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Gleaning Lining up at the food bank, neighborly encounters. I drop off pancake mix, cold sausage, chocolate milk from our fundraiser, cancelled in Covid-time. Homeless men and women on downtown streets so long pantry workers greet them as friends in strange vicinity, not entirely strangers, not completely local. Housed locals enter quietly depart quickly or accept offers for door-step delivered meals. A woman not far mails surgical masks to her roofless brother by way of a local knowing his creekside camp. Is a mendicant holding a bowl on pilgrimage less hungry than a roofless man with family keeping distance? Finger-ping of the bowl is a bell, attention to the virtue of less. Roofless man is attended by his own practical credo. In Paris, passing a child holding out her hand to a crowd rushing up a Metro staircase, woman beside her weary. Wrong train, running back down deserted steps in time to catch the woman berate the empty child. Picking these words for thought, not work, leaves me wanting more, an eater of other courses and meals to give instead of memory. Lynn Axelrod is a community organizer in her home area, a northern California coastal village. She’s been a reporter for a weekly newspaper, an environmental NGO staffer, and an (early-retired) attorney. She has an undergraduate degree in literature, pursued graduate lit. coursework while teaching freshman courses, and has studied with several well-published poets. She continues reading literature, poetry, history, and current affairs. Her work has appeared in several journals, in print and online.
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Crossed a Line And what was this great sin I committed? I crossed a line I couldn’t see it, but it was there Nature didn’t make it, But they knew where it was They arrested me and put me in a cell They took my children away Even though they cried and screamed, And all I could say to them Was that it will be all right When I really didn’t know Just because I crossed a line, They held me in detention, It was cold in there The food was bad, They said if I promised to go back I could have my children again They said I crossed a line And they were going to make it hard To stay on this side Most cases don’t get approved Some of the guards raped me, They said I didn’t deserve to stay here, They said I should go back to where I came from I crossed a line And they put me in a refugee camp, Gave me just enough Food and shelter to survive, I still linger here Not able to go forward But I can’t go back Because I’d be killed by the gangs, Because rebel groups are carrying out Genocide against my people, Because severe drought has made it impossible To grow any crops where my tribe lives, Because the city where I lived Has been bombed to oblivion I would never have lasted long Where I was, So what choice did I have? I had to cross a line To see if I could find any justice in this world Right now I’m riding in a rickety boat In choppy waves, no life vest Across open sea Praying that we’ll make it to land Right now its midnight and I’m walking Through the desert with a few others like me, Not knowing when our coyote might abandon us, Or whether we’ll run out of water Right now I’m riding in a refrigerator truck Packed in with twenty others, There’s no light And it’s getting hot Right now I’m packing what I can carry Preparing to leave everything behind I’ve ever known, I know I might get robbed along the way, I know I might get beaten up, I know I might run out of money, I know I might go hungry, I know I might go thirsty, I know I’ll be cold sometimes, I know it’ll be too hot sometimes, I know I’ll be rained on, I might even die, But what choice do I have? I have to try To cross that line  Holly Wilson is a retired professor who lives on a small farm outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she has been active in the poetry scene for many years. She has published one book of poetry, Assorted Snapshots, and she hosts the monthly Tortuga Gallery Open Poetry Reading.
America, My Name Is Hunger Bless me father for I have sinned. My name is Hunger. I am ancient. I am birthed from Greed. I am today and tomorrow. My name is Hunger. I live on the streets. I live hidden in the suburbs. I live in factories and on farms. I live In Oregon. A family of eight go to a food bank, receiving blocks of cheese and sacks of oatmeal. At home they feed the oatmeal to their rabbits. They breed the rabbits for meat. They know Hunger, he is a cousin, he breeds resignation and despair. The youngest child is five. When asked about her dreams, innocent wide eyes query, “What is a dream?” Hunger is greedy. He leaves no room for dreams. My name is Hunger. I live on the streets. I live in cars. I live under bridges. I live in the North. The wrenching cry of loons is challenged by the wailing of dogs forced to eat their brothers. They mourn the disaster of being born. They mourn the skeletal humans unable to provide sustenance. They mourn the heroics and loyalty they have rendered. Isaiah tells me he once would feed his whole family for a week, on one swan. Then, the white man came, bringing senseless death to hundreds of thousands for their bloodstained feathers. Now, the swans are protected. My children are named Hunger, says Isaiah. They live in the alleys. They live in the jails. They live in the brothels. In the cities, young and old emaciated citizens with pinpoint opioid pupils are the offspring of pharma greed. The offspring of Hunger. A thin young man with outstretched claw approaches, he says don’t you know me? My name is Hunger and I am your son. I live In Seattle and in Brooklyn in Huston and in Detroit. I live on the streets. I live on the reservations. I live in the ghettos. I live in the suburbs. I live in factories and on farms. I am your child, your parent your tomorrow. Click on the file to listen to Theresa read her poem: 
