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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/
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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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