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Hunger Senryu no human flesh left myself cannibalism left teeth left two toes left  Robert Fleming lives in Lewes, DE, USA. He is a member of the Rehoboth Beach & Eastern Shore Writer’s Guild. In 2019, he was nominated for a Lambda Literary Award, as a contributor to the poetry anthology Stonewall Legacy. In 1983, he won a US national student journalism award for his review of a Duran Duran concert in the Brandeis University student newspaper The Justice.
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Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch On the picket line, we bring Daddy and the other teachers a bucket of KFC. There’s no line drawn in white across the blacktop like I expected there to be. Daddy stands with Mrs. Childers and Mr. Watson in jeans and T-shirts. The only one not looking funny out of dress clothes is Jerry, the Custodian, his coveralls still coated in dirt. Daddy says the school board is close to giving up and giving in, maybe one week more. It’s a good thing, too, he says softer, because it’s no fun playing poor. I don’t think he knows Mommy came with me last week to my school, stood in the hall with Mrs. Mulgrew as I took my seat in homeroom. Her head was bowed, lips pursed, like when our old Labrador was put to sleep. Now I spend mornings on my own line with the kids from public housing. Our eyes down, hands open, cheeks blazing, the rest of the school staring, whispering, knowing, we won’t eat today without our tokens. Click on the file below to listen to Lindsay read her poem: 
 Lindsay Barba is a grant writer by day, poetry writer by night. She is a lifelong Northeast Ohioan and resides in Akron with her cat, Bundesliga.
Not Him Let‘s walk among the crowds downtown, On an average morning, Hectic and harried, growing denser. Hurry along now, Past a doorman at a four-star hotel, Past a homeless man. A women arrives in a dark sedan. Every line screams privilege. Don’t step on his filthy blanket, Don’t look him in the eye, As the door man helps her, “This way, ma’am,” Handing her from the car. He puts her luggage on a cart, Calls for a bellhop, Runs interference as she scurries inside. Hide the truth; avert your eyes, Though we all share the same skies. The doorman glares, again, At this visible wreck of a man, Flips open his smart phone, Calls the non-emergency number, again. He has it on speed dial. Finished, he says, “C’mon man, give me a break.” The homeless man ignores him, (They’ve played this game before) Sitting in the sun, His back against the wall. The night’s chill still Has not left him And rich guilt has only Brought a couple of bucks, And change. Still not enough For a cup of coffee And a pack of cigarettes. Hide the truth; avert your eyes, Though we all share the same skies. Cigarettes still a gnawing hunger. Yet, she cannot smoke In her room, Not in this hotel, this city. Should she care That her craving is mirrored By a marginalized man, For the same purpose? Far from the same reason. She worries that she won’t Fit into her designer sheath tonight. He worries that he won’t Beg enough to eat tonight. And, at this moment, They both stay at the same hotel. Time to move, time to move, On the street for lack of love. The man stands and stretches, Flashes his gap-tooth smile at the doorman, Who ignores him. Gathering his things close, in ritual, The man carefully rolls his blanket, Stuffs it in his duffle. So small a place To contain a man’s world: Past and present, Hopes and heartaches, Dreams and disappointments, Vanished spirit, And the picture. Carefully wrapped and Near the top, Of her, Wavy long brown hair A twinkle in her eye, For him. How trite, he thinks, Yet true. If I lost my love Or she were taken, I would wander through my days Forsaken. Bereft of heart And reason I would walk down city streets, Looking for a sign, A laugh, a word A snatch of song. My face and my soul Withered, wrinkled, Unwashed, uncaring and untouched. The woman waits now In the lobby. She has changed Her blouse and shoes. A man enters, Italian suit and style. She smiles at him walking toward her. They embrace. As over his shoulder She sees the homeless man, Head down. Walking slowly Away. She pulls back and says something To the man she’s with. He pulls out his wallet, Hands her a bill, Then another, At her look, angry, wounded. She hurries then. The man says wait. Toward the door, solace, Heedless, Her high-heeled sandals Make it hard to run. Nevertheless, she Catches the man on the street. He stops, Hearing the sound of her heels. She takes his sleeve, tentative, Tugs, Presses the bills Into his hand, Turns away. “Thank you,” he