Down and Out

Down and Out Matthew 25 is still calling‌ Copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo ON, 2019

Down and Out Just finished this book by Orwell (1933). Never knew of it before. Of equal quality to Animal Farm.

One was a crippled stonemason

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The next a sacked maitre dee The third a teacher of English The fourth a poxed retiree.

And all plodding to the flophouse And all ached for lack of bread The rules for night’s bedding insulting But touted as kindness instead.

Some stories for grim recreation Escapes from the Law and such And never the time for sitting still Or thrills at a woman’s touch.

Don’t have signs of cash upon you Don’t stash the tobacco weed Don’t come overmuch to the same “spike” Don’t hawk your one good tweed.

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Perhaps a wee stop at the Chapel The tea and two slices are free The preaching a pain well-purposed But little of Christ they see.

And the men never meant to beggar Or sleep where the bedbugs rage But Providence hit with a vengeance Of woundings, thievings, old age.

And something compels so strangely To keep the bare job of shame With so little worth or purpose The rabble unkempt to tame.

Yes title and rank have dreaded The hazards of poor and lone The stories of gaslight alleys

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A part of this City they own.

What a strange brotherhood is birthed there Often kindness to share one’s last Endless movements to next destination And the blurry recall of One’s past.

Sidewalk Cigarettes

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Cold one last night

But at least mostly dry

The park was abandoned

No cops drove on by

But time for some new shoes

These cramp me like hell

Two sizes too small

But I couldn’t tell

Heard by the grapevine

That Jimmy has passed

Tough guy for the street life

We thought he would last

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A lonely lot yassir

But free of the rules

That mess up the flophouse

They think we’re all fools.

Once found myself working

And pulling a cheque

The taxes and time clocks

Most left me a wreck

They knew I was different

And set me apart

And smirked as I checked in

Oh where was their heart?

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The street least is neutral

And offers strange fare

I’ll pass by the bus hub

There’s lotsa smokes there.

The Carters

Where are you headed Friend?

Pushing that thing Holding your precious strange cache Night proved a damp one The kind you must hate

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Hiding yourself and your stash.

You see it all each day Good haps and bad Wisdom obtained on the race Sunshine and blasting They wear you right down Shows in the marks on your face.

Women are at this too Sad 'tis to say Muttering their simplest of song Eyes cast to sidewalk In dreams of the past Constables urge "Move along"

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Reason is fleeting But "Carters" deny Anything wrong in the head This their profession To just make it through Many a Friend ends up dead.

Should be a job Or a service to give Sidewalk no place for a soul Daily their task Just to live and let live Folk stare and judge, hale and whole.

Noon-Hour Lesson 9

She pecked at the sidewalk so gently White cane all over the place And cars passed her by in a frenzy.

Determined, the look on her face And smiling, though pacing through darkness And probably so all her days And I fretting some little problem And feeding my small, selfish ways.

Oh how I was urged to pull over Embrace those two shoulders so brave And tell her Light comes in the Morning With One oh so willing to save.

And might He step out of the ether?

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And put His two hands on her eyes?

Dear Christ come to this little Sister With glimpses of your Paradise.

Saw Her Story

Saw her

Six thirty

Morning bright

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Bus stop

Kids already to sitter

Job at fast-food counter

Waiting

Yes waiting

With condescension

New details always

Sad competition to get hours

Customer gripes and frowns

And confusion.

Constant sense of running

To be part of their “team�.

Scant reward.

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Tired she was

And so young.

Where the hopes?

Where her man?

Where her chance

To step off?

Jail-House Prophet February 23, 2010

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He was the one who prayed most sincerely for me at a time of great struggle and embarrassment. My wife, daughter, baby boy and I were about to leave Chatham, and I went to Ron for a talk and some encouragement and prayer. My law business had collapsed.

He had been a client of mine in the setting up of a facility for the St. Leonard's Society, giving support, shelter and life skills to recent parolees. I had also known him from a quaint Charismatic fellowship which we attended for a time.

