War Doesn’t Want War doesn't want to be an arcade game, doesn't want an enemy a blip on the radar screen. It doesn't want a victor with the best eye-hand coordination. It wants the thrill of killing at intimate range, wants the torch, the stench of singed flesh (the skin tastes best). It hates dining alone, making death with strangers. It wants to know what it's eating. Barbara Goldberg (Montgomery County, MD), poet, translator and essayist, is Series Editor of The Word Works’ International Edition’s.
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DC Farmer’s Market In the Land of Plenty, carrots congregate. Dusty yellow and saffron sticks call on Carotene to work its power to the people, strolling aisles of an urban farmer’s market. Rows of verdant spinach sparkle iron-rich, nestled next to nectarines. Orange oracles ooze Vitamin C, their citrus scent reminiscent of Paradise. In the Land of Plenty, in this Paradise, this Fruitopia I watch a hunched homeless woman emptying her voluminous pockets to find change for cherries. Cherries gleam like garnets, these round promises of summer. The long-bearded farmer refuses her change. Gently placing orbs of glistening, rain-kissed fruit in her hands he says, “These are for you.” She smiles beamingly through toothless grin. “Just be careful of the pits, ma’am. And please come back next week. We have plenty to share.” In this Land of Plenty, there are 800 million more people to nourish with Earth’s bounty. In this Land of Plenty, we’ll grow goodness from seed. Rachel Carillo (Montgomery County, MD) is a Noodle Expert, poet, gig-economy writer, social and climate activist, share-economy denizen and public transportation devotee. With a Master's degree in International Studies, she has traveled extensively, lived bi-coastally and skied the Southwest as a Mountain Girl. She is currently on a search for home while writing her first novel. Mother Hunger stares at me With those empty eyes, Parched lips, Protruding belly, And the bigness of - A world awry Starvation hopes at me With a bucket brimming with The golden kernels of A million dollar sunset Offset by the rambling Road to rescue Death fills me With endless knowing Of another mother rocking Her starving baby One last time To sleep An internationally recognized food justice leader and specialist, Liz Reitzig has recently presented her memory- and nature-infused poetry at readings throughout the County. She is a mother to five amazing children and lives in Prince George’s County, MD with her family. Fried Tomatoes My mother didn’t drive a car and so my father would leave her money for the week, and she’d have to walk for groceries and couldn’t always manage, but if an unexpected visitor dropped in she always had tomatoes. These would be fried and put on toast with cream sauce on top. We always had milk and flour. Sometimes Uncle Freddie came by on his bicycle after delivering things people ordered from stores, carried in his bike basket. He was fifteen and saving money to be a lawyer. He wore a tweed cap and woolen knickers. Uncle Freddie died last week at a hundred and one. If my mother was surprised by her brother, she would fry up some tomatoes. When I walked home from school for lunch and she served them I knew she wasn’t able to walk up to the store. And today when I opened the refrigerator after two weeks away, and just out of bed with the flu, I saw two fat tomatoes alone on the shelf. I always have tomatoes. So, I’ll slice them in olive oil and salt until slightly burned on the edges then scoop everything on two pieces of toast and if I close my eyes, I’ll see a yellow kitchen with squares of sun on the linoleum floor, and my uncle, one last time grabbing his hat, and running out the door. Grace Cavalieri (Anne Arundel County, MD) is Maryland's tenth poet laureate. She founded and still produces "The Poet and the Poem" for public radio, celebrating 43 years on-air. Her forthcoming book (2020) is What The Psychic Said. Under the Bridge it must have been the summer of 1955 in Fukuoka, Japan. I was just six. my father was the American consul in the city. my mother was taking me with her on her morning rounds. our last call at noon was to a deserted area in a part of the city unfamiliar to me. we parked off the road in a dirt lot and walked down a crooked path to the edge of a small river. there was broken concrete lying around in the glaring hot sun. I asked my mother what we were doing. She said we were visiting someone she knew who lived under the bridge. we got down into the shade under the bridge. my mother called. she walked around and called some more. she was in a summer dress and proper shoes. She was calling out in Japanese. she turned to me and said in English: “they must be out.” we could see some clothes lying in heaps and pans and stuff in a makeshift area under the bridge. as we were leaving, my mother put down a see-through plastic bag of hard candy, the kind you suck and crack your teeth on. she left the candy by one of the pans. we made our way back up the river bank up to the car and drove off into our life full of food and things to do. the consul’s wife could not solve their hunger but she could leave a little bit of sweetness and, at the same time, teach her son that not everyone had enough to eat. Q.R.Quasar (aka David Martin ) is a poet, playwright, novelist & scholar/translator of Arabic & Persian poetry & philosophy (Ph.D., UCLA). His books are available from Global Scholarly Publications (www.gsp-books.org.): Watching the Universe Die, The Universe in Bloom, Ocean of Suns, Buddha Time, etc. Q.R.Quasar lives in Montgomery County, MD. |
PoemsThese poems were recognized at the 2019 WFD Poetry Competition ArchivesPoets
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