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Break Bread Break bread here, bake bread. Mill the flower, knead the dough. Tend the yeast, you are welcome here. As you are, at this simple feast. Set the table, if you are able. Help with dishes, if your heart wishes. For you are we, you will always be. Welcome right here, for we are eternity.  Jay Rose Ana is a Worcestershire poet, originally from the heart of the Midlands in the United Kingdom. She explores the world from her laptop and writes her words through lived experiences, a deep soul, and a creative imagination. Jay Rose Ana is hostess of Words Collide Poetry Open-Mic and The Poetic Podcast. Her work can be found at www.jayroseana.com
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After My Prayers for me, I often have time to look out the window at the tree-trimmed easy lush nook of my city and ask why the rest aren’t as lucky, that people go hungry, so many lining up for food, that some in the world are starving. I usually just stop there. Too horrible and complex. Last night, headlights flickered through that delectable foliage to my pretty-perfect apartment, like a Morse code, which I never took the time to learn, and my silly woke sister said it read: Look at the plenty I have given. And all I ask is that you share. Jay Carson taught for many years at Robert Morris University where he was a founding advisor to the literary magazine, Rune. He has published more than 100 poems and a number of short stories in local and national journals, magazines, and collections. Jay is also the author of Irish Coffee (Coal Hill Press) and The Cinnamon of Desire (Main Street Rag).
Teach a Man to Fish Teach a man to fish- fixes it all- Right? No? Wasn't that what they taught us? Give a man a fish and he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime. Sounds simple right? Well, what if there is no fishing rod? What if there is no fishing line. What if there is no ocean or any fish left to catch, or stove to cook on, or knife to clean and filet them so? What if there was no more hunger? Or belly to fill? Or need to nourish? What if the man knows how to fish but chooses not to? What if that man hates fish. Maybe, he's allergic-what's next? Do we force-feed him the tuna raw? Like an obstinate child. Sent to his room without dinner, with hunger still unsatisfied. We think we know what's best. Open up, chew and swallow. *Form- Clicks Syllabics- CLXXX (Roman Numeral for 180) (9 syllables per line, 5 stanzas, 4 lines per stanza, 180 syllables) Never Expect Too Much If only someone had saved me the last slice of pizza... Optimistic, but naive. But, wouldn't it be nice? A friendly hand to hold a door. I beg your pardon. Oh, what for? Never expect too much from people and you won't be disappointed. Always assume the worst outcome, you'll be sad, but remain undaunted. The world's an unkind place, when you're waiting in a line. When shortages and overreactions seem to monopolize our time. Or are we outta time? I suspect the latter. It's inherent, baked within the batter. If you were listening to me in the first four stanzas, this about sums it up. If you were expecting more, sorry to end this so abrupt. *Form-drabble  Vincent J Calone is a New Formalist poet. He studied under Lewis Turco- author of the "New Book of Poetic Forms" on New England Press.
Poet, playwright, actor, director- he wears different many hats but the message remains the same- Why do we do what we do? How can we change it? And how can we learn, grow and evolve? Vincent's writes and posts a new poem everyday on Raven Wire Poetry Prompts on Facebook continuously since 08/01/22 based off on the daily poetry prompt. Vincent is proud to be part of the writing collective. Thanksgiving Gratitude Before we ate, we went around the table: "What are you thankful for?" The usual: health, family, home. Then the formal prayer, grace before we filled our faces: "Bless this meal and the hands that produced it. Amen." The hands are more than those who came from the kitchen. The hands come from farms where turkeys are bred, grown, fed day after day until they are ready to grace someone's holiday table. They come from acres that are prayed over for just the right balance of sun and rain to produce the yams, beans, potatoes, and pumpkins -- the feast they cannot afford for themselves. They come from fields, from stooped-over pickers paid pennies to gather in the harvest, moving from field to field, farm to farm until the season ends and they must subsist until it's time to do it all again. They come from the bowels of the waterworks, giving 24/7 attention to the knobs and dials to keep the water flowing and potable, who give up their holidays to make sure everyone else has theirs. How can I, with my head bowed, bear the weight of all the hands who prepared this feast?  Laura McGinnis is a retired project manager. She studies with the University of Pittsburgh's Osher Lifelong Learning Institute and Carlow University's Madwomen in the Attic. She has been published by Clarendon House, Poetry Quarterly, Sweetiecat Press, and Indie Blu(e).