Ron had a criminal record which prevented him from ever again crossing the U.S. Border. Biker. Drug importer. Scrapper. Jail-bird. It was hard for me to believe the reports looking at his clear blue eyes, neatly cropped beard and gentle handsome countenance. His wife and children rounded out a beautiful family. He was leaving factory work at that time for St. Leonard's.

I remember when I first heard him giving a message at another church.

He had a burden. It was difficult and delicate. It concerned the story of Tamar, daughter-in-law to Judah, sadly widowed and put aside from the possibility of another willing husband and children for a time. Genesis 38 tells us that she was willing to play the harlot and seduce Judah into relations in order to conceive in that family line. Judah did not recognize the woman, but realized when the truth came out that he had been the greater wrongdoer.

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Now what did this message, delivered with tears, mean to that fellowship? He likened that group unto Tamar. Some were offended. He intended only helpful correction. I have seen prophecy work most conspicuously in this fashion - admonition, God's viewpoint or encouragement. I am sceptical of most of the fore-telling messages which speak of prospects of the heart's desire like candy being dispensed (the new job, the soon- arriving boyfriend, the powerful ministry or financial blessing just around the corner.) Read the Elijah List on the web. It is full of such carnal stuff.

Ron, although younger than I, and having less formal education, proved himself to be miles farther down the path in spiritual power, sensitivity and balance. No inkling of pride. A loving prayer partner and a truly joyful participant in praise. He was a re-made and thankful man.

I learned later that God had taken him home with heart complications at an age which to me seemed far too young.

Spirit of the Sally Anne Taken from ​"Twice Born Men: A Clinic in Regeneration"​ by Harold Begbie (1909)

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But more than by anything concerning the men and women of this neighbourhood, one is impressed by the swarm of dreggy children playing their poor little pavement games in the shadow of these lodging-houses. Some can it be believed? are decently clothed and look as if they are sometimes washed ; degraded mothers, sitting on the doorsteps, may be seen proudly exhibiting a baby to their friends, cooing over it, brushing its poor little pale cheek with a black finger, suddenly stooping their foul faces to cover the little mouth with gay and laughing kisses ; one of my first experiences in these streets was to hear the sudden opening of a top-story window, to see a frightful woman thrust herself half out, and to hear her shout to a

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toddling child to come out of the road and on to the pave ment although not a cart of any kind was in view ; but this sentimental affection of the mother does not last very far beyond the period of helpless infancy. The mass of these children above five or six years of age are terribly neglected. I have never seen children more dirty, more foully clothed, more dejected-looking. In all cases, to use a phrase which I am told is common in the district, these poor children are lousy as a cuckoo. I saw many children with sores and boils ; I also saw some children whose eyes looked out at me from a face that was nothing but a scab.

A mortuary chapel has had to be built for this neigh bourhood. The rooms of the houses are so crowded that

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directly a person dies the body must be moved.

Can the boys of these dreadful streets grow into any thing but hooligans, or the girls do anything but earn money in their mothers fashion?

Let me put the common question, but with real emphasis : Would we allow a dog to live in these streets?

Well, into these streets come day after day, and every Sunday, ​the little vigorous corps of the Salvation Army stationed in this quarter of London​. The adjutant of this corps some years ago was a beautiful and delicate girl.

She prayed at the bedside of dying men and women in these lodging-houses ; she taught children to pray ; she went into

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public-houses and persuaded the violent blackguards of the town to come away ; she pleaded with the most desperate women at street corners ; she preached in the open streets on Sundays ; she stood guard over the doors of men mad for drink and refused to let them out.

It is to the work of this wonderful woman so gracious, so modest, and so sweet that one may trace the miracles whose histories are contained in the following pages. The energy, resolution, and splendid cheerfulness of the present corps some of them her own personal converts may like wise be traced to her influence. She has left in these foul streets the fragrance of her personality, a fragrance of the

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lilies of a pure soul.

Ah ! exclaimed an old gaol-bird, showing me the photo graph of this woman ;if anybody goes to heaven, it ll be that there little angel of God. They call her the angel-adjutant.

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