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SQUAB The poem was first published in The Chiron Review Driving to yoga this morning, I saw a flock of pigeons raveling & unraveling above the palm trees. Our city’s poet laureate writes about pigeons as avatars of love. What did I see? Protein on the wing. Our laureate compares feral pigeons to street people, both declared unsanitary urban pests, the birds’ bodies contaminated by heavy metals, but whose aren’t? I want to be a good person, stop child abuse, take back the night, fight poverty. I’m ashamed I eat when I’m not hungry. No more memes on Facebook, no more feel-good marches, let’s learn to mend nets, scald feathers, to gut & to spatchcock, let’s deliver tons & tons of pigeon meat to shelters & soup kitchens, saying, “Enjoy! It’s squab!”  Jefferson Carter has poems in such journals as Barrow Street, Cream City Review, and Rattle. Chax Press published Get Serious: New and Selected Poems, chosen as a Southwest Best Book of 2013 by the Tucson/Pima County Public Library. In 2020, Presa Press released his eleventh collection, Birkenstock Blues.
He lives in Tucson with his wife Connie. He’s a passionate supporter of Sky Island Alliance, a regionally-based environmental organization.
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The Hunger Dialect We sip on tea flavored with righteousness indignation Add a touch of honey dripping in own gluttony While we slowly speak the dialect of hunger We claim to be ambitious on solutions But truth says we have never met We spread lies evenly As if, evenness eliminates detection Hungry people see a world of excess who view starvation as avoidable Victim shaming is our specialty This dialect of deception is clearly recognizable The language we lie with is so bitter, even when dripping off of sweet religious lips We can’t feed everybody Here comes the lie We embrace the acceptance that doing nothing is equal to trying Yet we continuously knit together new excuses with old lies We shame hungry people on full stomachs and then we rewrite the narrative Imagine a world that throws away enough food to feed the hungry complaining about loss While the population who has food insecurity is waiting to be found Empty stomachs are not looking for empty words We need long term, right now, sustainable actions Let’s plant fruits and vegetables and let freedom be the gardener Allow people to pick fresh food from their community greenery Have community barbeques and well placed public pantries Donate to trusted restaurants so they can offer free meals to those in need Create central areas for restaurants to bring food instead of throwing it away Let’s reinvent how we distribute food Make it easier to ask without asking And no more pretty phrases for ugly things Starvation is not “food insecurity” Is death “breathing insecurity” Our appetite for synonyms seems high Hunger has many levels And a need to make hunger definable to all is needed Let’s make sure we are not using it to avoid saying words that sting Starvation is a “life insecurity” Action is the cure But we’re too busy slicing up excuses While hungry people look at an empty plate full of indecision We don’t even offer them a cup of hope Click on the file below to listen to Kim reading her poem: 
 Kim B Miller is an award winning poet. She is the Poet Laureate for Prince William County, VA. She is the First African American Poet Laureate for PWC. Kim performed nationally in person and internationally online. She is the author of several books. You can find more about Kim at www.kimbmiller.com
HUNGER IS A SYMPTOM WAR AND A RAVAGED LAND, CORRUPT AND INEPT GOVERNMENT, DROUGHT AND PESTILENCE, BOTTOM LINE ENTERPRISES STRIP THE LAND OF OLD GROWTH FOREST, AND MINERALS ARE THE GENESIS OF HUNGER. THE BENEFACTORS OF HUNGER ARE THE PEOPLE, THE POOR AND DOWNTRODDEN. THOSE MOST UNABLE TO FIGHT BACK, THE HELPLESS. THE MOST HELPLESS ARE THE CHILDREN WHO BEAR THE BRUNT OF HUNGER. SO AS ALL CAN SEE, HUNGER IS BUT A SYMPTOM OF MAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN, OF GREED AND POWER WHICH FEEDS THE PLAGUE OF HUNGER ON THE MASSES. IT IS A HUMANE ACT TO DOLE OUT MEALS TO THOSE IN NEED, BUT WHAT ABOUT TOMORROW? THE CANCER IS SYSTEMIC. THE CURE IS NOT AN EASY ONE. IT WILL TAKE TIME AND MUCH EFFORT. WHAT IS EASY IS TO START, TODAY WOULD BE GOOD.  Milton Carp from Fort Lauderdale, Florida is a 91 year old who has been writing poetry for a little over a year. He lost his wife of 68 years in 2019, and is reinventing himself through the perfect vehicle of poetry.
