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FOODBANK In the rooms where we make parcels. Stacked up tins and non-perishables. When the virus has hit hard and morale is scarred We struggle to hold all our marbles. Tailored bags, veggie or meat eater. Selecting each item with loving care. Feeding the families without a prayer in the house of the stain-glass eyed mitre. My ties with Islamic culture, Cater to the tastes of the ummah in accordance with their sunnah. Dignity beneath the vultures. Gluten free treats for the children. A chocolate for mum to sweeten the glum. Community alms in the temple den. Plant based milk for the vegans. Generous with pulses and pasta. Queues at the door as we pack faster. The dejected flocking to the subsistence haven. The excitement of something nice. M & S biscuits or a Waitrose dessert. The priceless small pick me ups we insert. A leg up for basic human rights. Outside the lofty rose window a clattering of jackdaws noisily caw. Premade bundles conceal the storeroom floor. Misfortune offers no furlough. Protein for the meat eaters, Beef curry or steak and kidney pie. Taste the orient, a chicken Pad Thai. Ignored by carnivorous leaders. A fairy cake, home baking kit for quality time with the family. Amid poverty, making memories. The smell of baking embalming the kids. Those already acquainted with nothing and those who have lost it all filing into the hallowed hall. The hurt of the broken calls, sometimes, thankful and others, biting. Each of us, one pay check away from destitution. There but for the grace of God... The God with a punishing rod. Party politics offers no divine restitution.  British Moroccan published author & performance poet.
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A Morsel of Kindness By Dorothy Lowrie Perhaps he expects too much, After all, why would he deserve, Even a morsel of kindness? Yet though she passes at first, She walks back, To where he sits, unseeing, On the cold, dirty sidewalk. Placing the coins into his open palm, She presses his fingers closed over them. Her fingers are soft and he can smell roses. And he’ll never be quite sure, She wasn’t really an angel. (written 2019) Scraps of Humanity By Dorothy Lowrie In France they replaced flour with sawdust in baguettes. And in Holland, in the attic, Anne grew tired of endless plates of potatoes. In concentration camps even children were lucky to eat a scrap of onion boiled in water. In Japanese prison camps many a man survived on roasted rats. And soldiers on the march through a Russian winter were known to tear apart a live chicken so hungry were they. And yet today, we won’t even feed table scraps to a dog. (written 2022) Human Empathy By Dorothy Lowrie He is someone’s son. A young man in filthy clothing Somewhere under the grime Of street living Beats the heart of his story Of days lived before this life Of garbage bag suitcases. He is someone’s son. In our brief encounter Is it possible he might know That I look deeper Than his dirt-streaked face And matted hair To see his humanity My charity not pity But a benefaction for his dignity. So I hand someone’s son My offering. I look directly into his Dark blue eyes. “God Bless You” May he know that these words, The catch in my voice, And the tears in my eyes, Come from Genuine Human Empathy. (written 2023) *All poems copyright Dorothy Lowrie; none have been published prior. Dorothy has loved and collected poetry all her life. She is blessed with an inheritance of the love of words in story, poetry and music. In the new chapter of her life that has given her back the gift of time, she enjoys reflecting on her life and the world through learning and practicing the art of poetry.
The Refound Poem (a gloss on The Planter by T.A. Niles and Foretells the Moon's Hunger by JC Wayne) Edited by T.A. Niles, v.j. calone 12/31/22) “Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more!” “How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Dr. Suess.” Tell me again about hunger my friend, as I wipe away these crumbs from my beard. Hearing your words, it's just as we feared let he who throws the first rock be without sin. It all started as a thought, a feeling, a seed born- not out of want, but more out of a need from he who knew a few things about planting. A few of his fields left fallow, despite his recanting; The earth throws up shields, as do its people. You can touch a soul without (w)ringing a steeple. Soil conditions, irrigation, feeding and weeding, how does the color of one's skin lessen the needing? Yes, he knows a thing or two about supplanting, robbing Peter to pay Paul through letters while chanting. Give him a loaf and a couple of fish- now make a wish then back up that truck and hand him your dish. And how can so many still be left starving? How can we, with ourselves, strike this bargain? Can we at least help to feed our own little corner, and clothe needy people so they may be warmer? Whatever does not kill you only makes you stronger, or stiffens your spine so you last a bit longer. You can get upset and angry, but I have not lied. So please lend a hand; don’t stand to the side. There are 1000 ways to expire on our earth, starvation shouldn’t be our very last berth. Become like the planter think not of yourself, your soul's also fertile scatter the wealth. Click to hear the poet read the poem.  Vincent J Calone poet, playwright, actor, director-
Recent publications include, Long Island Quarterly, Fresh Words An International Literary Magazine, Wingless Dreamer, The 24 Hour Poetry Marathon Anthology and the Haiku Calendar. Appearances @ Spo-Fest, The MUSE @ Neir's, The Muse @ Industry, Jack Jack's, Flash Mob Poetry, Poetry in the Port, PPA, Poetry Street, PoARTry, and Uncloisterd Poets among others. He writes and posts a new poem everyday on Raven Wire Poetry Prompts on Facebook from the daily prompt -continuously since 08/01/22. He's proud to be part of the Wednesday Night Creative Writing Group at the Farmingdale Library facilitated by J R Turek. The Store on Shakespeare Street It feels like a funeral. They’re closing a final door on the oatmeal, the cage-free eggs, the Bush’s Baked Beans (Original), the frozen peas that flow from this old store through our kitchens and into our skin, our blood, our hearts. Shakespeare is dead. Where is he now that I really need him? (Shall I compare thee to a Shop n Save?) His street will be buried twice now. They built the store and kept the name and now the store and the name and the poetry will soon be gone. They’re packing up in boxes the work of Myra, Bernice, Debra, Tom and Larry, who smile for my camera on this Last Day. Each of them for over forty years has released the food to us and taken our money. They have done this faithfully and together. One aisle over as I pass half-empty shelves, someone says to Larry, “Come sit with us.” That’s it. That’s what this day calls for most. Customers and workers, we all need to just come sit together on that ledge beside the doors and the shopping cart, as a summer storm tosses treetops one last time out beyond the streaming plate-glass windows. About Elise Power: I am a member of Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange and have had poems published in six journals and newspapers. I draw portraits and caricatures and play bluegrass music and the piano. I am a retired public school teacher.
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