WE’RE BACK!

by Karen Marker

“We are not going to let the communists destroy a great American city, let alone the nation’s capital,” [Stephen] Miller told the crowd near Shake Shack inside Union Station. “And let’s just also address another thing. All these demonstrators you’ve seen out here in recent days, all these elderly white hippies, they’re not part of the city and never have been. And by the way, most of the citizens who live in Washington, D.C., are Black. So we’re going to ignore these stupid white hippies that all need to go home and take a nap because they’re all over 90 years old.” —The Hill, August 20, 2025

All of us old white hippies 

are showing up at Union Station 

Shake Shack and every

street corner

we don’t want to miss 

a love in sit in heckle

right here wherever

they are we are 

wearing our long gray

hair in braids 

like Patti Smith

singing "People Have the Power"
we’re blowing smoke rings

into their smirking faces

as they buy their burgers

for the National Guard

here so this won’t be another

Kent State we’ve come to town 

in massive numbers rocking

not rolling over
we’re wearing our tie die

tee shirts in protest chanting

Hey Hey We’re the Hippies 

Come back and we’re not alone 

look closer you’ll see we’re rainbow

colored, we’re stripping off 

their vulgar masks

smacking their faces with kisses
this is just the beginning

we’re making it a race

to the finish see what happens 

when we all get naked

let our full glory 

be exposed that’s how 

we’ll catch them 

off guard take over

by giving away the Abundance 

of our flourishing gardens 

throwing bouquets of chard and roses

Oakland, CA poet Karen Marker is a social activist and retired school psychologist whose poetry has been published in numerous anthologies and journals. Her first poetry book Beneath the Blue Umbrella came out recently with Finishing Line Press. She has recently been engaged in a project of writing a poem a day off hope and protest in response to the news. The presence of the  national guard in our cities has recalled her experience as 9th grader at Kent State University High School where she was witness to the horrors of May 4th. Her poetry is in the May 4th Archive at KSU. 

ONE BIG BEAUTIFUL BANK JOB

by Raymond Nat Turner

Humor Outcasts Cartoon, May 25, 2025, Written by: Paul Lander; Artist: Dan McConnell

Masked. Armed to the teeth. Synchronized
Rolexes. They left Lamborghini and Maserati
Motors purring… softly in the shadows on 
Capitalist Hill

And then—suddenly—in sonic boom unison they
Shouted at The People:
UP AGAINST THE WALL—MUTHAFUKKKAS!
GET ‘EM UP!         THIS IS A FUCKIN STICKUP!

Yo, fatso! Yeah, you. Waddle your way over to Senator
Sadist. You, on the crutches; swing over to Congressman
Cruel. Move it! Don’t make me bust a cap in your poor
Ol’ tired cripple ass! Did it in Afghanistan. Did it in Iraq.

Outta that wheelchair and on the floor, Pops! 
And, while you’re at it, gimme me those teeth.
Move it! Quick, fork over the hospice money.
Chop-chop, drop life expectancies in Golden Dome!

Hey, Bag Lady, drop those damn vouchers in the 
Billionaire bag over there! Yo, Sambo! Down on the
Ground! Keep your fuckin mouth shut and no one will get
Hurt … Well, at least until …  after we make our get away

Hey, Granny, gimme those meds! 
Hand over the Medicaid, ol’ maid.
Listen up, kids! Drop those school lunches in the
Billionaire bag. Yo, Teach, handover Head Start!

OK—simple-minded sukkkas—quick, up on your feet!
We’re breaking you for the billionaires; and Boss Tweet—
Robbing and plundering you, for the Murderous 1% Mob
Pulling off—yet another—One Big Beautiful Bank Job!

Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; Black Agenda Report's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC.

OLD MAN IN WINTER

by George Salamon

CBS News Sacramento

You live long enough

you're no longer afraid

of death, but of what

life can still do to you.

George Salamon lives in St. Louis, MO, and had his 88th birthday in October.  

WHAT WE LEARN FROM BIRDS

by Earl J. Wilcox

If our baby worm formula is not available—

Backup plans with day-old bugs will do.

 

If the five-year old birdie-boy wants

To be a girlie bird, let him dress as he will.

 

If the teen robins won’t sing or play—or fly

Let them consult Papa Owl, not take codeine.

