From the street

From the street, no window lights a colder room;

All homes shine softer than a homeless bed.

I lived inside the glass, until my doom

Of growing brought – unwonted - words all hard said.

Unsay them no-one would; I fled that night –

Or rather, light fled me and washed its hues of day.

The street that beds me now is black, yet white

With silent eyes of ice that stare my way.

They glimpse me only as a face beyond the pale,

While I watch them, whose ease I grew to hate.

With beaming bars, their windows shape my jail:

My cardboard blanket fails to liberate.

Remember! when you see by coloured day

Young homeless on the streets, for whom few pray.

(George B. Hill, Mar 2013)

(A copy of this poem hangs on the wall of a homeless hostel in Birmngham)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Locust Eaten Years?

My locust mocked me then; he laughed at me:

‘These are your sweetest years I eat,’ said he.

‘You’re male, you’re young. You long: your blood is hot!

Each day a waste to you, of life - you’re not

A creature made to see hope overthrown;

Yet I condemn you – fear! and live alone.’

My locust laughed at me; jeered from above.

‘Around you, all your lucky friends find love.

For some, a gift; while others steal the day

(Though stealing, strangely they will lose their way).

Yet you alone dream on, of someone there

Who thinks like you . . . of all of life to share.’

My locust jeered: ‘You’ll find no lifelong state!

No partnered path for you – it’s far too late

To rediscover childhood’s foolish trust

Still less a happy married love – that’s dust

And ashes. She’s not there for you to find –

The one eternity sent you – you’re blind!’

My locust’s voice dripped hot with spite and scorn.

‘You saddo! Since the day that you were born

You’ve been my food, my carrion, my prey;

Your years I’ve eaten. Now see things my way:

Give up all self-belief. Don’t hope for her

- Or for yourself; life’s just a waste, you cur!’

My locust died with hatred in his voice

As I retorted: ‘Yet I have a choice! -

To be an insect, or a blooded man.

I don’t know if she lives. Yet still I can

Live life that holds no locust eaten years,

And choose to crush you, voice of all my fears!’

(George B. Hill, Apr 2013)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bought For A Price

They took me to the slave bazaar,

To auction me for gold;

I was to be just merchandise

The day that I was sold.

They chained me up with fifteen men,

With numbers on each head

And faces full of hopelessness

That weighed me down, like lead.

They led us out before the crowd,

Our bodies thin and pale;

Just working animals, for hire

Or - luckless, these - for sale.

They called for bids for Lot Sixteen,

' - The one with staring eyes -

He’s not for rental: this one’s yours

Until the day he dies!'

The bids came in, they started low,

I seemed of little worth.

But then some harsher voices spoke

And, in me, fear gave birth.

They guessed which one would take me now

- The harshest voice to call -

Its owner rich, whose price when paid

Was sure to beat them all.

Yet then, that final bid was capped !

And faces turned to stare

At Him whose price, for just a slave

Was far beyond compare.

Of life He spoke: Himself He gave;

No offer more could be!

None other bidder had such wealth;

- Still less, to spend on me.

The hammer fell; the deal was done

And I was bought, and sold.

I turned to face my Master new;

Forever gone, the old.

My chains fell off ! Yet I stayed there, Shocked by the Face I’d seen:

For on His brow were wounds where once

A crown of thorns had been.

My shackles gone, I asked Him why

He thought I would not flee;

But when I heard His answer there,

I had to bow my knee.

'You will not go; I bid for you.

My life-blood was the price

The day they nailed my hands out wide

And wrapped my corpse with spice.

“Your freedom, now, is life in Me.

I shall not be denied

All those who are forever mine,

My slaves; my friends; my bride.

Their Lord am I, their King before

All other names I bear;

And I shall give them, for their rags,

My own white clothes to wear.

'For you were bought to be of those

Who give their King delight:

The bride whose beauty He came down

To win, from heaven’s height.

Their crown shall be My love returned

- Through all eternity -

To Me; whose blood was shed to pay

The price to set you free.'

(George B. Hill, Feb 2002)