There are people in the world so hungry that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread. -M S Gandhi They helicopter in hay for cows in Chama stuck in nine feet of snow covered grazing land. Cattle huddle together for warmth, less organized than arctic penguins, these girls continuously shuffle towards the center. Where they once grew rice, Haitian families buy mud cookies to fill their bellies, the cost of real fare impossible. Behind the train station in New Delhi, small children, shorter than your waste, scavenge in dumps for scraps of food, fight off dogs for every morsel.... Yet, we count sheep before we sleep. "It is good people who make good places."Anna Sewell  Debbi Brody is an avid attendee and leader of poetry workshops throughout the USA’s southwest. She has been published in numerous national and regional journals and anthologies of note including Poetica, Broomweed, Sin Fronteras. Her newest full length book, In Everything, Birds, (Village Books Press, OKC, OK, 2015) and her chapbook, Walking the Arroyo (Cyberwit, 2019) is available at independent bookstores, on-line book sources and through the author for signed copies.
My Hunger is Real My hands itch With the want to tear into a fresh loaf To have nose tickled by the warm yeasty steam My hands itch With the want to peel the rind from an orange And feel its succulent lobes part under my teeth Sour sticky juices dripping from my chin The nail of my finger scrapes into the fleshy pad of my thumb Anxiously sniffing and searching my empty hands My guts ache and roll like anguished worms I try to breathe, though my eyes go glassy As I choke on empty pain A passing man offers me a magazine Promising hot gossip and tantalizing entries How dare the world offer me brain candy Whilst my knotted stomach threatens to eat itself into nothingness Like an ancient snake I want real candy For my real stomach Click on the file below to hear Zane reading their poem:
 Zane is a 2nd year college student studying botany and Spanish. They are an artist and newfound poet. They hope to use their art as a platform to communicate and share real struggles and experiences.
Atrophy in Madaya, Syria The grandmother refuses morning meal today and yesterday. Again tomorrow. The young ones must have more in their bowls she says. The bag of rice flops over, level of bulgar falls. She ceases eating, moves only in planned ways. Two neighbors die, the ribs of her grandchildren are outlined in flesh. Kwashiorkor, I have to look it up, hear it pronounced, until I remember pictures of children from Biafra, Vietnam, the Holocaust, this famine and that, further back than cameras. Images show flies on their faces, swollen bellies, listless people who wasted, vanished. The moon in daytime spirals across the sky, little noticed. Click on the file below to listen to Martha read her poem:
 Martha E. Snell's poetry appears in or is forthcoming from journals such as Ninth Letter, Moon City Review, Cutthroat, The Poet's Billow, and Streetlight Magazine. She received the Mary Jean Irion Prize from Chautauqua Literary Arts Friends in 2015 and was a finalist for the 2015 Bermuda Triangle Prize (The Poet's Billow) and the 2019 Patricia Dobler Poetry Award. A professor emeritus at University of Virginia's Curry School of Education, she earned an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts in 2015 and has since completed two residencies at the Vermont Studio Center. She lives in Charlottesville, Virginia.
Homeless because … He is homeless because he failed math. He couldn't figure out how to divide 1 pay check into 4 hungry children. He could only add to his mounting bills. He could only subtract opportunities. He should have studied how to multiply options. She is homeless because she failed english. She is a pronoun it is used instead of a noun. Nouns are places, people, things or ideas. She has no place People have abandon her and the thing is food but she has no idea from where. Children are homeless because sons and daughters failed biology not knowing a zygote from aint got snuggle beneath their father’s musky arm pits. See he perspires worry about the children slumbering on his shoulder.. Comforted by the stench knowing daddy is near. They are homeless because They failed political-science. So hard to trace boundaries and remember political parties when you're not at the festivities. Franklin's New Deal does not have the urgency of the raw deal they have been dealt. Cards pulled from the bottom of the deck. but Homeless is not hopeless and they have failed political science, biology english and math but has society failed humanity. Elijah b Pringle III an artivist who uses art to subtlety or loudly protest/enlighten. “When you hit people over the head with a message, you make them unconscientious. I want to awaken them with a nudge or a slap!” Published globally he has appeared on Radio, TV & Stage. He has over 40 years of experience in Training/Education. He credits his true education to 5 generation of teachers.