 

If old lady robin’s days are done, do not

Push her out of the nest where foxes await.

 

Find old bird a comfy hole in an elder oak,

There let Sister Robin live out her days in love.

Earl Wilcox has learned from many birds over many years.

WHAT IN GOD'S NAME?

by Marilyn Peretti

‘

I say Jesus Christ 

when I’m not supposed

to say Jesus Christ.

Jesus / Ukraine flag

Published: Oct 16, 2014

by 

Zakharii

I said Jesus Christ

when the pregnant woman

was carried on a stretcher

from the bombed maternity

hospital, her hip and leg 

hanging to the side,

and her baby died.

I said Jesus Christ

when the magnificent

Mariupol theater building 

was smashed, burying

hundreds of people

sheltering there.

I said Jesus Christ

when there were 7 fires

burning unchecked at

Chernobyl  Nuclear Plant.

I said Jesus Christ

when they displayed 

109 empty strollers 

representing the children 

who died — so far.

I said Jesus Christ

as Russia stepped up attacks

on Mariupol when it was

already reduced to ashes,

with thousands of survivors

left there, starving.

Jesus Christ

Marilyn Peretti from near Chicago has been published in various journals over the years, including The New Verse News, Kyoto Journal, Gray Sparrow Journal, Christian Science Monitor, Highland Park Poetry, Snowy Egret. Her most recent book is Behind the Mask in 2020... 2021... .

WHEN IT IS OVER

by Katherine Tian

A weekend afternoon, the park near my room,

the stone table where my friends and I used to sit is covered with a thick layer of dust.

Untrodden weeds cross the dirt path.

When it is over,

we will come together like a wind gust.

Our friendship will only bloom.

 

After a long day at work, a nurse mother goes home with a sigh of bliss.

She can only embrace her toddling daughter with her gaze and tears,

close at hand, but on opposite sides of the canyon.

When it is over,

my little dear,

Mom will hug you in her arms with a long kiss.

 

During a festival, I walk on the empty square,

music and fragrance that once wafted through the restaurant disappear like a cloud.

Now only cold wind blows through.

When it is over,

the long-lost crowd

will gather again to breathe the free, healthy air.

 

Golden wedding grandparents pass away in isolation, looking at each other like new lovers.

The memory and close goodbye can only dwell

in the relatives’ sorrow hearts.

When it is over,

the belated remembrances and farewells

will turn into rainy tears and falling flowers.

 

I miss the sound of my teacher's marker scratching on the white board,

the crowd in the hallway,

the morning flock of school buses.

When it is over,

to my dear teachers, I will say,

in the back of the classroom, I will never fall asleep or get bored.

 

The early spring flowers are about to sprout.

The birds in the trees are singing happily as they cheer.

At this darkest moment of the pandemic,

my dear friends,

can you hear

the footsteps of the warm sunshine behind the heavy cloud?

Katherine Tian is a senior at Ward Melville High School on Long Island, New York. She is a long-time dancer and a long-term volunteer at a local elder-care center.

OLD GUY AWAITS VACCINE

by Earl J. Wilcox

 "Time waits for no man,” watercolor by SuayaArt.

So far I have outlived whooping cough, measles, mumps, shingles,

strokes, dementia, the Apocalypse, the Rapture, three years eleven

months of the T***P madness, perhaps one Kardashian, zombie

uprisings, my dear mate of six decades, three siblings, one child, eviction,

twenty-four Marvel Universe movies, hundreds of episodes of Friends

and Big Bang Theory, dear Alex Trebek, bankruptcy, cancer, plus

millions of maladies and diseases about which I am totally ignorant.

If I live another few days or weeks, perhaps the vaccine will find me

and my generation still optimistic we can add Covid-19 to the lists

of days and hours of this world we miss.

Earl Wilcox in his late 80s awaits the vaccine in South Carolina.

ALL PRAISE TO VACCINE SCIENTISTS

by Earl J. Wilcox

Özlem Türeci, left, and Uğur Şahin of BioNTech. Backed by Pfizer, their vaccine is 90% effective in stopping people from falling ill. Photograph: Wolfgang Eilmes/FAZ Foto via The Guardian, December 6, 2020.