Homeless on the Trail Slouched on a bench along the walking trail, A black man with scruffy beard and wearing A dirty tan parka more reminiscent of deep winter Than an early September afternoon temperature Hovering in the nineties. His face shrouded by The hood, its strings pulled tight so only eyes And mouth appear. His worn soul leather shoes By his feet, stockings plaid with an oppressive odor That smells of neglect. I’ve seen him before, sitting Outside a Starbucks sitting or sleeping on a bench. Homeless with little belongings, no shopping cart Only a dark green Hefty bag, his physical load light. On this steamy day, I walk over to him, hand him A couple of bucks for a “cold drink.” He takes The money, mumbling something that I could Not make out. Does he ever talk? Speak to someone? Or is he invisible? Unseen in this affluent community? I wonder what would happen if I sat down across From him? Would he talk? Or might be feel threatened? His space invaded by someone from the other side of life?  Ron Shapiro, an award-winning English and Creative Writing high school teacher, teaches Memoir Writing through George Mason University to older adults. The recipient of an Outstanding Teaching Award from Cornell, he has previously published works in The Whole Word Catalogue, More Strategies for Teaching Writing, and NoVa Bards 2022 Anthology.
Full Empty Bowl By T. A. Niles 02/15/2022 (Inspired by Diane Wilbon Parks’ creative genius & Poetry X Hunger) Spoons…a fork… all with handles stretched and thin as a mother stretches thin her supplies for grateful gruel Mouths…open wide in hope and anticipation of sustenance that never shows except in drips and drabs that can’t sustain Faces…faces hue the spectrum shapes geometrically twisted like innards filled with pangs angry entrails spit parched accordion growls The big empty… the big empty-empty bowl holds naught but air so like the bellies of those who stare into its barren depths And fruit…and veggies… all outside the bowl so full of emptiness so full of broken-meal-promises and shards of sated dreams And eyes… eyes that stare in longing bulging squinting in their unrelenting seeking searching for even a tiny morsel A morsel… mighty enough to start saliva flowing in arid maws filled with too-soft teeth or none at all A bowl…a bowl wide enough deep enough to hold only but an infinitesimal smidgen of the soup we —the full-- discard daily Click on the file below to listen to the recording: 
Diane Wilbon Park's artwork:   T. A. was a seed planted in the Caribbean soil of Trinidad & Tobago on the cusp of the transformational 60s. He was watered and fertilized in the gardens of Brooklyn, New York and Hartford, Connecticut throughout most of the bell-bottomed, “blaxploitation-movie-era” of the 70s. Had trials by fire in the USMC in the late 70s to early 80s. Budded and bloomed in academia in the 80s and 90s, before his withering began at the turn of the 21st century. Yet, before he falls from the stem, and is ground once more into dust, he hopes to feed a mind or two. He relishes the thought of others being nourished by his expressions. T. A. is also thrilled to have narrated Mud Ajar, the latest collection of poems penned by Poetry X Hunger's founder Hiram Larew and made available to the public by Atmosphere Press.
