluded pocket of your soul, you’re glad they’re tearing this place down. You’ll never have to see it again, never having to admit your potential. So goodbye to white bells and entertainment sections. I am who you’re not. What you could have been. Goodbye.

This post was originally published at Wet Window Afternoon – By Michael Olarewaju (2nd Place) on Ve'ahavta - Ve'ahavta - .

I now have a home – humble, but a start. I’m working again, part time. I’m on my way. This time round, I’ll never make the mistake of thinking that homeless people are not real, or that they’re all the same.

I had been homeless for less than two months when a Globe and Mail article infuriated me, and taught me a lot. A well-meaning journalist had written a piece on poverty, and how our society does not deal decently with its most unfortunate members. The author made some sound recommendations. He did care. He had a social conscience, yet when discussing hunger, he said something like the following: “For you and me, hunger simply means the anticipation of a decent meal. Rarely is hunger an unpleasant experience.” You and me? It did not occur to him I might read the Globe – a publication geared to well-educated citizens. It did not occur to him that maybe, just maybe, there are homeless, hungry people who might read the Globe, or even Aristotle for that matter. In this author’s mind, I wasn’t there.

But I can’t say I’m any better. Only a few months prior, homeless people were bellow my radar. Generous by nature, I’d give them change, but no acknowledgement. They weren’t real human beings. They were clichés, stereotypes, and of course, they were all the same. You’re not a somebody when everyone reduces you to a handful of clichés, when each passer-by believes that they know exactly what you are. So now I was a nobody. After reading that article, I understood perfectly.

Once I owned house, and lived with my children. I had friends and family who now shun me and treat me like dirt. When I think of all the times these people came to me for help, it really hurts. It’s as though they don’t want to be reminded of my existence. Think of the reporter who really seemed to care about the homeless. In theory, he cared. In the realm of ideas, he was bang on, but even he did not have it in him to consider the possibility that he might be writing directly to the homeless. He was writing to his own kind, safe and cozy, and probably walked away feeling good about himself for having written a socially conscious article.

Yeah, as long as he doesn’t have to talk to me, see me, feel what I feel – and of course, touch me – he’s willing to be a big bundle of care.

Here’s a reality check: I exist. I can read, write and speak three languages fluently.

I am flesh and blood. I’m not just an idea.

Kathy Pinheiro

647 765 1292

This post was originally published at I’m Real – Kathy Pinheiro (3rd Place) on Ve'ahavta - Ve'ahavta - .