Metaphors pile up to describe

our anticipation as we await

the first doses, await the vaccines’

power to save us. Doubtless we

elderly will not live long enough

to know the whole story of how

and who and where the scientists

worked and worked to develop

the long-awaited medicine.

Alert! Octogenarians! Give up

today’s nap, rise in praise of vaccine saviors.

 

Earl Wilcox in his late 80s awaits the vaccine in South Carolina.

STYMIED

by George Held

T***p wears mask in public for 1st time. The president told reporters, “I've never been against masks,” before departing the White House for Walter Reed Medical Center. Credit: Patrick Semansky/AP via ABC News, July 12, 2020

That is no planet for old men, or young –
the Earth contaminated by a virus
so deadly that in one great city
one in three hundred has become

infected and in a tiny Arkansas town
one in nineteen, and all the while
the most powerful man on Earth
wears no mask, except at Walter Reed.

Maybe a mask offers no more protection
than a rubber with a hole in it
but still, the President might wear one
at least to show concern for prophylaxis;

so those who mask up to walk to the post
office must encounter strapping young women
and men whose aplomb, arrogance, or disregard
for more vulnerable citizens

lends even a commonplace sortie
a risk like charging a machinegun
nest on Iwo Jima. But most old folks know
their time is up and dying from the virus

can be more efficient than falling victim
to a malignancy. An aged human
is but a decrepit thing, unlikely to remain
a golden bird upon a golden bough,

much less to sing to a careless emperor…

George Held, a longtime contributor to TheNewVerse.News, is sheltering in Eastern Long Island.

NOTES FROM THE WEEKLY MEETING OF THE 75-YEAR-OLD ANTIFA PROVOCATEURS

by John Hodgen

Welcome back, Martin. How’s the noggin?
(Laughter.) (Applause.)
You really used your head this time, big fella. Careful when you log in.
Taking one for the team, Martin. Way to go. One for the cause.
And great job with the Fake Blood Pellet in the Ear trick.
And the old Backwards Trip and Fall Stutter Step. Worked like a charm.
All that practice paid off. A perfect 10 from the Russian judge. Terrific.
Wall to wall on OANN. And you got the CNN and MSNBC crowd alarmed.
You’re a meme now. More people have seen you fall than watched the Towers.
Score one for ANTIFA. Talk about defunding the police. Fight the power.
And you even got all the police scanner info with your secret decoder ring.
Proud of you, big guy. Let’s get started now for your next gig.
Mar-a-Lago. The old swan dive under the golf cart. Do your thing.
This is going to be big.

Editor's Note: The 75-year-old man hospitalized after he was pushed by a police officer during a peaceful protest last week in Buffalo, New York, suffered a brain injury as a result of the incident, his lawyer revealed Thursday. Kelly Zarcone said her client, activist Martin Gugino, "is starting physical therapy," which Zarcone called "a step in the right direction. As heartbreaking as it is, his brain is injured and he is well aware of that now," Zarcone said in a statement. "He feels encouraged and uplifted by the outpouring of support which he has received from so many people all over the globe. It helps. He is looking forward to healing and determining what his ‘new normal’ might look like." The New Verse News offers this poem to cheer him and those who have come to know and love Martin for his work and sacrifice. We wish him all the best.

John Hodgen is the Writer-in-Residence at Assumption University in Worcester, MA.  Hodgen won the AWP Donald Hall Prize in Poetry for Grace (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005).  His fifth book The Lord of Everywhere is out from Lynx House/University of Washington Press.

DURING LOCKDOWN

by Michael Mark





I danced in my house, every room, Watusied
into the cul-de-sac, in my neighbors’ yards,
driving dogs mad, setting off alarms. I Twisted
and shimmied, broke it down home-style to
the blasts, screeches, and wails for my neighbors
in their afternoon pjs, who banged on their windows,
flipped the finger, pointed pistols, semis, until
their yelling and banging turned into yodeling
and bumping and they switched on their entertainment
systems and danced in their living rooms with me
on their lawns. We danced at a safe distance, masks
on. They must’ve thought, This is kinda marvelous.
I danced on the runways and on the one plane cleared
to fly me to my sick dad. I danced for the captain
and I danced in the hospital where my 94 year old pop
was able to—to the gasps of the ICU nurses, whom I
waltzed with—raise a finger and conduct the band
in my head and we held hands so he wasn’t alone,
scared, and he felt I was a good son.

