|
Naomi and Ruth Ruth is hungry. Ten years married Without child. Created by the Lord Without a womb. Her stomach empty. Famine. She wants bread, A baby. For Naomi to love her. She longs to consume Naomi whole. Naomi tastes bitter Ruth spits her out And moves in; Wherever you lodge, I will lodge. Reaping the gleaned grain. Oh, the modesty. Her cloak a shroud. Behold the faithfulness -- Ruth takes only what she is entitled to. Six measures of barley, Not five or seven. On the piece of land belonging to Boaz. One sandal traded for Ruth and Naomi At the gate with the ten elders. At night, Ruth dreams her mother laughing At the circus in Moab Throwing up her skirts, Head back, Howling with hunger, Unmistakable. Boaz dies on his wedding night. The Lord issues a baby to Ruth And Naomi. I claw my way through these twisty lines The land, the men, Planted, full. The women sacrificed, Hungry.  I have recently returned to writing poetry after many years of writing block.
0 Comments
FISHSTICKS Nobody talks about the anger. Hungry? Take what you need. Grab what you want. Kids laugh at the white paper lunch sack filled with pilfered snacks from the liquor store. Slim Jim’s…Beef Jerky…Hostess Apple Pie. “I brought my lunch teacher, I made it myself.” Nobody talks about the anger. It was a picnic, wherever they were staying. The meal arrayed in her lap. Cold torn bits of sliced wiener stuck to saltines or sourdough heels. The children circle her chair as her chicken hand dispenses each bite. Gaping mouths. Chomp. Chew. Swallow. Take a sip of her Tab cola. Nobody talks about the anger. Crash the birthday party in the park. Blend in-- “I know him from school.” “I forgot to bring my present.” “Is the vegetable platter just for the grownups?” “Will there be cake?“ “Can I take a piece to my brother?” Nobody talks about the anger. At the Dairy Queen-- At the end of the night-- Leftovers go into the dumpster-- It’s all still warm-- Sometimes they throw it away in bags-- That makes it easier-- Nobody talks about the anger. Four Sea King fishsticks-- One slice of Kraft cheese-- A bun if you are lucky-- A packet of tartar sauce-- Snatched from the condiment rack-- At the Seven Eleven-- Taste this Filet-O-Fish-- Nobody talks about the anger. Rather be hungry than have to be grateful. Sad doe eyes of observant adults. Their pity swimming as they try to not feel superior. Three years old, and I might snatch something off of your plate, even if I don’t know you.  Rick Christiansen is a former corporate executive, stand-up comedian, actor and director. His poem “BONE FRAGMENTS’ is being included in the 2023 New Generational Beats Anthology from the National Beat Poetry Foundation. He has been recently nominated for a Touchstone Award. He is the co-host of SpoFest, a member of The Writer’s Place and a member of The St. Louis Writers Guild. He lives in Missouri near his eight grandchildren. rickchristiansen.com
SALT The field is not well seen from within the field. Emerson I’m in the kitchen at midnight again. Less than hungry but craving salt, I snatch a handful of chips from the pantry. Stacks of travel albums occupy the corner table, reminding me of that Vietnamese farmer in his ox-tilled field. Does he, craving salt, grab a handful of chips from the pantry? Though sated by a candlelit repast, I can’t forget that farmer in his ox-tilled field. Does he still turn earth under a torrid noon? Can he sit sated at a candlelit repast? I can’t forget the heft of yellow peaches in the orchard and earth turned fragrant by an unspent afternoon, because hunger feeds the human. I need to feel the heft of yellow peaches in the orchard illumined by a burgeoning moon. I know I’ll forget his sodden footfalls because hunger feeds the human. I feel the sinless earth on my hands, but everything is just salt under a burgeoning moon. I know I’ll forget the heat of the kitchen with each handful of sinless earth, so I throw salt over my shoulder. Is earth just dirt under a midnight sky? First appeared in Prelude 2016  C. John Graham’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Laurel Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Blue Mesa Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Taos Journal of Poetry and Art, The Inflectionist Review, and the anthology Off Channel, among other publications. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and until retirement, worked at Los Alamos National Laboratory’s particle accelerator facility. He now volunteers as a search and rescue pilot, owns an aerobatic aircraft, and continues a lifelong spiritual inquiry. sites.google.com/site/cjohngraham/home/poetry
