By Susanne

We remember them,
We remember when,
They danced with the joy of life,
They cried with occasional strife.
They shared with us their future plans
We felt the love in their strong hands.
They played jokes and made us laugh,
Until we thought we'd split in half.
They shared the wisdom of their years,
Told us their pleasures and their fears.
They had jobs and made good money,
Everything for them looked sunny.
They had families, wives and kids,
Until their lives hit the skids.
They never thought that they would be,
Spending their time on the street.
Their lives collapsed, their worlds caved in,
They would never go back to where they'd been.
Suddenly, their world had changed,
Their whole reality rearranged.
They died homeless, does society care?
They probably never even knew they were there.
That is why we remember them,
We want society to remember when.

Tipped - Oh
Along a stone
While cowering
Jesus way due you
Walk sew fare
A why
We are...
We came from...
We pass through...
We go on.

A Thought

by Helen Posno

Unhand me now. It is your destiny of soul which I must find that I rely upon in these times of fierce trial; And in your turn - you'll find in me the courage of my heart.

I must steer true holding a taut course to the rudder. I know from the sea that souls have been swept overboard but for the lashings firmly anchoring them - holding them stubbornly tied; Fiercely knotted across the wheel, lest compass falter - and sail tatter. Yet there still would be a sign of human heart compassion keeping the bleached bone of labouring memories - should any find and any savor calling land ho...

There be wakening if ever there be sleep. There be my heat tied firmly to the faith of this weathered all dreaming ship: O Guide Me God. Lord see me through that I a safe harbour forsake in favour of the open sea.

The Window Washer

by Kathy-Diane Leveille

Abelard Hubbard was the only person Madeline knew who had once been spotted buying underwear at a yard sale. Madeline had been inspecting a chipped teapot that she thought would make a nice home for the pot-bound Zenobia Speciosa in her kitchen window, when out of the corner of her eye she saw Abelard gather the whole mess of ragged underwear into his arms: ladies' faded lace-edged panties in a gaudy array of colours; men's fruit of the loom, once snowy white, now pale with mawkish stains one would rather not comtemplate the origin of. Madeline watched Abelard carry the whole mess up to the card table with the sign "Correct Change Please" hanging below it and present a dollar bill to the woman sitting nearby. Madeline set the teapot down and slunk back to her car.

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Whenever Madeline saw Abelard's tall frame, leaning self-consciously against the hymnal shelf in the possible light: the underwear had been used as rags to clean the windows of the old Victorian house that overlooked the harbour, and if one afternoon she should pull on a wool sweater and go for a jaunt down to the terminal to view the ships berthed there she would see those windows shimmering as the sun lowered in the sky, casting the grey clapboard in a redeeming, silery glow. Nevertheless, no matter how hard she tried not to, Madeline would wonder, every Sunday as the congregation herded into the parlour for coffee after the minister's sermon, just what it was that caused Abelard Hubbard to smile so contentedly, and her eyes would rest, hypnotically, upon the waistband of his ill-fitting suit pants.

Leaky Winter Boots
by Marionetta Strung-Out

In poverty, people spend a lot of time walking and a lot of time outside just because that is the only free thing to do and way to get around. People from the homeless street level of income, to the minimum wage strugglers' level of income do not need charity that is someone else's garbage.

I recall the first time it happened to me, buying new used winter boots. The boots were ten dollars: plus tax. I was able to walk to the store so there was no transportation costs but I did not find them until my second or third visit to the store. When I finally found them they did fit, and they even looked good and felt good, but it did not snow for another two weeks.

I even tried to take them back and beg the clerk and finally the manager, showing them not only my two-week old, by then out-of-date, receipt, but also my wet and frozen socked-feet. I was refused a refund or an exchange and shamed. This occasion was typical of the treatment that a person receives in the stores themselves and the salesclerk and the manager were both adamant that I had plenty of time to return the boots and I should have checked them myself: they were, after all a charity. The word degrading does not begin to describe the humiliation that begins there and continues as plastic bags become part of the footwear to prevent frostbite.

Learning to walk in high heels as a teenage girl was fun, exciting and part of dreaming of becoming a woman. I think now of what I had to learn to be able to walk in shoes wearing plastic bags over my socks and what any adult or child has to learn in this western society poverty.

