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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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OUT FRONT I am grateful for... The arched roof above my head The twin rafters with The twin lights, holding it in place The four walls surrounding me The two windows with The two Venetian blinds, down & shut at all times The red brick floor below my feet The wooden shelves full of books & movies The VHS by themselves & DVDs in clear totes The Keetsa© mattress I sleep on The melatonin that helps me sleep The vegan food in my fridge, a meat-free zone The fruit & vegetable juices I savour The filtered water I drink more than tap shit The hardcover journal notebooks and The rollerpoint pens I sue to express myself The shower I use, even though I'm a bathtub man The Hewlett Packard laptop computer aiding creation of The once and future poetry volumes The Samsung© TV & VCR/DVD player combo The little house in East Oakland I call home The vast collection of political slogan t-shirts I wear the convictions of my heart On my chest SOMETIMES ANTI-SOCIAL ALWAYS ANTI-RACIST Remains a personal favourite but BEING BLACK IS NOT A CRIME Gets me the most love on the street But most of all I am grateful for... The bus drivers The firefighters The restaurant Deliver drivers The subway train conductors The launderette clerks The grocery store workers The farmer's market workers Which I happen to be one The doctors The nurses The paramedics The pharmacy workers The protestors for the rights of all Black lives The dead and the living The mutual aid collectives Giving food, water, medicine and household Items to the people living hand to mouth During this goddamn pandemic And long before All the heroes Out front In our service Seeing to our immediate Survival needs They could use the praise And you don't need Super powers To be a hero Just be there Out front For us-- W: Stonewall Anniversary 2020 [ For Jennifer A. Minotti. ] [ From the book Rusty Gallows: Passages Against Hate, Vagabond Books, 2020. ]  African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California. Author of 7 books--Boneyard, Unwritten Law, Stormwater, Skeletal Black [ all from POOR Press ], Elohi Unitsi [ Conviction 2 Change Publishing ], Rusty Gallows [ Vagabond Books ] and Plans [ Nomadic Press ]--and 67 anthology appearances under his figurative belt so far. Currently seeking a new publisher to turn his finished manuscript into a finished, printed 8th book.
Now Carry the Tears that Feed You Go head and close the eyes that look into the pain you feel when extreme hunger pulls on your belly Here see the love of yourself now as a mother to be Now carry the tears of a child inside you being nourished alone by your undying heart Understand the cost of there is no way, use, or time for you to blame poverty, the profiteers of war, the heartless manufacturers of mass migration, the GMO malnutrition markets, God's tax exemptions, organized religion's vaults of priceless jewels, art, and real estate holdings For now the littlest of heartbeats alone warm you. There's no use in waiting for inhumanity incarnate to stop being global oligarchs who only live to play war games with their puppeteering selves You are too busy giving every morsel of compassion you have to your belly of hope, and yet still share your heart with everyone selfish enough to only pity you while they eat.  Arshagra is self-taught; guided by benevolence to live and leave a body of work. He owned and worked in the upholstery and interior design business. After his mid20s he spent most of 20 years in Boston driving taxis and horse carriages. His life in the arts include the movement and healing arts, free-speech advocacy and activism, venue concept creations, videographer, public arts archivist, publisher, author, visual artist, a multi genre writer, and a poet with a new book. More at www.ccArshagra.com
YES, THEY WERE HUNGRY I still have pay stubs from McDonald’s where I worked in the 1960s in high school. I made $1.10 per hour. We were allowed to eat for free during breaks. We gobbled burgers and fries. At Kentucky Fried Chicken, we were able, at closing, to take home buckets of extra cooked chicken. It was the way of life in Northern Virginia. When I got drafted and chose the Navy in 1972 to avoid Vietnam, I was assigned to ships that traveled around the world. On one cruise, we circumnavigated Africa, visited Iran, Pakistan, Bahrain, Sri Lanka, and sailed through the Red Sea to the Mediterranean. The first stop across the Atlantic had been in Dakar, Senegal along the northwestern coast of Africa. It was the blank-eyed, homeless people living in cardboard boxes on street corners that woke me up. Barely clothed boys surrounded us begging for help. We were careful to protect our Kodak cameras and wallets. I’d never heard of a famine before. During many port stops, it was the same: poor, homeless and hungry people were everywhere in struggling countries. Today, as I sit with my family and enjoy the abundant dinners and view the full cabinets of food at home, I take each bite with a prayer of thanks.  Tom Donlon lives with his family in Shenandoah Junction, WV. He earned an MFA from the American University in DC and was awarded a chapbook, Peregrine, by the Franciscan University in Steubenville, OH. He has received Pushcart Prize nominations and a fellowship from the WV Commission on the Arts.
