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Kwashiorkor Indigenous, she stands in that alley still, and always will, to my eye. Naked, maybe nine, her belly’s a swell of leaked fluids around a shrunk stomach. Misshapen knobs for knees and elbows. A passing glance may catch her, just, her slightest motion slow and thick. Eyes glazed, expressionless. What family forsakes its continuity? Or will added food be set in front of sons? A Mayan woman sits waiting, almost at noon, stock-still on the curb. Her face is a closed wound, her husband a soiled rumple in the parched gutter at her feet sleeping it off. Throughout this dry season her demeanor’s caked in dust and ash, her girl by now another limp sparrow impaled on a thorn by shrikes as the volcano brews its sullen cloud. Click on the link to watch the video: Forsbergh Kwashiorkor - YouTube Here is the link below for the poem about being up on the Mayan temple at night: https://youtu.be/N2_iHR92DsE  Forsbergh’s poetry has appeared in JAMA, The Journal of Neurology, Artemis Journal, The Northern Virginia Review, Ponder Review, The Café Review, and several other venues, including as a placard on an Arlington County bus. A retired dentist, and a Vietnam veteran, he has participated in three medical missions in Guatemala and Appalachia, and has volunteered as a vaccinator against COVID-19 in Loudoun County, Virginia. He lives in Leesburg, Virginia, and is attending seminary part-time at The John Leland Center in the subject of social justice.
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My African Food is a song written and performed by the musician Evan Belize (A.K.A. Evan A. Trapp). The video was filmed by Joan Dobbie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOK2ZmhgPIQ  Evan Belize created this song in honor of the 2008 WORLD FOOD DAY. As a boy in the Caribbean, he witnessed hunger first hand, and also in his travels. He’s been performing since his earliest youth in the 1970s. Over the years Evan has opened for, and performed with, many of the greatest Caribbean and African icons. For a time he had his own band, Earth Forces. Presently he hosts the EBLS Livestream Radio program on YouTube and takes his solo harmonica performances on the road, sharing colorful original arrangements with audiences world wide.
I found a kitten once It was lying in a field of ribs and twisted spine I called the vet and said I found a starving cat what can I do? Feed it, she said I knew she was wrong. The body changes without food and what once was food becomes deadly when death has got his grip so tight that hunger is no longer known I knew it would take something more some special kind of food to draw that fragile body once again into the land of life Something sweet & thin like mother’s milk which I had, in fact, back then to feed my son & so we shared  Joan Dobbie co-hosts the River Road Reading Series (RRRS)
<riverroadreadings.blogspot.com> presently on Zoom. She teaches Hatha Yoga at the University of Oregon, and loves to share her poetry, which often seems confessional, and sometimes is. Hunger It’s only in the last year, really that I’ve allowed myself to think about it – about what it might have been actually like There. I’ve permitted myself to read. And once, late, past midnight, to view photographs posted on the internet: stark black and whites, three of each person one from each side, one full front. Although I was not allowed to stop and examine them closely, some details were inescapable. A woman’s wiry hair matted into a halo around her head as though she had just been used to mop the floor; Fear, thinly disguised as intellect, peering shadowlike though wire-rimmed spectacles; Fear, bursting beneath a black silk bosom. Fear in every eye that catches mine. They know. They all know. The photos I was looking for were not posted. Perhaps there was no time for foolery and cameras on that day. With each morsel of knowledge I gain, my hunger grows. I’ve never been able to throw even a potato skin away but now the pots of leftovers in the fridge whisper insistently to me in the night. I stumble into the kitchen not an hour after dinner and gorge myself on cold pasta, congealed beans, a sandwich with questionable mayonnaise which has been to a picnic at the river and back and spent a week in repose wrapped in sandy tinfoil on the second shelf, pink slices of ham, the flesh tearing as I hastily extract them from the plastic encasing, explaining (as I push the soft folds into my mouth) to the air that it is allowable to break kosher in cases of emergency. The more I know, the more I need to atone, to stuff my gullet, round my body into curves and counter curves. I’m doing it now, I tell you. I’m eating a bagel as I write, the seeds dripping onto the paper, cream cheese smudging the corner as I turn the page, plate resting on the hill of my belly. eating as if sheer gluttony were the antidote to starvation. I bought half a dozen this morning and the three that are left are calling to me, plaintively twining their poppy seeded fingers through the razor wire, begging. Click on the file below to listen to Grace read her poem: 
 Filmmaker and poet Grace Beeler lives in Hillsborough NC. She is the director of After the Rain, an NGO which houses both the Appropriate Sanitation Institute and the Triangle Refugee Film Project. When she is not teaching ESL at Durham Tech Community College she spends her time advocating for refugees and cleaning up urban waterways in the developing world.
She Came for Brisket but left with Ravioli She came for brisket but left with ravioli, a bag of oranges and a loaf of bread Disappointed to have her expectations dashed Too late for the brisket and the hot buttery rolls -- But the warm ravioli soothed and comforted her soul.  Margaret Brittingham is a Professor of Wildlife Resources at Penn State University where she teaches ornithology and conducts research on birds. She is part of a team that volunteers at the Community Café in State College, Pa, an excellent cooperative endeavor that provides weekly meals to the community.