               No

Here’s what really happened: I abided by the edict,
stayed in, ate canned soup, rationed toilet paper,
washed my hands with soap while I sang songs
for two full minutes, sang to make sure I didn’t skimp,
sudsing conscientiously to rub those viral germs away,
adhering to the officials, and to keep from getting bored
I danced to the song I sang in the bathroom, even while
I dried. I danced in my house, and in my neighbors’
yards. I Boogalooed in the grocery with the elderly,
the most vulnerable, like my dad, in New York, alone,
94, who I can’t be with, and we danced in the oatmeal aisle,
cookie aisle, the Depends aisle, the pet food aisle.
They knew all the steps and we wore masks and gloves
and I took them by their tiny hands and we twirled
and twirled.

Michael Mark’s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Alaska Quarterly Review, Copper Nickel, Michigan Quarterly Review, Salamander, Salt Hill Journal, The Southern Review, The New York Times, The Sun, Waxwing, The Poetry Foundation's American Life in Poetry, Verse Daily. He’s the author of two books of stories including Toba and At the Hands of a Thief (Atheneum). @michaelgrow

AT EIGHTY-SIX HE LIVES ALONE

A PANDEMIC A.M. POST
by Earl J Wilcox




When he awakens—eyes too full of macular
to see any clock—Alexa, his roommate,
tells him the hour, temperature, date, begins
their day with Adagio for Strings. It’s 6:30.
Robed, peeing done, doddering, wobbling,
he shuffles down a hall, toward his kitchen.
Morning meds taken, coffee perking, he
strolls into his sun room; late, white
azaleas wave in a Carolina breeze. Two
squirrels scamper, a red bird flies away.

The NYT headlines on his ancient Windows
screen blur. Numbers of new cases, deaths,
something about masks, T***P fibs again.
He glances at the theater section. Fun.
Performers posting happy videos. This early
Monday too young—he feels—to count as
another day just yet as the sun is still hiding
behind lush dogwoods, cherry trees. His coffee
smells better than it tastes. His macular eyes focus
slowly. Spring pollen clogs ears and throat from
clearing properly until mid-morning. Abetted
by coughing he could sound to some is if the virus
found him overnight. Until time for the women
on The View to take up their verbal cudgels exactly
where they left off yesterday, the TV is silent.

Online the local rag counts case and death numbers
on page Two. He avoids noting too closely how
many who die are near his age, though the papers seem
to equivocate or just don’t report for some reason
the causes of death among some elderly folks.
People in pictures atop obits are smiling. Why not—
he sighs—since the snaps were made thirty
years ago. His ancient computer is now fully
engaged as is he ready to surf. He avoids all accounts
of the virus. About ten pages of an EXTRA
section of the newspaper are devoted to almost
every nuance of the disease. The online news has
run the same section for several days. There is
no lack of news about COVID-19. In the
Sports section, more reports of games canceled.
Are the NFL, MLB, NBA going defunct?
He gives a mental “thumbs up” to ball-playing
millionaires helping raise funds for needy families.
Seems the NFL draft is the spring sporting event.

His puny small stocks made modest gains
yesterday, and the weather will let the azalea blossoms
hold their blaze another day. The morning
meds taste funny without food. He eats a banana.

Sinus clogging and sneezes are common. It is not
the virus season after all. A classical radio station
plays Bach and soothing, nostalgic olden goldies—
Brahms’ How Lovely Are Thy Tabernacles by Mormon
Choir. In his best dulcet tones, the radio announcer
avoids mentioning COVID-19 until the end of his
shift. It is good to have four hours of music
uninterrupted by updates on cases and deaths
and prospects for future. At his age, some of these
projections have been in his profile for a decade.

Earl Wilcox is reopening his back yard to squirrels, robins, and cotton tail rabbits. Early worms show up at their own risk.

LOCKDOWN DAYS, EARLY SPRING 2020

by Miriam Weinstein

Before this king of viruses came to power,
her mother reminded her daily during phone calls,
I’m 96. Now she reminds her, the hospital won’t 

treat me if I catch coronavirus. Too old. An easy
target for this novel illness. Why waste
a ventilator?