Break Bread Break bread here, bake bread. Mill the flower, knead the dough. Tend the yeast, you are welcome here. As you are, at this simple feast. Set the table, if you are able. Help with dishes, if your heart wishes. For you are we, you will always be. Welcome right here, for we are eternity.  Jay Rose Ana is a Worcestershire poet, originally from the heart of the Midlands in the United Kingdom. She explores the world from her laptop and writes her words through lived experiences, a deep soul, and a creative imagination. Jay Rose Ana is hostess of Words Collide Poetry Open-Mic and The Poetic Podcast. Her work can be found at www.jayroseana.com
After My Prayers for me, I often have time to look out the window at the tree-trimmed easy lush nook of my city and ask why the rest aren’t as lucky, that people go hungry, so many lining up for food, that some in the world are starving. I usually just stop there. Too horrible and complex. Last night, headlights flickered through that delectable foliage to my pretty-perfect apartment, like a Morse code, which I never took the time to learn, and my silly woke sister said it read: Look at the plenty I have given. And all I ask is that you share. Jay Carson taught for many years at Robert Morris University where he was a founding advisor to the literary magazine, Rune. He has published more than 100 poems and a number of short stories in local and national journals, magazines, and collections. Jay is also the author of Irish Coffee (Coal Hill Press) and The Cinnamon of Desire (Main Street Rag).
Teach a Man to Fish Teach a man to fish- fixes it all- Right? No? Wasn't that what they taught us? Give a man a fish and he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime. Sounds simple right? Well, what if there is no fishing rod? What if there is no fishing line. What if there is no ocean or any fish left to catch, or stove to cook on, or knife to clean and filet them so? What if there was no more hunger? Or belly to fill? Or need to nourish? What if the man knows how to fish but chooses not to? What if that man hates fish. Maybe, he's allergic-what's next? Do we force-feed him the tuna raw? Like an obstinate child. Sent to his room without dinner, with hunger still unsatisfied. We think we know what's best. Open up, chew and swallow. *Form- Clicks Syllabics- CLXXX (Roman Numeral for 180) (9 syllables per line, 5 stanzas, 4 lines per stanza, 180 syllables) Never Expect Too Much If only someone had saved me the last slice of pizza... Optimistic, but naive. But, wouldn't it be nice? A friendly hand to hold a door. I beg your pardon. Oh, what for? Never expect too much from people and you won't be disappointed. Always assume the worst outcome, you'll be sad, but remain undaunted. The world's an unkind place, when you're waiting in a line. When shortages and overreactions seem to monopolize our time. Or are we outta time? I suspect the latter. It's inherent, baked within the batter. If you were listening to me in the first four stanzas, this about sums it up. If you were expecting more, sorry to end this so abrupt. *Form-drabble  Vincent J Calone is a New Formalist poet. He studied under Lewis Turco- author of the "New Book of Poetic Forms" on New England Press.
Poet, playwright, actor, director- he wears different many hats but the message remains the same- Why do we do what we do? How can we change it? And how can we learn, grow and evolve? Vincent's writes and posts a new poem everyday on Raven Wire Poetry Prompts on Facebook continuously since 08/01/22 based off on the daily poetry prompt. Vincent is proud to be part of the writing collective. Thanksgiving Gratitude Before we ate, we went around the table: "What are you thankful for?" The usual: health, family, home. Then the formal prayer, grace before we filled our faces: "Bless this meal and the hands that produced it. Amen." The hands are more than those who came from the kitchen. The hands come from farms where turkeys are bred, grown, fed day after day until they are ready to grace someone's holiday table. They come from acres that are prayed over for just the right balance of sun and rain to produce the yams, beans, potatoes, and pumpkins -- the feast they cannot afford for themselves. They come from fields, from stooped-over pickers paid pennies to gather in the harvest, moving from field to field, farm to farm until the season ends and they must subsist until it's time to do it all again. They come from the bowels of the waterworks, giving 24/7 attention to the knobs and dials to keep the water flowing and potable, who give up their holidays to make sure everyone else has theirs. How can I, with my head bowed, bear the weight of all the hands who prepared this feast?  Laura McGinnis is a retired project manager. She studies with the University of Pittsburgh's Osher Lifelong Learning Institute and Carlow University's Madwomen in the Attic. She has been published by Clarendon House, Poetry Quarterly, Sweetiecat Press, and Indie Blu(e).
