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.

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.

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.

​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)

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?

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.

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: 

Instructions for Hooting at Hunger*

Perhaps you do not live in a place
where you can find red or ochre clay,
to smother your doorway with bright dust
                                 Homowo!
Nonetheless, howl at the arid soil

You perhaps do not live in a place
where it is easy to grow corn
              and do not perhaps have palms
              to pulverize, to extract oil from the pulp
                                 but somehow you must create kpekpei
                                 from those two ingredients--
                                 Homowo!
howl at the remembrance of the great famine

It is the season of ritual return--
first, the waiting, the exodus, the hurry which
does not allow the yeast to leaven the bread,
and this kpekpei sprinkled on doorsteps
as reminder. Homowo!
Sprinkle it at all doorways, places where spirits
of the departed are likely to gather
then howl at the death, howl with thanks for the fruits of harvest
howl until your heart heaves into the heaped bowls
of all that nourishes.
Now is the time to jeer at dark times,
starve the winter gods
                                 Homowo!
Drum on your knees,
start the dance where you bump
into each other without fear of causing offense--
Howl at all social constraints!

Howl as excruciatingly, unbearably, intolerably
as you can with no thought
to embarrassment, no thought to mental agony--
                                 Homowo!

Now is the time to celebrate twins, fertility,
the harvest you bring home
to share Homowo--
the great celebration of howling!

​*https://encyclopedia2.thefreedictionary.com/Hooting+at+Hunger+Festival

One
“Yemen’s Covid Coverup,” Frontline

Little Hassan sits on the examining table,
his arms snappable twigs, his ribs
washboard, his belly swollen. He pats
his palm on his chest to show
where it hurts. He is eight years old,
but he looks like four. He does not go
to school. His belly hurts, too,
he signs. Malnutrition has stolen
most of his hearing. His head
bends to one side, looking way too
heavy for his ravaged body, and he smiles
a little, like a very old man, probably because
there are people paying attention.
The nurse who runs the clinic
is agitated about the worldwide
concern with Covid. Where is the vaccine
for our war? she asks. She laughs
scornfully, hopelessly. Starving Hassan
will be treated, and sent home
to starve, treated and starved,
one of two million. Right now
he wants us to know his chest
and stomach hurt.
I cannot unsee his face.

At Pat’s Farms

At a time in our life we’d rather forget,
a happening we will never forget.
Late afternoon, we hover over racks
Reduced for Quick Sale, ripe and
ready produce, pray we find vegetables,
salad fixings, maybe fruit for dessert
if there is any.

We find a cello-wrapped pack
of cucumbers we can slice tonight
and soft tomatoes I can make a hearty
sauce for over our plain pasta.

Our meager finds held in grateful hands,
we stand on line behind shopping carts
opulent with clear bags of lush berries,
fresh veggies, and exotic fruits from
aisles we don’t venture down.

The total is $2.17; we’re ready with
two singles, a dime, nickel, and
two pennies. The cashier smiles,
packs our dinner into a handled bag
and says, “It’s paid.” We hold our
our open palms with the money, stutter
“But — .” She waves over her shoulder
that the woman on line ahead of us who
just left paid our bill. “Have a nice day,”
patting my hand as she passes me the bag.

We talk about it all the way home, still
remarking these dozen years later when
life has almost righted itself, feeding us
with thankful blessings, we revel in how
amazing it was, never sharing the story,
still wondering
how did she know?
--
Backyard Farmer

Sustainability has us tilling soil,
adding amendments, peat moss,
earth-friendly fertilizer, and has us
researching to grow our own veggies.

We attend a garden seminar, learn
that peppermint plants will keep
the family of bunnies living under
our deck from munching on our crops.
Broccoli. I never thought to plant it,
didn’t buy it yesterday from the fruit
stand because it didn’t look healthy,
that not-so-good green I often see
and call pesticide green. We can get
three crops from just one plant,
enough for the season.

Strawberries – he shows us a verdant
pot, tiny buds set, tells us to expect
a bountiful crop of about 40 berries
per plant. This will be a deck pot that
will travel inside – expect berries for
Thanksgiving and Christmas and snow
day mugs full of berries delivered to
blizzard shut-in neighbors in need of
sweet berry smiles.

Next, Romaine lettuce growing broad
lime-green leaves already, plant now
in cool temperatures, no fertilizer,
let it grow. Next, spinach. None for
me. I’ll plant it in a part of the garden
without peppermint plants so the bunnies
can feast. Of course, we’ll plant our usual
crop of cucumbers – kirbys and divas for
me, marketmore 76 for Paul, several more
peppermint plants. Cherry tomatoes –
sungold, grapes, and sweet millions,
enough to feed the entire town. This
new outlook of working the soil, saving
our planet, ravenous to learn and share
sustains us through hungry times of solitude.
--
Poem Garden

What if there were no produce departments
or farm stands, no place to buy grapes or
tomatoes, no watermelons in summer, no
seven varieties of lettuce to salad your hunger
for crisp, healthy eating...

What if words no longer worked to tell a story,
or show a reader the lining of your heart in verse,
no way to know how nourishing a poem can be
for someone starved of metaphoric sustenance,
void of satisfying similes...

What if a famine befell us, like a virus that spread
around the world, in cities and farmlands, urban
and suburban alike, a pandemic to keep us from
hugging, from touching hand to hand or reaching
out across a screen of technology to know we
are not alone...

What if we overcame our fears, followed wise
counsel, emptied our hearts of rage and anger
to write love poems, emptied our refuse piles
to rake in amendments to change our outlook
to planting seeds of unity to sprout nutritious,
delicious meals of poems served on vibrant
platters to everyone in every town, city, state,
country of our survival on a planet we adopt
as mother, plant a garden of wholesome words
with roots to reach everyone...

​would you feel nourished?
I would.