Instructions for Hooting at Hunger* Perhaps you do not live in a place where you can find red or ochre clay, to smother your doorway with bright dust Homowo! Nonetheless, howl at the arid soil You perhaps do not live in a place where it is easy to grow corn and do not perhaps have palms to pulverize, to extract oil from the pulp but somehow you must create kpekpei from those two ingredients-- Homowo! howl at the remembrance of the great famine It is the season of ritual return-- first, the waiting, the exodus, the hurry which does not allow the yeast to leaven the bread, and this kpekpei sprinkled on doorsteps as reminder. Homowo! Sprinkle it at all doorways, places where spirits of the departed are likely to gather then howl at the death, howl with thanks for the fruits of harvest howl until your heart heaves into the heaped bowls of all that nourishes. Now is the time to jeer at dark times, starve the winter gods Homowo! Drum on your knees, start the dance where you bump into each other without fear of causing offense-- Howl at all social constraints! Howl as excruciatingly, unbearably, intolerably as you can with no thought to embarrassment, no thought to mental agony-- Homowo! Now is the time to celebrate twins, fertility, the harvest you bring home to share Homowo-- the great celebration of howling! *https://encyclopedia2.thefreedictionary.com/Hooting+at+Hunger+Festival  Kitty Jospé: retired French teacher, active docent, received her MFA in poetry (2009 Pacific University, OR). Since Feb. 2008, she has been leading workshops on art and word, and moderates weekly sessions to help people to be more attentive and appreciative readers of good poems.
Latest book: Sum:1 March 2021, http://www.foothillspublishing.com/2021/jospe.html One “Yemen’s Covid Coverup,” Frontline Little Hassan sits on the examining table, his arms snappable twigs, his ribs washboard, his belly swollen. He pats his palm on his chest to show where it hurts. He is eight years old, but he looks like four. He does not go to school. His belly hurts, too, he signs. Malnutrition has stolen most of his hearing. His head bends to one side, looking way too heavy for his ravaged body, and he smiles a little, like a very old man, probably because there are people paying attention. The nurse who runs the clinic is agitated about the worldwide concern with Covid. Where is the vaccine for our war? she asks. She laughs scornfully, hopelessly. Starving Hassan will be treated, and sent home to starve, treated and starved, one of two million. Right now he wants us to know his chest and stomach hurt. I cannot unsee his face.  Judy Kronenfeld's fifth full-length collection of poems, Groaning and Singing, was published by FutureCycle Press in February, 2022. Previous books include Bird Flying through the Banquet (FutureCycle, 2017), and Shimmer (WordTech, 2012).
Photo by Alexis Rhone Fanche At Pat’s Farms At a time in our life we’d rather forget, a happening we will never forget. Late afternoon, we hover over racks Reduced for Quick Sale, ripe and ready produce, pray we find vegetables, salad fixings, maybe fruit for dessert if there is any. We find a cello-wrapped pack of cucumbers we can slice tonight and soft tomatoes I can make a hearty sauce for over our plain pasta. Our meager finds held in grateful hands, we stand on line behind shopping carts opulent with clear bags of lush berries, fresh veggies, and exotic fruits from aisles we don’t venture down. The total is $2.17; we’re ready with two singles, a dime, nickel, and two pennies. The cashier smiles, packs our dinner into a handled bag and says, “It’s paid.” We hold our our open palms with the money, stutter “But — .” She waves over her shoulder that the woman on line ahead of us who just left paid our bill. “Have a nice day,” patting my hand as she passes me the bag. We talk about it all the way home, still remarking these dozen years later when life has almost righted itself, feeding us with thankful blessings, we revel in how amazing it was, never sharing the story, still wondering how did she know? -- Backyard Farmer Sustainability has us tilling soil, adding amendments, peat moss, earth-friendly fertilizer, and has us researching to grow our own veggies. We attend a garden seminar, learn that peppermint plants will keep the family of bunnies living under our deck from munching on our crops. Broccoli. I never thought to plant it, didn’t buy it yesterday from the fruit stand because it didn’t look healthy, that not-so-good green I often see and call pesticide green. We can get three crops from just one plant, enough for the season. Strawberries – he shows us a verdant pot, tiny buds set, tells us to expect a