says To her retreating back, And then looks. The money, A fifty and a twenty. “I can’t,” he starts to say, Turning around. If she heard him, She doesn’t show it. The sting of pride, Thought long forgotten Spurred him To reject a small fortune. His good fortune. He’s yet to lose his reason. Hard lessons taught him, He can’t eat pride. “Hey, lady,” he shouts, “Thank you.” She almost seems To miss a step. So swiftly, he’s uncertain And she continues on, Into the lobby, gone. He slowly turns, Continues walking, Stuffing the bills deep Into the pocket of his first shirt, The one deepest inside Of the four he wears. He shakes his head Then shuffles on. And both this woman and man, Both bewildered, Rich and poor, Will eat well this night. Only one Will sleep well. It will not be him. Click on the file below to listen to Philip read his poem:
 Philip Brent Harris is a poet, philosopher, satirist, essayist, fine artist, digital artist, and occasional photographer. He has a BA in Film Studies, with a screenwriting emphasis and has written over a dozen screenplays, some with his partner, Jasmina Bojic of Stanford University. After their partnership dissolved he had a five-year hiatus from writing. Shortly after he began oil painting, he still felt an itch he could not scratch. He felt compelled to respond to the Newtown shootings and wrote a satire modeled on Jonathon Swift’s A Modest Proposal, called An Immodest Proposal, purporting to advocate for universal gun ownership. After that, the damn broke and he has written constantly since then, much of it verse. This surprised him, since he thought it a form he had finished with in Junior High School. He has a novel under review at two major publishers and hopes to add the title author to his list.
A LITTLE BIT OF SHAME Hey you; stuck on the street, with not a care in the world Your hair all in knots and your nails long and curled I have pity for you and a little bit of shame So busy with my life, I don’t even know your name If you ask me for change, I might pull out my money I’ll hand over so little, it’s not even funny I am so healthy and strong and successful today I wonder what it’d take, for me to be your way If you were my child, so lonely and hopeless I would do all I could, to get you out from that mess But my children are successful and I’m doing just fine I guess I don’t have to worry, if the worry’s not mine… MUCH TOO BUSY EATING I’m enjoying a second helping and yet another drink My plate needs my attention, little time to stop and think We’ll be throwing out the leftovers; our fridge is overflowing So I’ll just keep on eating, even though my stomach’s showing Someone needs to finish it, it seems like such a waste So many different flavors, I’ve lost my sense of taste Here comes another spoonful, I just need to open wide The last one was kind of mushy; this one’s crunchy fried I should start a diet, when I empty out my pantry But there’s a stock of 40 days, I need to keep it handy I’m addicted to going shopping; I get there every day And the restaurant around the corner, has an excellent buffet It breaks my heart to think, that someone’s going hungry Living on the street, or from a weather ravaged country The food that I am wasting, could feed a family or two But I’m much too busy eating, so what am I to do Click on the file below to watch Don read one of his poems: 
THE PAIN OF FOODLESS HUNGER My hunger is quite different; my stomach feels no pain My longing is for finer things, possessed in capital gain My next meal is not concerning; it’s at my beckoned call My options almost endless, at the food court in the mall A search for life giving sustenance, is never on my mind I’m addicted to salt and sugar and all those things refined I almost never check the weather; it’s of no concern to me The conditions are mostly perfect; anywhere I choose to be I can travel almost anywhere; my passport’s up to date I always book a five star lodge; the service is just great Free to talk about anything, to all people that I know I’m connected through my cell phone, everywhere I go I’m not saying my life is perfect, but it is pretty good I’m free to think and do, anything I think I should At times I feel so selfish and a little embarrassed too But to feel the pain of foodless hunger, I haven’t got a clue  Don Hamaliuk writes, entertains and although can be serious, has an over indulging appetite for humour and is continually searching for the lyrical magic of fun, frolic and imagination.…. Knowing everyone is vulnerable to our daily pressures, he feels a kinship to lost souls, volunteering and donating at our local Hope Mission.
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