The path by the creek, more popular these days
with gyms closed. A few weak smiles greet her,
some voices mutter hello. Rarely do eyes meet,

most look off in the distance or down at the ground.
People move to the edge of the path or pile of leaves
beside it to pass. We mustn’t get too close.

This is what she feels and fears. The distance, not
the virus itself. The stepping away. The incessant
hand washing. After each time she touches

her iPhone or a door knob? Washing packages
she purchased at the grocery store? This far
she refuses to go, but the checking of numbers

preoccupies her. Generally uninterested in daily
stats, now each morning she notes the uptick.
The confirmed cases, the sick, the dying, the dead.

Birds know spring is here though bits of snow still lie
crusted on flower beds. Time to stake out territory,
robins have returned north. Strutting down sidewalks

and on lawns, wild turkeys arrive out of no where,
peck at the ground. Males with tightly fanned
tails circle females.

Miriam Weinstein’s chapbook Twenty Ways of Looking was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. Her poetry appears in the anthologies Reflections on Home: The Heart of All That Is, Nuclear Impact: Broken Atoms in Our Hands, A Little Book of Abundance, Rocked by Waters: Poems of Motherhood, and in several journals.  Her manuscript How To Thread a Needle was short-listed for the Concrete Wolf Louis award competition.

AN OLD MAN'S RESPONSE TO THE CORONAVIRUS

by Earl J. Wilcox

Some say, I’m in the most
vulnerable group waiting
for the virus to overtake me.
Others of us say, bring it on.

The body of an old man
is not like a withered tree
spindly-limbed legs, eyes
dim and going dimmer
hands frail and fragile,
the last leaf of an aging spruce
or willow, body bare as
maple or boxwood come
waning days of autumn.

An old man’s body is
a well-tuned bass
standing upright
leaning into its player
focused fondly strumming
taut strings but yielding
deep-toned music
resonating with grace.


Earl J. Wilcox is in his eighth decade.

A DAY WITHOUT

by Joe Cottonwood

Children never shut the door
except when they slam it.
Wet-footed dogs run through the house.
A dove lost, confused, flaps against the skylight.
From the turkey in the oven we hear
spits and gurgles. No gobbles.

In broad daylight Uncle Olaf and Aunt Gerta
strip and soak in the hot tub.
The children want to join them. We say no.
They say why not. We say BECAUSE!
They whine. We say okay.

Grampa and his girlfriend Jennifer arrive
on a two-seater bicycle from fifteen miles away.
Grampa is eighty and has no hair.
Jennifer hugs everybody, especially the dogs.

The children in the hot tub are naked.
Neighbor children are watching, pointing.
Neighbor mother says something.
She’s always saying something.
We smile. We bring towels.

Uncle Simon on a stepladder catches
the dove in a hanky. We all make calming
coo-coo-coo sounds as he carries it gently,
so gently outside. Unclasps his fingers.
The dove flies to the nearest tree. Clutches
a branch. Head-bobs toward us. Thankful.

Now let’s hold hands around the table,
close our eyes. Do not think of That Man.
Squeeze (gently) the hand you’re holding.
Let go, like a dove.
Amen.


Joe Cottonwood wants every day to be a Day Without.

RESPECTING BELIEFS

by F.I. Goldhaber

Ad created by AML

If your beliefs include marginalizing other people
because of their skin color, their religious faith, their gender,
their sexual orientation, their origin, their age;
If your beliefs allow justification for depriving
other people of their civil rights to life, liberty, and
happiness pursuits declared in seventeen seventy-six;
If your beliefs condone slaughter, rape, assault, subjugation,
imprisonment, execution of those you see as "others";
If your beliefs create stigmas to prevent those who appear,
think, love, or speak differently than you from making a living,
feeding their families, buying a home, earning retirement;
If your beliefs allow children to go to bed hungry, the
sick to go bankrupt, the disabled to struggle to survive,
the mentally ill to wander homeless, the store clerks to need
welfare benefits, the elderly to freeze through the winter;
If your beliefs prevent access to reproductive health care
while keeping young people ignorant about the facts of life
and the realities of sexual health, choices, and pleasure;
Then I'm under no obligation to respect your beliefs.
Keep your hate to yourself. Keep it out of our country, state, and
city laws, our schools, parks, stores workplaces, and public restrooms.