bountiful crop of about 40 berries per plant. This will be a deck pot that will travel inside – expect berries for Thanksgiving and Christmas and snow day mugs full of berries delivered to blizzard shut-in neighbors in need of sweet berry smiles. Next, Romaine lettuce growing broad lime-green leaves already, plant now in cool temperatures, no fertilizer, let it grow. Next, spinach. None for me. I’ll plant it in a part of the garden without peppermint plants so the bunnies can feast. Of course, we’ll plant our usual crop of cucumbers – kirbys and divas for me, marketmore 76 for Paul, several more peppermint plants. Cherry tomatoes – sungold, grapes, and sweet millions, enough to feed the entire town. This new outlook of working the soil, saving our planet, ravenous to learn and share sustains us through hungry times of solitude. -- Poem Garden What if there were no produce departments or farm stands, no place to buy grapes or tomatoes, no watermelons in summer, no seven varieties of lettuce to salad your hunger for crisp, healthy eating... What if words no longer worked to tell a story, or show a reader the lining of your heart in verse, no way to know how nourishing a poem can be for someone starved of metaphoric sustenance, void of satisfying similes... What if a famine befell us, like a virus that spread around the world, in cities and farmlands, urban and suburban alike, a pandemic to keep us from hugging, from touching hand to hand or reaching out across a screen of technology to know we are not alone... What if we overcame our fears, followed wise counsel, emptied our hearts of rage and anger to write love poems, emptied our refuse piles to rake in amendments to change our outlook to planting seeds of unity to sprout nutritious, delicious meals of poems served on vibrant platters to everyone in every town, city, state, country of our survival on a planet we adopt as mother, plant a garden of wholesome words with roots to reach everyone... would you feel nourished? I would.  J R (Judy) Turek, Superintendent of Poetry for the LI Fair, 2020 Hometown Hero by the East Meadow Herald, 2019 LI Poet of the Year, Bards Laureate 2013-2015, editor, workshop leader, recipient of two Pushcart nominations, and author of six poetry books, the most recent 24 in 24. ‘The Purple Poet’ has written a poem a day for 18 years; she lives on Long Island with her soul-mate husband, Paul, her dogs, and her extraordinarily extensive shoe collection.
The Planter He knows a thing or two about edibles emerging tentatively from trampled earth from tilled earth from earth that lies dormant until impregnation of seed until saturation of life’s liquid until the warm bright gleam penetrates the fleeing darkness He knows about planting planting seeds in soil rich or barren on hills swept clean while wind whistles near streams that gush or trickle on desertscapes bereft of promise in skyscraper gardens and rural enclaves of the lost and forgotten Yes. He knows about planting planting ideas that curl and spiral up from smokey inspiration spaced just so… so they can breathe, can stretch their ephemeral limbs before settling in to the hard work of feeding minds and spirits… He knows their gripping pangs their clenching their yearning gaping maws reminiscent of avarice yet are more kin to need not greed… when you dive into the depths penetrate into the core of things what’s required is sustenance not comeuppance He knows beyond the power of gray matter and questing tendrils knows somehow in his marrow in his molecules that prickle all the way to skin, from corns and callouses to follicles that mere morsels can serve as understudies for feasts He knows that his heart beats his blood flows, his neurons fire in replication of all who breathe have breathed will breathe… their hues as salient as dandruff on a white jacket  T. A. was a seed planted in the Caribbean soil of Trinidad & Tobago on the cusp of the transformational 60s. He was watered and fertilized in the gardens of Brooklyn, New York and Hartford, Connecticut throughout most of the bell-bottomed, “blaxploitation-movie-era” of the 70s. Had trials by fire in the USMC in the late 70s to early 80s. Budded and bloomed in academia in the 80s and 90s, before his withering began at the turn of the 21st century. Yet, before he falls from the stem, and is ground once more into dust, he hopes to feed a mind or two. He relishes the thought of others being nourished by his expressions. T. A. is also thrilled to have narrated Mud Ajar, the latest collection of poems penned by Poetry X Hunger's founder Hiram Larew and made available to the public by Atmosphere Press.
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