This poem was inspired by an event that occurred in early February. The café usually serves about 150 meals per night, but on this particular evening, the word was out that the café was serving brisket and homemade rolls. Instead of the usual 150 meals, we had requests for 200 meals. The rule for the café is “If you think you might run out of food,... don’t”. As we watched the brisket and rolls disappear, we pulled out the emergency supply of ravioli and cooked a delicious substitute meal for the late arrivals. The next week, I attended the GLAG poetry session and was inspired to write this poem. GLAG = Global Learning in Agriculture, an annual conference sponsored by Pennsylvania State University -- Global Learning in Agriculture Week | #GLAG21: Taking Action (psu.edu) Food is a Four-Letter Word My stomach growls and roars out loud. I’m dizzy. I ate something sometime 3 days ago. My thoughts are beyond sense. I fumble in my backpack and discover saltines. Stale. But the salt tastes good. My dry throat is sore and it hurts to swallow. My prayers are silent and delicate. Praying for a rain of pop tarts. Click on this LINK to listen to Kathamann reading her poem.  Kathamann is a returned Peace Corps Volunteer/Afghanistan and a retired registered nurse. She has been active in the Santa Fe arts community for 30 years exhibiting in juried, group and solo exhibits. (kathamann.com) Her poems have occasionally been published in local and regional anthologies.
Playing on the Styx Margaret’s son left home at 12, roamed small-town streets, shied away from anyone who might know him, know his mother, his strawberry blond hair hard to miss, that was years ago and I still think of him, glimpses I caught of sad eyes, and wonder where he is now, she would drive around town looking for him, how did he manage at his age, how do all the street children manage, and where is he now in his torn jeans and Red Sox t-shirt, does he have a winter coat to pick his way through snow, slip on ice, find food—with what money—when she did find him a few times she took him to dinner, Chinese his favorite, and he would not speak, would not tell her what he had learned to escape from. Click on the file below to listen to Gayle reading her poem:
 Gayle Lauradunn grew up on a poor, rocky soil farm in west Texas where the “extra” spoonful of beans was given to her younger brother because girls come last. She has two award-winning poetry collections and a chapbook. Her third collection is forthcoming.
No Relief How dare you starve on our national TV? You stare at the camera with eyes so large they might be filled with stars, with oceans, with the treasure of Fort Knox —not just with plain old hunger we can satisfy by opening the refrigerator. Don’t flaunt your tragedy at me. You have hunger enough we could drive a Cadillac through it. How dare you show your ribs like that? This isn’t the Smithsonian. These sort of things just don’t happen —didn’t anyone tell you? Crawl on back through time and join those other miseries: Dachau, Wounded Knee, the Black Death. How dare you thrust your bloated torso out. You’re just not svelte enough. Don’t shove your claw of a hand toward me. Don’t open your mouth with your disasters of teeth. (When did you last see your orthodontist?) Don’t speak to me. We can have no converse. Video recording of Christopher reading his poem: https://youtu.be/Sm2_gaALtps  Christopher T. George was born in Liverpool, England, in 1948 and first came to the United States in 1955. He
studied poetry with Sister Maura Eichner and Elliott Coleman. His poetry has been published in journals worldwide, including Poet Lore, the American Poetry Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Beyond Words, and Madness Muse Press, and has a poetry site at http://chrisgeorge.netpublish.net/ Priorities She thought she was hungry She made toast and brewed tea then worried the toast to crumbs while the tea grew cold in its china cup He knew he was hungry He watched her feed pigeons in the park wondered if he might dash among the flock and grab a crust She thought she was hungry She ordered a Big Mac and fries then nibbled the burger discarded the pickles complained to herself that the fries were cold He knew he was hungry He rummaged the garbage behind MacDonald's found half a burger, two pickles some cold fries cried in relief She strolled down the avenue regretting she had not kept the fries The pigeons looked hungry This City This city has shoe stores, but no soul to speak of. This city shouts "help me," but no one takes heed This city has cell phones yet nobody answers the cries of the hungry who call out in need. This city has streetlights, yet harbors a darkness. This city has children who cry in the night. This city has traffic that muffles their weeping as they stand defeated and lost to their plight. This city has hopelessness etched in its structures. This city lacks passion, while apathy reigns. This city has people who beg for our handout while we take the best and then toss the remains This city has churches, yet thirsts for salvation. This city has bakers, but not enough bread. This city has hunger that eats at its edges. When will the poor of this city be fed? Spare Night was falling, the room was in shadow, but Mom wouldn't light the lamps until it was absolutely necessary. Eating didn’t require that much light. Supper was a feast that evening. My brother had caught a rabbit, so the meal that night actually contained meat. We held hands around the table, bowed our heads, said grace. I added my own silent prayer that there might be eggs for breakfast. We had never been rich, but this year was particularly bad. A drought claimed most of our crops, and Dad was laid off from the mill. We all survived, and things got better. Dad found a job, the drought ended. Mom turned the lamps on at dusk and always served meat for supper. But I never forgot that bleak, spare year, and the fear I felt in my heart. Never forgot those times when my prayers included a plea for eggs.  Sharon Anderson has been published in many international and local anthologies, has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and has four publications of her own poetry with a fifth to be released soon. She serves on the advisory boards of the Nassau County Poet Laureate Society, and the Bards Initiative.
GLEANING Her: scratching stubbled cornfields with the crows To fill a needy pocket in the bleak. A few dry kernels fallen in the rows-- A gnawing, woeful game of hide-and-seek. Them: digging desert roots in brittle soil With fly-vexed baby hanging in her sash, Too dry to feed the child or to toil, And all too weak to pound the root to mash. Him: crumpled in the frigid alley doorway Waiting for the restaurant close, Praying for enough for just one more day. Asleep before the cup of coffee froze. And none of these will see another dawn, But Hunger will go gleaning, on and on. Watch Jay read his poem in this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JY7JmZ4dC_w&list=PL5bJ-qBBLooIwe-3ryvu5GIrV9EfOo4yj&index=11  Jay Hall Carpenter (Montgomery County, MD) has been a professional artist for over 40 years, beginning as a sculptor for the Washington National Cathedral, and winning numerous national awards for his work. He has written poetry [Dark and Light, Poetry (2012)], plays, and children’s books throughout his career and now sculpts and writes in Silver Spring, MD.
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