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For The Students For 60,000 On Their First Trip to Nicaragua For Pete White, and all those students. They got off the plane stuffed with good intentions ready to change lives make bricks build houses teach lessons feed the hungry The trash from the last of their snacks disposed of responsibly. Next stop was after the bumpy unpredictable ride. The expectations of primitive conditions, unfamiliar places to relieve their bodies, rest their heads, Unfamiliar cooks, bellies used to plenty, met by very excited children. One weary traveler remembered there was one more snack in her bag. She pulled out two oranges. The ones she had been saving for herself. such a sad offering for the small group. Before she could make a decision one spirited boy grabbed one. She watched open mouthed as he painstakingly peeled back the covering, carefully dividing this juicy treasure among ten. She wasn’t hungry after that. ©2021 Linda Trott Dickman Click on the file below to watch the video: 
The Hands That Prepared It For Priscilla Drake Solomon For all those for whom a crust is a feast She started from a full heart. Mixed all the elements Kneaded, working her floured quilters hands Into the dough, folding shaggy into smooth Sticky into soft. Working into a promising mound Covering with a cotton shroud, Letting the dough ferment Reshaping, Dividing, cross sectioned Tucked into bundles anointing with butter Cover once more Rise again like Easter morning. Bake, remove from oven deliver with warm wishes kind words. A starter for so much more. Click on the file below to listen to Linda read the poem:
For all those still seeking a good meal in the dust. If the chicken knew what lifted her, she could not say, strutting in the sun, looking for food, then propelled across the farm into the dark. 1. Incredible luck. A murky tidal wave crashed across the plain. I saw it coming, closed all the shutters. It looked like the judgment, dark powdery angry rolls, rushing toward me. My defense as effective as my six year old fighting to bite a thin carrot with two front teeth missing. A rust colored film breaking in to the smallest crack, the slimmest crevice, coating everything. The winds sixty miles an hour or more. I was grateful my Billy was in school, they had a storm cellar. I got that call before the cacophony of the heavens. The sky now the color of melting Baker's dark chocolate. And then it was over. I heard the cluck and looked twice; there stood a plump white Leghorn wearing a rusty coat. Dinner! Family too thin, eating the last of the root vegetables. A miracle! The chicken looked dazed, I wasted no time. It was a job lifting my eyelids, lifting my arms was easier. The dust gave me an edge, a better grip on the twiggy legs. 2. He heard it too. Hungry, out of work, on the road for days, he started past the house he needed water, he needed food. He saw the hulk of dust approaching, ran for the barn. This farm had nothing more than he had left behind. Undetected he climbed aloft Listening to what sounded like a dump truck was loosing its load overhead. He waited till the soil stopped raining down. When it ceased, he heard it. A surprised cluck. He would have kept going, but for that promising sound. He heard the pursuit, the capture the final strangled cluck, then the danse macabre in the yard; wings extended, legs in a great hurry, rushing nowhere, covering ground she had never covered in life. He watched the woman drain, pluck, sing. He heard “as I went down in the river to pray” coming from the kitchen. I put the pot on to boil, “studying about that good old way.” Chicken baptized, rinsing the storm off the last of the turnips, onions, carrots, parsnips. Peeling and singing, “and who shall wear the starry crown, oh Lord show me the way.” He waited. “Oh Lord show me the way.” she moved a basket of laundry out to the line, the last of the elephantine cloud lumbering away. Shaking the residue loose from the line, I lifted the sheets, towels knowing it would be tomorrow's refrain, “oh sinners lets go down lets go down, come on down down in the river to pray.” I smiled for the first time in days. He whistled soundlessly, picking up the air... By the time I returned, more than the storm had blown by the chicken the pot gone, though he'd had the courtesy to turn off the stove. If the chicken knew what lifted her, she could not say, strutting in the sun, looking for food, then propelled across the farm into the dark. Click on this LINK to listen to Linda read her poem.  Linda Trott Dickman has been writing poetry since her first sleep-away camp experience when she was ten years old. Linda is the author of Robes, The Air That I Breathe and Road Trip. Linda’s poetry has been published on-line, in Pratik Journal and in several anthologies. She is the current coordinator of poetry for the Northport Arts Coalition (Northport, NY.), has taught poetry to children for over 35 years and leads a poetry workshop for adults at Samantha’s Li’l Bit O’ Heaven coffee house in East Northport, NY.
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