AloftFor all those still seeking a good meal in the dust. If the chicken knew what lifted her, she could not say, strutting in the sun, looking for food, then propelled across the farm into the dark. 1. Incredible luck. A murky tidal wave crashed across the plain. I saw it coming, closed all the shutters. It looked like the judgment, dark powdery angry rolls, rushing toward me. My defense as effective as my six year old fighting to bite a thin carrot with two front teeth missing. A rust colored film breaking in to the smallest crack, the slimmest crevice, coating everything. The winds sixty miles an hour or more. I was grateful my Billy was in school, they had a storm cellar. I got that call before the cacophony of the heavens. The sky now the color of melting Baker's dark chocolate. And then it was over. I heard the cluck and looked twice; there stood a plump white Leghorn wearing a rusty coat. Dinner! Family too thin, eating the last of the root vegetables. A miracle! The chicken looked dazed, I wasted no time. It was a job lifting my eyelids, lifting my arms was easier. The dust gave me an edge, a better grip on the twiggy legs. 2. He heard it too. Hungry, out of work, on the road for days, he started past the house he needed water, he needed food. He saw the hulk of dust approaching, ran for the barn. This farm had nothing more than he had left behind. Undetected he climbed aloft Listening to what sounded like a dump truck was loosing its load overhead. He waited till the soil stopped raining down. When it ceased, he heard it. A surprised cluck. He would have kept going, but for that promising sound. He heard the pursuit, the capture the final strangled cluck, then the danse macabre in the yard; wings extended, legs in a great hurry, rushing nowhere, covering ground she had never covered in life. He watched the woman drain, pluck, sing. He heard “as I went down in the river to pray” coming from the kitchen. I put the pot on to boil, “studying about that good old way.” Chicken baptized, rinsing the storm off the last of the turnips, onions, carrots, parsnips. Peeling and singing, “and who shall wear the starry crown, oh Lord show me the way.” He waited. “Oh Lord show me the way.” she moved a basket of laundry out to the line, the last of the elephantine cloud lumbering away. Shaking the residue loose from the line, I lifted the sheets, towels knowing it would be tomorrow's refrain, “oh sinners lets go down lets go down, come on down down in the river to pray.” I smiled for the first time in days. He whistled soundlessly, picking up the air... By the time I returned, more than the storm had blown by the chicken the pot gone, though he'd had the courtesy to turn off the stove. If the chicken knew what lifted her, she could not say, strutting in the sun, looking for food, then propelled across the farm into the dark. Click on this LINK to listen to Linda read her poem.  Linda Trott Dickman has been writing poetry since her first sleep-away camp experience when she was ten years old. Linda is the author of Robes, The Air That I Breathe and Road Trip. Linda’s poetry has been published on-line, in Pratik Journal and in several anthologies. She is the current coordinator of poetry for the Northport Arts Coalition (Northport, NY.), has taught poetry to children for over 35 years and leads a poetry workshop for adults at Samantha’s Li’l Bit O’ Heaven coffee house in East Northport, NY.
FAMINE . . . the body is dyed by illness like a piece of cloth by an extraneous color. —W.G. Sebald The dyer makes the linen a deeper color of dug earth, boils it in water with acacia until the natural mole’s-back gray-tan becomes peat-bog purple. The well-fed lord is not pleased with the linen’s new color and wants it changed back. The dyer replies that once a beginning unfolds, recovery of what was is not possible. And he feels helpless walking home that night to his beyond-hungry child. On a cot she lies fevered, her hair fallen out, her mouth without saliva. Transports come by every evening to gather the dead, and they jostle over the river to a far-from-town field, where blackened by illness tubers also rest. The dyer lies down next to his daughter, and while she sleeps, he tries to solve the undyeing of a piece of cloth. from Anne Harding Woodworth, Up From the Root Cellar, Cervena Barva Press, 2006 Click on the link below to listen to Anne read her poem: https://www.dropbox.com/s/96j6z8srj1rrsg8/Woodworth%E2%80%94Famine.m4a?dl=0  Anne Harding Woodworth, author of
a sixth book of poetry, The Eyes Have It, with a seventh, Trouble, coming in late 2020. Famish On the starving plate you filled a hungry heart with empty food and left a hunger. You served up soup instead of sympathy, your way to say what still left a hunger. You baked a bridge of bread that just revealed what you could not cross; it left a hunger. You offered roast beef that never appeased a craving for words, which left a hunger. You wrote letters with your meals, meant to speak your silence. Unsent, they left a hunger. Your dazzling dishes did not nourish; feast turned to endless fast that left a hunger. In stillness, as you passed the salt and we ate our détente, I was left a hunger. Click on the file below to hear Eileen read the poem:
 Eileen Trauth is an author, inclusion advocate and Emeritus Professor of Information Sciences & Technology at Pennsylvania State University. She has published ten nonfiction books, many articles and one play. Her creative writing includes poetry, historical fiction and screen writing. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. www.eileentrauth.com
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