ABPA — The Australian Bush Poets Association Inc.

Streets of Stress

© Brenda Joy

Overall Winner 2024 The Silver Quill written competition, West Australian Bush Poetry Championships, Toodyay. W.A.

My heart is pounding wracked with fear.
With tread of footsteps coming near
my screams of anguish rent the blackened night.
A soothing voice bestows its calm
assuring I am safe from harm.
I gulp the air to overcome my fright.
There’s restless spirits all around,
they toss and turn with each new sound
engulfed in vivid visions from the street.
We’re huddled now in sheltered care
with battered minds that need repair
from nightmare dreams that constantly repeat.

So many childhood interplays
were prelude to my homeless phase.
My mother’s choice of mates caused tears and pains.
Frustrated anger would explode
from those who could not bear their load
when alcohol caused chaos in their brains.
When jobs were lost and times got tough
the last one yelled he’d had enough:
my presence spurred intensity of rage.
He forced my mum to toss me out
and that was how it came about
I was displaced despite my tender age.

I didn’t really realise
the tragedy of my demise.
A neighbour had a couch where I could sleep,
but in return for what she gave
this woman took me for a slave
extracting night-time ‘service’ for my keep.
At just thirteen I was a kid.
I hated things her men friends did
when they would come to visit after dark.
This was no place for me to stay;
I grabbed some clothes and ran away.
I found a wooden bench within a park.

The night was cold and I was scared;
I couldn’t sleep. A street light glared
and lit the hidden crevices of fears.
Weird noises spooked me most of all,
then misted rain began to fall,
the droplets intermingling with my tears.
It was the longest ever night.
At each new sound I curled in fright
and pulled my jacket up around my head.
I knew there was no turning back
but prospects looming on the track
saw each dire image fill my heart with dread.

On waking I was not alone.
I’d thought that I was on my own
but with the dawn the homeless souls emerge
from rough-hewn shelters, shacks or tents.
The city’s poorest ‘residents’
have secret places where they can converge.
The human element survives.
The communes formed from wretched lives
combine to help each other to subsist.
They move around from spot to spot,
a vacant store, a parking lot,
in constant battle simply to exist.

Necessity dictates each man,
each child, each woman in the ‘clan’,
must learn to ‘hunt’ to share and to compete.
These basic skills were taught to me
through human camaraderie
that bonds those forced to live upon the street.
Survival takes on many forms,
some well outside the social norms,
a scrounge for scraps from shops or council bins.
A step that’s quick, a hand that’s deft
can cross the bounds of petty theft;
the like saw convicts punished for their ‘sins’.

A motley crew of mixed descent
each with a downfall to lament,
some never got a decent start in life.
The wounds inflicted by their fate
left scars too deep to penetrate
especially where lack had led to strife.
Still others had been forced to roam
when Nature struck their town or home
while many more bore burdens born of race.
Most situations were intense
– abuse, domestic violence...
Each had their private agonies to face.

For some it may not be too late.
They cover up their homeless state.
They’ve gained support to help to see them through.
They water seeds of self-respect
despite their symptoms of neglect
and cling to remnant hopes of lives they knew.
But those society will spurn
have passed the point of no return,
they’re eking out existence till they die.
They’re tangled up in knots inside
with constant thoughts of suicide
and no-one has the time to hear them cry.

There is no safety from attack,
from predators outside the pack
– the perpetrators, pushers... pimps of greed.
Unscrupulous and inhumane
they prey on other people’s pain
amassing wealth while leaving souls to bleed.
I’m too ashamed to tell the tale
when at the bottom of the scale,
I did remorseful things to help survive.
Yet still I ended in a drain,
depleted, starved and half insane,
a wretched wraith and barely still alive.

For me there is no easy cure,
I’ve many battles to endure,
but physical security’s a start.
The social workers fought to save
my body from an early grave
and shone a ray of hope into my heart.
They strive to still my frantic mind
with love and faith to help them find
a miracle to set my demons free.
But in the hours when darkness reigns
I live immersed in mental pains.
The stress from homeless years abides in me.


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