Cinnamon and Famine After forty years of badges, cubicles and 401 (k)’s all that one does and all that is done to one your privilege is ground fresh beans and yogurt cold boiled eggs in a sunny window. Bills and sick calls crowd your plate. But under the placemat bleeding mouths seep their crises onto the table aroma of cinnamon and famine. The kitchen floats in migrant waters. Juice is the red of the shot boy’s blood. How not to starve when every meal is stolen? How to fill the cruel void of thoughts and prayers? Surrender and the paralysis seizes you Plums and the Boy from Syria Villanelle The chroniclers agree it came from ancient Syria, That tart staple of jam and pie, the Damson plum. It blooms by the roadside, same time as wisteria. The chroniclers record how my son fled from quaking Syria. He wound up a lifeless little boy afloat in the scum, Drowned after boarding a sinking raft of diphtheria. All he sought were the roadsides bordered with wisteria, A land of bread and plums, where he could overcome That gnawing void of his belly, or murder by bacteria. The chroniclers agree he had to leave burning Syria. Strafing and round-ups, bombed-out home, worse to come: Parents shot, family gone, terror beyond all criteria. Down the roadsides blooming with wisteria Drive the ministers, the committees, all aplomb, To meet and decree, again, an end to this hysteria. The rescuers sweep our bodies from the area. We parents and our kids drown fleeing a gone home. The chroniclers shrug or push the blame onto Syria. Bitter plums dot the roadside, among the wisteria.  The Elk in the Glade: The World of Pioneer and Painter Jennie Hicks is a 2022 Publishers Weekly Editors Pick and won 2nd Place at TheBookFest 23. Good Housekeeping is forthcoming in 2024. Publications: The American Journal of Poetry, World Literature Today and more. Anthologies: I Wanna be Loved by You: Poems on Marilyn Monroe (Eric Hoffer Honorable Mention), The Wonders of Winter, and The Strategic Poet craft book. More at www.brucewhitacre.com.
Honey and Tea On television I saw the documentary Of boys sitting on the sand, maybe 50 With a woman cracking a whip over their heads So they could chant a prayer They, orphaned and lost, no food or medicine Left in Africa by the Taliban All men killed Flies buzzing Where were the girls No I’m not exaggerating One child held up a paper to shield the sun They were dead No life in their eyes Already dead among the buzzing flies I long ago asked God how I could still believe That’s an old question Now I ask myself How can I write this Now I say I do not want this cup.  Grace Cavalieri is Maryland's tenth Poet Laureate. She founded, and produces, "The Poet and The Poem" from The Library of Congress celebrating 47 years on-air. Her new book is "The Long Game: Poems Selected & New."
Mightier than the Sword Soldier travels from the south plucks the crumbs from the orphan's mouth burns the fields and drains the ford bend a knee before your lord Hunger mightier than the sword No mercy from the burning sun no bullets needed for his gun jackals prowl and vultures soar hunger stalks the killing floor A perfect weapon of the war Brother Famine loves Sister Drought blind and deaf the land they scout children's eyes no longer bright withered limbs too weak for flight Hunger kills the will to fight Daughter of the blighted earth bears no guilt for famine's birth doctors flee the healing ward starvation leads the murder horde Hunger mightier than the sword Listen to what your mother said submit to rape or join the dead no saviour from a distant shore survive to be the victor's whore A perfect weapon of the war Rich men toast the price of wheat richer still if the poor don't eat the world outside has closed its eyes hunger is the bread that cries Her body soon the victor's prize Let her weep and let her pray if you don't look she'll go away man has cut earth's fetal cord watch her starve until you're bored Hunger mightier than the sword Click to hear the poet read the poem. BIO: After leaving university with a degree in philosophy and art history I tried my hands at many things - including working with refugees and homeless charities, designing education programmes, journalism and writing books on oriental and islamic arts and crafts.