Homeless on the Trail Slouched on a bench along the walking trail, A black man with scruffy beard and wearing A dirty tan parka more reminiscent of deep winter Than an early September afternoon temperature Hovering in the nineties. His face shrouded by The hood, its strings pulled tight so only eyes And mouth appear. His worn soul leather shoes By his feet, stockings plaid with an oppressive odor That smells of neglect. I’ve seen him before, sitting Outside a Starbucks sitting or sleeping on a bench. Homeless with little belongings, no shopping cart Only a dark green Hefty bag, his physical load light. On this steamy day, I walk over to him, hand him A couple of bucks for a “cold drink.” He takes The money, mumbling something that I could Not make out. Does he ever talk? Speak to someone? Or is he invisible? Unseen in this affluent community? I wonder what would happen if I sat down across From him? Would he talk? Or might be feel threatened? His space invaded by someone from the other side of life? The Last Buffet In the middle of a dream, I hear the words Your eyes are bigger Than your stomach And right then I find myself Likely in a restaurant, Quite probably, a buffet With its all you can eat sign Posted over the menu’s banner. In such places, the customers Fill their plates with everything From baked beans to fried chicken Steamed carrots to pasta primavera. Like architects from some god-forsaken Planet who never tasted human food, Eaters layer meat, starches, and even A vegetable or two making those who designed The Tower of Pisa envious of this concoction. In such places, eyes are huge as saucers. Lines move slowly for fear of missing A plop or two of gravy potatoes. Gluttony overwhelms moderation In these moments as now two hands Need to carry the victuals back To the table where room is scarce. No room for a flower here But leave the sugar packets, Salt and pepper for sure. They’ll be needed later. And then there is the stampede For seconds and if it’s shrimp Or sushi, crab legs or lobster rolls, Hold on to your plate. Get a good grip. Then back to the table with the last plates Awaiting their removal Still covered with half-eaten food. This moment of yums Will later transform into A moment of Tums Along with the over-eater’s mantra, How much did I eat? Yes, how much can one person eat? Too much, it seems. Meanwhile, Across the world or Even in one’s own neighborhood, Another can opened, Another box of dry flakes missed with milk, Another fast-food burger, Another mouthful of fries, Another glop of ice cream, Another slice of white bread, Another box of pasta, Another hunk of cheese, Another bowl of canned soup Is dinner or lunch On most days. Two sides of America: One overeating Another under-eating. The haves with their big eyes And the have nots with their empty stomachs. In a perfect world, Eyes and stomach would be in harmony. No need to overeat, to stuff one’s ‘pie-hole’ For fear of missing a bite. Years back in India, I heard someone ask Why do some Hindus welcome Missionaries to their villages With the purpose of converting them? A small voice replied, “First give us food then God.” An empty belly questions the concept Of a benevolent deity, and rightly so. It’s hard to pray on an empty stomach. Back in those buffets, The sounds of silverware meeting plates Is akin to that of a church choir belting Out an Ave Maria or Amazing Grace. Then the closing belch or even a fart Is the amen to this rather profane setting. Here the prayer should be: Let the eyes see what the stomach cannot. Be thankful for the food on your plate. Be aware of the waste that you leave And how it could feed another person. Understand that your gluttony means Someone is hungry. But for the grace Of God, it could be you. Amen. And so back to their cars they go. No one smiling. Stomachs bloated. Eyes bagged up. Minds clouded. Lungs gasping. Heart straining. Hips sagging. Feet lumbering. Death lurking.  Ron Shapiro, an award-winning English and Creative Writing high school teacher, teaches Memoir Writing through George Mason University to older adults. The recipient of an Outstanding Teaching Award from Cornell, he has previously published works in The Whole Word Catalogue, More Strategies for Teaching Writing, and NoVa Bards 2022 Anthology.
Full Empty Bowl By T. A. Niles 02/15/2022 (Inspired by Diane Wilbon Parks’ creative genius & Poetry X Hunger) Spoons…a fork… all with handles stretched and thin as a mother stretches thin her supplies for grateful gruel Mouths…open wide in hope and anticipation of sustenance that never shows except in drips and drabs that can’t sustain Faces…faces hue the spectrum shapes geometrically twisted like innards filled with pangs angry entrails spit parched accordion growls The big empty… the big empty-empty bowl holds naught but air so like the bellies of those who stare into its barren depths And fruit…and veggies… all outside the bowl so full of emptiness so full of broken-meal-promises and shards of sated dreams And eyes… eyes that stare in longing bulging squinting in their unrelenting seeking searching for even a tiny morsel A morsel… mighty enough to start saliva flowing in arid maws filled with too-soft teeth or none at all A bowl…a bowl wide enough deep enough to hold only but an infinitesimal smidgen of the soup we —the full-- discard daily Click on the file below to listen to the recording: 
Diane Wilbon Park's artwork:   T. A. was a seed planted in the Caribbean soil of Trinidad & Tobago on the cusp of the transformational 60s. He was watered and fertilized in the gardens of Brooklyn, New York and Hartford, Connecticut throughout most of the bell-bottomed, “blaxploitation-movie-era” of the 70s. Had trials by fire in the USMC in the late 70s to early 80s. Budded and bloomed in academia in the 80s and 90s, before his withering began at the turn of the 21st century. Yet, before he falls from the stem, and is ground once more into dust, he hopes to feed a mind or two. He relishes the thought of others being nourished by his expressions. T. A. is also thrilled to have narrated Mud Ajar, the latest collection of poems penned by Poetry X Hunger's founder Hiram Larew and made available to the public by Atmosphere Press.
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