My son has put together a collection of poetry titled “Songs Of The Streets.” The following is one of my favourites.

There is Power in the Crowd.

Let me tell you how I woke up. I was on the bus
Moving up the street -when we reached Main
And Hastings -we were stopped by a crowd
Of protesters. How they marched down the through way
With signs and banners flying in the summer breeze.
“What are they protesting?” I asked the man in the back.
He replied sardonically: “Anything.” and he smiled.
We stayed at the traffic lights -stranded as the people
Gathered before us. There was a mixture
Of colors on those faces. People of many persuasions
Stood there. A voice was shouting into a megaphone.
I heard the sound of slogans and angry declarations.
“What is this?” I asked myself as I sat on the bus.
I felt the heat of the summer day as we waited for the
Crowd to disperse. This was when my sleeping soul
Was awakened -there at the traffic lights
And I saw the power of hidden potential
There in that congregation of believers. Surely this is
A sign to consider. These streets are the unconsciousness
Of the city. This is where the visions are proven
And the beginning of thoughts is emulated. Oh, question
The truth and it will strengthen for the dissident
Voice is the muscle of society.

Another poem from Bruce’s book

Candy for the Poor..

How they send out their young
Ones to give candy to the poor.
Little plastic bags full
Of chocolate bars -jelly beans
And sour candy.
They seem so eager to please
Dressed in blue t’shirts
And each one wearing a smile.
I sit on the grassy knoll
Smoking a cigarette. They walk
Up the avenue under blue skies
On a day that is not Easter
Or December. They are learning
To be missionaries as they
Go from soul to soul. -not casting
Out devils or healing the sick
But providing sweet gifts wrapped
In cellophane and tin foil.
They provide a function -I don’t deny this
Candy for the poor -to redeem
For the sufferings of the world.
Children with blue eyes offering
A little comfort in a world of sins.
It seems to me that they’re looking
For Jesus on these dirty streets.
I see them in expensive white
Running shoes as they step
Away from me. I hear their laughter
As they skip along the concrete
In their child’s game.
I feel like I’ve been touched by God
As I let the chocolate melt
Against my tongue.

From Songs of the Street by Bruce Ray

Human Wasteland.
Oh, the crowd on the streets is like a river.
Some say the city is full of life and
Others say it’s a soulless monster that devours you.
How the words are spoken in the shadows.
The names of God are marked on the walls.
The sound of different languages is like music
To my ears. The faces are made of so many colors.
How I celebrate what I see with my senses.
I strive to shape poems and images.
I am aware and wide awake -and I hear every heart
Beating in the wind and the rain.
I will touch the skin and dare to put my hand
Into the fire. I wanted to open a door
And a thousand doors opened before me.
When I read the book of time -the future and past
Merged as one thing. Do you hear me when I testify?
Do you know me as I stand here speaking.
I take the folded page out of my pocket
And I open it -reading by the light of the moon.
The faces of the dead are uncovered -and
Their lips whisper the secrets of the afterlife.
Oh, human wasteland -you are moving like waves.
Oh, human wasteland -I see an ocean of hands.

After the Deluge

After the deluge -the rainbow on the hill
A sign of hope for those who
Witness it. Through days of peace and war
We pray for sustenance.
We burn the candle of the book
Smoke rises up like God’s thoughts
Up to immensity. A bonfire is started
With just one spark of flame.
My heart is a seedpod bursting
Giving up it’s purest bounty.
I’m looking for an unplowed field
Just a moment in darkness.
We’re walking in the blood of our
Ancestors -as we give our feelings.
We’re followed by the sacred
Animals who are unseen -as they live
In the wilderness of time.
We’re protected by the spirits who
Surround us as we walk in the city.
What are these names of God
Marked on the walls of the avenue?
What are these images of rebellion
And revolution? Surely a voice is
Speaking in the shadows.
A mother is aware of the child inside her belly.
A poet feels something rising up from flesh and spirit.
Oh, is this the moment of joy and passion?
We are released from captivity
No longer kept in the fate of a story.
We walk these streets with the fire
Burning beneath our feet.
We are illuminated by the moon and stars
We stand between the mountain
And the valley. Mud is rising up from
The bottom of the river.
There’s a bird on the branch singing to the living universe.
There’s a snake digging at the roots
where the promise is made.
Here on the streets we give confessions.
Here on the streets we step
Through the circle of holy light.
We who live on the streets are
Sanctified by our pain. We turn dirt to
Gold as we write poems and songs
And reality is the poem we live.

I Gather Flowers from my Garden.

Oh, I gather flowers from my garden
As I speak of my innermost thoughts
I try to be positive and I search
For the right words to put on paper.
As I pray I ask for bread and wine
And I sit at the table.
This is the moment of my vision
This is the pure ritual of my reality.
When I walk the streets of the
Downtown East side -I see faces veiled
By the tears. There are people here
Who have nothing but the clothes they
Wear and shoes on their feet.
I try to be positive and reach out to the light
But still It’s hard to struggle
For some kind of truth. Why does this
Happen and who has the answers?
I know my poetry will not save anyone
And the world will not be changed.
Like anybody else -I am concerned
For my own skin. After awhile your senses
Harden and you are inured
Against suffering.
“Stay positive!” I say to myself.
My pen writes these verses as in the
Darkness I can see stars gleaming.
In the beginning one spark of fire
Was enough to give light.

FROM SONGS OF THE STREETS by Bruce Ray

If You Want to Give us Anything -Give us Homes

There is a city within a city -always moving
Always going from place to place.
It is a city of wanderers and seekers looking for a land
To live upon. Surely land is a precious commodity
For it is the ground we walk upon. This is where
We raise our children and look for a better life.
We say to the givers of charity -who come to help us:
“You can’t put a band aid on a gaping wound.”
They treat us as if we were sick or deranged.
They call us drug dealers and users.
They give us the stigma of poverty and ruin.
They counsel us on how to live.
Let us heal our own sores and protect our own.
It begins in the community -how we bind our wounds
And protect ourselves from predators.
If you want to give us anything -then give us homes.
Give us roofs to keep us from the rain.
If this is done -everything else will follow.
Can a bible help us? It won’t help us sleep at night.
Wisdom that doesn’t draw together
Is not wisdom. We ask for homes to house the poor.
Give a second chance for those who have
Fallen so hard on the cold streets.
Forget about the needles and crack pipes.
If we have homes all the other problems
Will take care of themselves.

A City Within the City.

All along Hastings the tents are pitched -a city within a city.
People gather on the corner selling crack and cigarettes.
Clothes and books on sheets exchanging currency
And making deals. Some carry all they own in shopping carts
Suitcases and trolleys. There are skinny girls walking down
The avenue and men with hard eyes staring into the shadows.
Graffiti marked on the walls in bright purple and red.
Old ones sitting on folding chairs -watching the traffic
Sitting under yellow canopies. The street gives up the heat
And windows are boarded up. A city within the city moves.
The feet of the passing crowd go by as the police watch
From their cruisers. Soon the spring rains will fall
And waters rise from the gutters. The visionaries
Who are sleeping will wake up. The children of the city
Will call out from the secret places in the darkness.
Crows and pigeons are fighting for bread crumbs.
Women with burning bodies talk to themselves.
And the madmen dance with the cars. How we struggle
For dignity. If the police chase us from our places of refuge
We move to another part of the metropolis
We are the city within the city.