Growing Pains Juan listens to his stomach growl The hammering in his head. It's summer and his school is closed, No breakfast, lunch today. He wishes he were old enough To supplement the pittance His unschooled mother makes. Why did his father leave them? Their church food closet helps a bit But they are four in all. Luckily Juan has learned To cook an egg And toast his single slice of bread. No fruit or juice today. Greedily he gulps his food Though he'd like to eat it slowly. Satisfied just for a while, His teen brain starts again To wonder if there's food for lunch Anywhere Or empty air?  I am an 84 year old grandmother, formerly a teacher of high school English in New York city. At age 75, I published a book of poems entitled Or Something Like That, available on Amazon. for the last year I have had poems published in my community newspaper.
For Our Hunger a chicken a guitar a vase me We each in turn will be taken by the neck and plucked strummed filled wrung And (sadly) in the end broken but not before we offer (I hope) our little morsel to this world a meal a melody a bouquet a poem “For Our Hunger” first appeared in my 2109 book of poetry Home By Another Road. Click to hear the poet read the poem.  Cathy Warner is author of three volumes of poetry: Difficult Gifts: Home By Another Road, and Burnt Offerings; and editor of three anthologies: Poemographs for Peace, Poemographs, and Viral Verse: Poetry of the Pandemic. Cathy writes, takes photographs, and renovates homes in Western Washington. Find her at cathywarner.com.
Wolf at the Door Mama presses the steam iron to the Brownie Uniform I once wore that now belongs to my sister and then to the green Girl Scout uniform I proudly wear. While she puts away the ironing board, I fry the ground beef in the skillet and pour tomatoes and pinto beans in a pot. I’m making Wolf at the Door for supper to practice for the scout weekend campout, I tell Daddy as he carries in the big box of Girl Scout cookies Judy and I will be selling door to door. Daddy peels and dices an onion and tosses it in the sizzling skillet sprinkled with salt and pepper. Judy takes out the graham crackers and covers them with marshmallows and chocolate and melts them on the broiler. Daddy and Mama always managed to keep our bellies full and the hungry howling wolf at the door out of our house. Originally published in The Leading Ladies of My Life (Cyberwit 2023.)  Sharon Waller Knutson has published eleven poetry books including What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say (Kelsay Books 2021) and her twelfth book, ‘My Grandfather is a Cowboy” is forthcoming in 2024. Her work has also appeared in more than 50 journals.
A Glimmer Planting a garden is revolution-- hope triumphs over despair. Flower or veggie—all green comes from a smoothie of crushed rock and humus—spiked with nitrogen, phosphorous, and micronutrients. Even seed anatomy amuses—the coat that keeps all dry and warm, cotyledon, the battery for growth, hypocotyl and plumule--stem and shoot, and last the embryonic root, the radicle, linking us to the first revolution. Seeds are small packages of optimism. Decisions that light and warmth will prevail and jonquils or turnips, lilies or peppers will rise, one or both. There is hope in nourishing life besides our own—faith in clear skies and sun, that spring is the pupa of summer and summer fall. That hope can be cultivated more easily than cut down. Verse-Virtual, June 2022 Picking Carrots It’s March 18th and despite the ground freeze last weekend, our carrots exude a craving for examination and evaluation--intoxication emanating from the bed of orange, red and purple heads poking up through rollers of crushed pine bark and black soil. The secrets of root vegetables arouse me. Always a hidden story, always a probability. Seeds sown last October, but winter’s wardrobe was unhemmed, cool, and bright enough to sugar these painted vegetal fingers. Now feathery leaves weave the spring breeze, their scent a lurid promise. I pull the largest bunch, parting a wave of soil—sand grains dripping off the root. It is straight, thick and half a foot long—a clandestine happiness, like holding a new lover for the first time. Moving through the bed, I hope for more sticks of orange candy, not crooked roots—sour as an old bachelor. I move to the next patch and wonder, what secrets the earth will whisper? Last Stanza Poetry Review #10 2022  Gary Grossman’s poetry book, Lyrical Years is available from Kelsay Press, his graphic novel My Life in Fish: One Scientist’s Journey, and his cookbook A Bone to Pick… are available from todaysecologicalsolutions@gmail.com. Website: www.garygrossman.net
|
Suggestions & IdeasTake a look at some of the writing prompts to get inspired! Archives
August 2023
Poets
All
|
RSS Feed