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Poetry by Kenneth Churchill, Bryan Clay, William Shakespear & Robert Frost



Snoring...on the city steps,

Boots used as a pillow, arms folded...

Dreams a Homeless man,

Fifties-like never to be young again,

Sedated by sleep... Rest, in freedom from smoke and noise.

Safe, unless someone sets him on fire.


Head, yet empty of bullets, but composed for machete-hack job, waiting...

Or, nose tickled by feather of child, orphan from parent.

Body members still intact...


Oblivious dreams of kingdom, warmth, love, safety...

Mind, soulfully soaring above the Planet, touches, wonderful flowers, in ever changing fields of vision, and permissable escape from humans, thunder, and rain.

Held up, by the bricks, walked on by the ants, skin, burned by the Sun.

Glanced at, by the strangers of the city.

Long, from the place of cornfield and bean.

Sold out, by family and Nation to me place of no Home.....Unknown.

He spins, on a planet in space With enormous tribes and universe Cold, from the deepest heat,

Warm from the fall of snow,

Out of place above water, unwanted in view.

Left, by the womb of escape and addiction, in a nasty world...

A very nasty world...

With plenty of time eternal.

Creation... Exit by death, unto the place of Spirit and Peace.

Lost, from the folds of industry...

Tried, by the Judgement of Life.

Run down, by the horses of fear.

Lost, by the measure of man.

Loved, by the Man of me Cross. ...Hides not, the Homeless being. Walks not, the tired man.

Beats on...the pulse of life, waiting for the dreamer, inside the dreamer near.

Boots used as a pillow sleep.

Doorway... Building... Homeless man.

~Kenneth Churchill



O...Lisa, each thing that lives is forced to die.

The plant, the tree, the bird.

The challenge of life, is to heal in time.

To die embraced by the point of life.

Its rapid uncertainty, the bountifulness of the trip itself,

not as much the wanderer.

Each leaf to pass the eye of the masters view.

Which man owns the sand dunes?

Does that man own the breeze?

Or, the fish within the ocean?

Or the icy mountain trail?

The thrill we seek stems from chance alone... to be born.

~Kenneth Churchill 

Touched by the Spirit,

I send my words like bullets fly.

As to a voice screaming in the wilderness,

aimed at the world leave, my Montauk Cannon.

And the pulse and breath of a warrior (spiritual) is felt,

and so too The killer does Flinch!

Beware the cost... For the war is Spiritual

~Kenneth Churchill 

By Faith Alone And The Promised Land


Genghis Kahn...could not do it.

Kings...could not do it.

Congress...could not do it.

Halfway measures avail us nothing.

By the authority in the Name of Jesus Christ my Lord and Savior,

I claim this land for Homeless People.

For behold, I stood at the door of the reservation and I knocked and the door was answered.

I seek and so I did find that I could ask and I would receive.

The meek shall inherit the earth.

Christ from here, we take up our bed and we walk

and this work is a finished work.

~Kenneth Churchill

The Boy Next Door

Cardboard box surrounds my head

Bottle of whiskey, stone cold bed

Another winter slowly passes by

I often wonder if I will survive


I cannot see

How it can be

That all I had was lost

Hard to believe

It could happen to me

I was the boy next door

Long before

The world gave up on me


I am home, dinner on the table

I sit my wife down by my side

Don't let me wake to my reality

Just let me sleep and dream of days gone by


She cannot see,

How it can be

That all we had was lost

Still can't believe 

That it happened to me

I was the boy next door

Long  before

The world gave up on me


My wife has long since gone

Couldn't put up with the strain

After years of what we built

Having to start again

Now I spend my days and nights

Just hiding from the shame

Like I do when wind blows wicked

Trying to get out of the rain


You cannot see

Where you can be

If nothing changes here

You better believe

That I used to be

The boy next door

Long before

The world gave up on me

~Bryan Clay

How with this rage, shall beauty hold a plea... Whose action is no stronger than a flower.

~William Shakespeare


Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village,though. He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

~Robert Frost

Kenneth Churchill (w. guitarist Johnny DiBartolo), taped August 20, 1995, at the Long Island Coffeehouse.

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