As a reporter, editor, business writer, and marketing communications consultant, F.I. Goldhaber produced news stories, feature articles, essays, editorial columns, and reviews for newspapers, corporations, governments, and non-profits in five states. Now, her poems, short stories, novelettes, essays, and reviews appear in paper, electronic, and audio magazines, ezines, newspapers, calendars, and anthologies.

THE PRISONS

by Howard Winn

Image source: Credit Family Caregiver Alliance via WVTF

are full of old men serving time.
What to do about them
has become a penitent issue.
The punishment of young men,
or middle-aged men
has become
what do the frail and sick
criminals deserve as they age.
Eternal puritan punishment,
handcuffed to hospital beds,
tied to oxygen tubes to the nose
until death do them part?
Was that the original decision
of judge and jury?
Give them walkers for the exercise yard?
Attach them to dialysis until dead?

Most recently Howard Winn had poems and fiction published in The Dalhousie Review, Descant (Canada), Cactus Heart, Main Street Rag, Caduceus, Burning Word,  Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Southern Humanities Review, Cutting Edgz andBorderlands. His B. A. is from Vassar College. His graduate degree is from the Writing Program at Stanford University. His doctoral work was done at New York University. He is a State University of New York faculty member.

BASTARD GHAZAL FOR THE DEATH OF SNAP

by Lauren Schmidt

Photo by James Mollison, via NPR,  from his book Where Children Sleep: Portraits From Around The World. Alyssa, an only child, lives with her parents in Kentucky, in Appalachia — a beautiful, mountainous region that is also one of the poorest parts of America. Their small, shabby house, heated only by a wooden stove, is falling apart. Alyssa's grandmother, uncle and orphaned cousin live close by.

At the start of [November 2013], low income recipients of SNAP throughout the country experienced a reduction in their SNAP benefits due to the expiration of a temporary increase provided through the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act (ARRA) to help families through a difficult economic period. A family of four saw their SNAP benefits fall by $36 a month, or 5 percent, as a result of this change. All SNAP recipients were affected, including nearly 22 million children (10 million of whom live in “deep poverty,” with family incomes below half of the poverty line) and 9 million people who are elderly or have a disability. Additionally, nearly 900,000 veterans and 5,000 active duty service members experienced benefit reductions, according to estimates by the Center on Budget and Policy
Priorities. --- White House Report, November 2013

Without the Recovery Act’s boost, SNAP benefits will average less than $1.40 per person per meal in 2014.”
                                                —Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, August 2, 2013


The sound a whip makes on the hide of a steed—SNAP!—
to keep the needy in need, enough to believe: SNAP.

They just changed the name, “Food Stamps” to “Assistance.”
An Act renamed to stay the same. The “reconceived” SNAP.

Not Recover as in restore, but cover again.
Not Act as in action, but as in make-believe: SNAP.

To remove all the shame, the stigma of need.
To say no blood in bleeding when skin has been cleaved: SNAP.

Instead of stamps, plastic cards, what the public sees,
but separate bundles at the checkout, the public is peeved: SNAP.

Because EBTs don’t cover diapers or cleaners,
or soaps or toilet paper or Christmas Eve: SNAP.

In 2014, only $1.40 per mouth per meal.
A heavy burden for young mothers to heave: SNAP.

This is a poet’s plea to Senator Reid.
Benefits will bleed.  It’s time we all grieve the SNAP.


Lauren Schmidt is the author of three collections of poetry: Two Black Eyes and a Patch of Hair Missing; The Voodoo Doll Parade, selected for the Main Street Rag Author’s Choice Chapbook Series; and Psalms of The Dining Room, a sequence of poems about her volunteer experience at a soup kitchen in Eugene, Oregon. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as North American Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Rattle, Nimrod, Fifth Wednesday Journal, New York Quarterly, Bellevue Literary Review and The Progressive.  Her awards include the So to Speak Poetry Prize, the Neil Postman Prize for Metaphor, and the Bellevue Literary Review’s Vilcek Prize for Poetry. Schmidt is an Instructor of Development Reading and Writing at Passaic County Community College and she volunteer teaches creative writing at a transitional house for homeless mothers.