 Theresa Richard retired from a career as an editor to live in Ireland and embrace life as a
writer of poetry and short stories. She worked for Breakwater Books in Newfoundland; Fitzhenry and Whiteside, Toronto; the Canadian Government, Mobile Oil, and the Daily Journal (US Appellate Court Cases), she was the Editorial Director at the Center for Civic Education in Los Angeles, editing law-related education text books. Born and raised in NYC, she has also lived and worked in Alaska, Newfoundland, Montreal, and briefly in Ecuador, places that provide landscapes for her creative writing. REMEMBER THE STARVING ARMENIANS In my mother’s kitchen food was weaponized plates piled high with pilaf tomatoes, chicken, and lamb. Remember the starving Armenians, my mother said. History sat down at the table with us; our lost family kept alive half a century later In Northern New Jersey, Long Island, and the Bronx. During the First Genocide of the Twentieth Century, America sent ships full of food, nurses, and nuns to the Mediterranean; posters hung in town squares and full-page ads appeared in the New York Times: Remember the starving Armenians A million and a half dead, another million scattered around the world. But I had to finish my dinner no matter how full I felt and if any scraps remained on our plates my mother stood at the kitchen sink and licked each one clean – our kitchen at least one place on earth we ate for the empty places we ate for the dead.
 MICHAEL MINASSIAN is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online magazine. His chapbooks include The Arboriculturist (2010) and Around the Bend (2017). His poetry collection, Time is Not a River, (2020) is available on Amazon. A second poetry collection entitled Morning Calm and a chapbook Jack Pays a Visit are also forthcoming in 2020. For more information: https://michaelminassian.com
Here is a video of Diane Wilbon Parks who expresses her concerns about the state of hunger. Click on this link to watch it.
Be Like the Towhee Wild and free Plenty of food For you and me Click on the file below to listen to Vickisa reading the poem  Vickisa has chronicled the New Orleans French Quarter Festival with temperatures so hot that her pencils melted, and the drizzly days of San Francisco’s Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. The limited edition, artists, foldout books, with drawings, photos, collage materials, and musings about memorable events often musical, as seen through the eyes of the artist, are started on-site and finished in the studio. She has more then 50 artists fold out books. Photo credit: Linda Peterson  Sky Road Webb is a descendent of the Tamal’ko – Tomales Bay Miwok, of present day West Marin, and is President of the Marin American Indian Alliance. Sky Road has composed and performed original Miwok songs with many organizations including The Museum of the American and Common Voice Choir. Sky Road conducts Miwok Music Workshops with Sound Orchard, teaching traditional instrument making and sharing songs in the Coast Miwok dialect. While at the Mesa Refuge, Sky Road wrote new songs and compiled a Miwok Songbook.
The Maker: Albert Adria After an episode of Netflix’s series, The Chef’s Table “Shut up and work!” That’s his credo, solo in the spotlight of his own invention. He’s a chemist, intent over his Bunsen burners, an astronomer attending as new worlds swim into focus in the shifting eyepiece. Dyslexic, he left school at fifteen, working with his brother, a chef. There, he learned to harness the oxen of his creative power, to plow the ground of his brother’s reputation. In another age, he would have been a monk, closeted in a stuffy kitchen, distilling the essences of flowers. Here, he’s a magician who eschews the public eye, finds it difficult to speak. But always, his hands, his mind fashion some culinary sport, mixture of tapas and sushi, like the liquid olive, a tiny yolk composed of olive juice. Nothing is what it seems. A whimsical octopus sushi roll bristles on a plate, like some strange caterpillar. Diners delight at a rose, capped with rosewater gel, delicious to behold. He couldn’t stop inventing if he tried, will never be anonymous again. Home Grown: Sean Brock After an episode of Netflix series, The Chef’s Table You grew up in the green Virginia hills, sliding on slag heaps overgrown with Jimson weed and kudzu, a childhood out of a dream, before your father died at 39 and you became apprentice in your grandmother’s garden and kitchen, hoeing and peeling, feeding the murky jug of vinegar its regular cup of wine, watering and weeding, putting by the family’s food for winter. In those hills, everyone had a garden where they teased out novel strains, varieties to bear the family name at county fairs and farmer’s markets, a richness disappearing even then—streaked and spotted beans, sweet melons, tomatoes, lumpy and fragrant, far from the corporate consistency we’ve grown to prize. Later, you searched for those lost seeds, tracing foods brought over on the slave ships, mixed new methods with the old, cooking the same few dishes obsessively for months to get them perfect-- brewing, planting, till your body just about gave out. At 39, the age your father died, you finally learned to live, standing in a field enjoying what you’d made, as God must have rested under the broad branches of the Live Oak, before leaving the world to its own wild ways. Here is a recording of Robbi reading her poem The Maker. Use this code to access it: hSmKW^7u  Robbi Nester is the author of 4 books of poems, the most recent Narrow Bridge (Main Street Rag, 2019). She has also edited three anthologies. Her poetry, reviews, essays, and articles have appeared widely.