One of the problems in wearing plastic bags is the

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sliding of the feet inside the shoes. Blisters, and the beginnings of blisters, and the blisters that are healing, are what the feet and the foot condition becomes by the end of winter. But the main problem is that as the feet slide in the plastic bags, the bags tear, and by the end of each day that they are worn in the wet, snow, rain, and snow/rainwater slush puddles the feet are wet and frozen anyway. Frequently, numb, to semi-frostbitten, and frostbitten toes and feet are the norm, and the wet blisters become festering sores. Then the Government pays an arm and a leg, and maybe a few toes worth, for high cost medical care, and this, all over a ten dollar pair, of someone's shoes that should have been sent to the Dump.

I did get another pair of boots later that winter after I bought my first pair of leaking used winter boots, which did not last too long either, but it was towards the end of winter before they came. Since then, I have learned to wait for weather that boots can be tested in, but by then most of the boots are gone. No I do not give away leaking boots, who would what them. But I can't throw them away either, one never knows just how tough things might get.

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It is a crapshoot to buy anything in this world today from stocks to newspapers and from nickel candy to used winter boots. But, the cruelty of an unknowledgeable world of people who give away leaking boots to people, who sell them to people, who can ill-afford them, which is to the poor a huge financial mistake, is my issue, which I am praying to be relieved of. And, the reason these thoughts, this issue, is so prevalent in my mind again is that my lucky boots, which I call them for reasons that are apparent, have now, after three dry winters, become leaky themselves. The shoe repairman says they have had all they can take and there is no way he can keep my feet dry with these boots, so I am off to find a new pair again this year. I think back to those months I spent walking with the leaky boots, that first encounter I had with the problem, the plastic bags would start neatly tucked into the tops of the boots. After a day of walking, the bags would always creep out and there they would be like a red flag of shame: white or grey plastic handles and edges of bags.

I recall one day on the subway, where a woman sitting across the aisle, facing me, noticed my boots and bags, she did not just look away but looked at my feet and then looked away with a sneer of rejection. Certainly I felt stigmatized, but when I have encountered hurts like this, in the last years, I have always clung, instead, to the helps of those people who have displayed kindness, in similar situations, and have offered me a smile instead of scorn. It has been the memeories of people who did not judge and say: 'well there are lots of boots at the charity centres and a person does not have to walk around in that embarrassing state'. Sometimes even implying that the people just want to 'dress like bums'.

How far this is from the truth. 21

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The public's dismissal of the poor, with or without knowing the facts, is certainly something that anyone is, and should be, allowed to do. But, to judge the poor in an eroneous and punitive way and give away leaking boots to organizations that sell them at a high price, to people that cannot afford troubles me. So, I pray that there will be a pair of winter boots, in my size, that do not leak, at the store when I get there, with the ten dollars, plus tax, and please, could they be warm, too...

Only On Queen Street
by Litsa

Gazing out my picture window I can see the streetcar and anxious commuters waiting. Later, the daycare workers are pushing long carriages with toddlers while people politely open their doors. Have you been invited to the free dinners and the free community parties at the local churches, community and business centres yet? If not, you probably don't live on my street-Queen Street.

I know that we all believe that our cat and our street are unique. What puts Queen Street in its own league is that it is friendly, different and people actually say hi when they reconize you. They usuually have something to talk about and will do it in an energized manner. I was not born on this street yet I connect with it like no other street I've walked upon. I have just had my first anniversary living on Queen Street East. This minor celebration, in most people's viewpoint that is, was broken up into two time periods-one was for nine months, two years ago, and I've been at my new bachelorette pad for over four months. Not a lifetime but an eternity of learning, growing and communicating. My pithy year does not include my drinking and pick-me-up days in the pubs of the beaches. With the closing of the only beaches 'dance club', along with its' tiny raunchy dance floor, came a realization that I most certainly never belonged there. I have few fond and sober memories aside from the Millenium baseball cap I received free on last year's Canada Day. I had been ironically sipping an expensive imported beer at some pub (named after some animal) when my friend and I received the caps with some patriotic temporary tattoos. It is very unattractive but I haven't been able to throw it out not even after moving.

