Poems by Sharon Anderson

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.

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