Ate too much Did it again. Ate too much and feel awful. There are so many reasons why- It shouldn’t go to waste, It cost a lot to bake, Such wonderful taste, But, really, the whole cake? Did it again. Ate too much and feel guilty. Reasons to be ashamed - Think of one’s health, Of one’s heart, Of one’s weight, Of one’s delight in eating the whole damn cake! Did it again. Ate too much and swear that tomorrow – It won’t be the same, Gluttony will be tamed, Salad and fruit for health’s sake, And besides… there is no more cake. Blaming hunger for thoughts of food Oh, I wish I weren’t so hungry. I know. I’ll think of something else. That is a pretty bird in the tree. I wonder how it would taste. The bee is drinking from the flower. I wish I were a bee. Think of something else! The sun feels good on my face, the dirt soft beneath my feet. If only they made my stomach better… Maybe, I’ll lie on the ground to let the sun and soil warm me. I can watch the clouds. That one looks like a chicken! There goes a yam. There’s a bowl with fufu! Aiee, I wish I weren’t so hungry. I’ll roll on my side. Maybe it will feel better that way. That goat is eating a piece of cardboard. It looks so contented. Maybe cardboard is good! No! I will not steal from the goat. I’ll roll the other way to not see the contented goat. A mouse is running down the leg of the empty oba. Its cheeks are full! Even the mouse has maize to eat! If only I weren’t so hungry! If I roll on my stomach I’ll only see the ground. I won’t be tempted to think of food. I’m so hungry, I’m sleepy. So sleepy, I’m drifting. Drifting and dreaming… of something to eat.  Dr. Cardwell is a food security expert. In 2016, she joined the Oklahoma State University as Director of the National Institute of Microbial Forensics in Food and Agricultural Biosecurity & Professor, of Biosecurity and Microbial Forensic Sciences. From 2001-2016, Dr. Cardwell was a National Program Leader, with the United States Department of Agriculture, National Institute of Food and Agriculture in Washington, DC. She has also served as an Advisor to the World Bank.
Dear Food Pantry Critic, When it is somebody else’s fault, You don’t have to do anything about it, And that is hunger. When it is somebody else, You don’t have to do anything, And that is hunger. Sister, you are one fine one to talk About hunger, about the food pantry Calling out for donors, calling out For sugar-free jam, as if That is all they called for. You say the fact is Sugar-free jam has nothing, No nutritional value at all. Since you have the food pantry To blame, you don’t know anything About hunger. Hunger. You don’t know anything About that bright spot jam-joy brings, About berries, how those jeweled beads Surprise sunlight, highlight A day’s forgotten face. You don’t know anything at all About hunger.  A Ph.D. student concentrating in Integrative STEM Education at Virginia Polytechnic and State University, Mattie Quesenberry Smith is an English, Rhetoric, and Humanistic Studies instructor at the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia, and at Blue Ridge Community College, Weyer’s Cave, Virginia. She is also a writer. Her recent work has appeared in Tupelo Press’s 30/30 Anthology, Dappled Things, Dark Matter, Driftwood Press, Floyd County Moonshine, The Red Earth Review, and The Timberline Review. She lives at the foot of Little House Mountain in Lexington, Virginia.
Mulberries When the white mulberries ripen on the tree in my backyard, how do the birds know that the time is ripe for picking? Does the tree beckon? Does one alert starling or grackle tell the others? Do the mulberries send out their scent to the rain, on the breeze? Such abundance, the berries dance with the green leaves until most disappear into the beaks of baby birds fed on this springtime plenty, soon gone. Be like the tree. When you have plenty, plenty to share, do it now, in season, while the fruit is ripening. Don't wait until the sun and wind say "dry up"! Don't wait for a better time than now.  Elizabeth Stanley served as president of Berks Bards, a non-profit poetry group in Reading, PA. She hosted the annual Bard Fest each April, established in 1998. Elizabeth produced and hosted the Bruce Stanley Memorial Poetry Series at Reading Area Community College, sponsored by the Foundation for RACC, from 1998 to 2017. Her poems have been published in Fledgling Rag, Iris G. Press, and in The Sexuality Poems, FootHills Publishing.
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