I also had more down-to-earth experiences on Queen Street West or on the most western tip of Queen East such as the Fred Victor Centre (FVC). These experiences made me more self-aware and had attractions such as drop-ins, art groups, a camera club and a writing group with free snacks and dinner thrown in along the route. I sold two paintings in a Queen West gallery, won a writing contest and had a freelance radio show because of FVC and the support of its' staff and fellow patrons. Beyond that, FVC is a warm and lively place where us marginalized folk can see a movie when it's frosty outside and eat for free or cheap in the restaurant while having empathetic friends truly listen to us.

Beer in one hand with much talk and laughter while sharing self-help techniques is what Queen Street is all about. When you are tired of helping yourself, you can always assist your neighbors, acquaintances or friends who are usually good people and you have a history with. Everybody goes 'way back' with at least a bunch of people on Queen. Some may go 'way back' to only last year yet they've shared so much joy and pain which makes it feel more like a decade. Needing a dollar or cigarette should never be too hard to find as somebody owes you a favor or knows you or just had a good day themselves. I decided to forego the Street News as I only had half of the $1 cost. The young salesman exclaimed that I always took a paper and gave me one saying that the last person gave him $5 for one paper! I enjoy having long chats with this young man regarding his customers and his life. Sometimes it can be difficult to move quickly on Queen because there is always a nice and friendly person coming your way.

My home turf on Queen Street East, Leslieville or South Riverdale, welcomed me into its' neighborhood and its' community very quickly. This was assisted by the fact that I had my own place finally, and that I lived close to a swimming pool, a library, an Employment Resource Centre and cheap bread from Weston's. There are pawn shops. used furinture shops and a large Value Village which all fit in well with the area. I purchased two used chairs shortly after I moved in and borrowed a dolly from my building as I did not want to pay the $25 delivery fee for five small blocks. A dear man, who was an acquaintance back then, offered to help me with the chairs for a pack of smokes. The designer of the chairs saw us and explained that they had been stolen from a nightclub 2.5 years ago and ended up mysteriously at the store that I had bought them from. Only on Queen Street... I must admit that the area does lack a good pizza joint but it is a small price to pay for the simple pleasures the neighborhood provides. The Toronto Groceterias has just regrettably closed its' doors to 66 years of serving this neighborhood.

The superstore are making smaller, family-run stores less desirable. It offered much more than just bargain prices with its' witty staff and owners and uplifting conversation. One man always held the door for me and made me feel quite regal in my sweat pants and bobby pins.The owner oftentimes suggested the hot new deals and gave me some pretzels, Christmas lights and pickles on the last day of operation.

Action and movement with a friendly face are what you'll find on Queen Street. So many people on their bikes or pulling a tired roller blader with their bike. Babies well taken care of and held closely and warmly to their parent's body. Teams of dogs taken out for their walks in the well-kept parks as their owners sip on their warm, herbal or caffeinated beverages. They even have a dog event at Jimmy Simpson Park in the fall when you can hear the dogs from miles away.

During the warmer months, this park is inhabitated by a very friendly bunch of moralistic and street smart guys who know everybody and the best deals around. Jimmy may give you some laughs as he serves the cheap beer in his half-asleep manner.

The neighborhood prostitute and crackhead who is made fun of is still somewhat accepted in most circles and somebody will eventually offer her some talk or just a smile. She'll be wearing some transparent blouse for a week and snarling at most as she can't appreciate the simple pleasure of living on Queen Street. The same white haired men sit at the same table at the same descent bar every afternoon. The waitress has been there for over a decade and knows the patrons by their first and last names.

Remaining on Queen Street East there is an urgency to find a payphone at Sherbourne. Seems like they have been removed from the police to eliminate drug dealing and usage and basic communication. Alas one is found just to have it not be in service; it had been cut off some hours ago. Guess people don't buy and sell drugs while the sun is out in Toronto. At Jarvis, some windows of some of the units are open at Freddie's to bring in the cold air and the loud noise. The grounds are a bit full at Metropolitan United Church where some still sleep outdoors. Some sleep under the few picnic tables for shelter and have sleeping bags and plastic bags to keep them warmish and dry. In contrast, I've seen some of the trendiest balconies, windows, and storefronts on Queen Street. It is definitely a Street which is unique with its mix of people, socio-economic status, culture and lodgings. What is very common on Queen is the friendliness, which makes it the grandmaster of routes in Toronto.

Litza has been a contributor to Alias for many years now and we are delighted that she has shared her lovely and unique view if Queen Street with us.