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The Language of Angels A calico cloth, laid out flat, like so much of your lands. Thousands of stitches but nowhere near enough in number to measure the lives taken. The tiny drops of blood from a finger pierced by sharpness. Nothing in the ocean of blood that has been brutally spilled. Frustration at the lost thread, slipping from the needles eye. Nothing, when you must pack your few belongings and move on, Again, again, again. Exasperation at my slowness, my lack of skill. Nothing, when you must begin each day and find some thread of hope to do what needs to be done for the children. Hunger that causes me to consider putting aside my stitching. Nothing, when I have ample food in my cupboard and you – you are slowly starving as you feed your children first. I sleep in a safe, warm, comfortable bed, whilst you huddle with what remains of your family under a few blankets for protection. Today I sewed the name of young woman with the same name as my own granddaughter. Aisha, 25 years old, someone’s daughter, someone’s granddaughter. Maybe someone’s wife and someone’s mother. In many ways I prefer the reverse side of the sewing. The strange, angular shapes. The knots and loops. And I choose to believe it is a language known only by angels. That they might fast-track these souls into the presence of God. Where they might know peace, love and acceptance. Far, far away from the angry egos of bitter, old men. #StitchTheirNamesTogether – a project with women all around the world stitching the names of those killed in the Palestinian genocide. A small way to remember, to honour.  Kate Gold is a painter and poet living on the edge of Dartmoor and has written poetry since a child. After she studied poetry as part of a creative arts degree, she took her writing more seriously, honing and developing her writing skills. She went on to achieve an M.A in creative writing (poetry) In the past Kate worked as an art, poetry and creative writing tutor in HMP Bristol and ran writing workshops in community settings. Much of her poetry is inspired by her love of the wild beauty of the natural environment and her experience of caring for the dying. Her first poetry pamphlet was published in 2022 by Jawbone Press in Dorset.
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Hunger Certainly, it’s everywhere, right? All over the world? Yes, someway or the other. I read a report about it. I saw it in the street today. Oh! I met it last year while travelling. I saw the eyes filled with it. I watched a documentary last week. Does it quench? It depends on gnawing a hundred holes. Was it in the past? Yes, of course. Though things were different, so what? Though you distance yourself, you ignore it, you overlook it, you avoid it somehow. Yet, it remains at the corner of your heart, in the prick of your heart, in your searching eyes, in the crevices of your brain. Reflected in anger, frustration, impatience, shrieks, stress, sentences, sights, rights. Sometimes in silence, sometimes out of sight. Condemned to live by comrades of dying. At times it becomes unpronounceable. What else? Suppose we are able to measure it, then what? Escaped to be entrapped. In any case, shot in war. Faces, could you recognise any? Carrying continuously, from here to there. Keep a low-pressure area on the surface life. Can it be divided? Licking the pavements, swallowing the insults, digesting the injustices, biting the bitten heart. Leaving nothing for the vulture, nothing to be eaten, except plastic. On the other hand, the world goes by and we move on. Published in The Poetry Lighthouse.  Pulkita Anand is an avid reader of poetry. Author of two children’s e-books, her recent eco-poetry collection is 'we were not born to be erased'. Various publications include: Tint Journal, Poetry Xhunger, Origami Press, New Verse News, Green Verse: An anthology of poems for our planet (Saraband Publication), Comparative Women, Origami Press, Asiatic, Inanna Publication, Bronze Bird Books, SAGE Magazine, The Sunlight Press and elsewhere.
Buckwheat husks A flock of dehydrated birds suddenly fell from the sky, bellies hollow, wings frail, beaks open against the famine-worn wind. Below, the fields lie cracked, dry buckwheat husks scattered, like forgotten dreams decomposing in the dust. The air trembled with the shrieks of starved children, ribs pressing against withered skin, like the frail walls of a bombarded house waiting to collapse. Desperate mothers stirred empty vessels, sobbing to their ancestral deities, while weary fathers walked endless miles, chasing water and food. And then, she knelt among the fallen birds, cupping them gently, as if holding the last embers of life. Her fingers, thin as candle wicks, scattered grains of unseen buckwheat. With a mantra, she breathed life into the windless air, and one by one, the birds rose-- their wings slicing through the stillness of despair. I stood, mouth dry as the barren earth, feeling small, like a child watching a goddess stitch the torn sky. How I wished she could revive me like the birds. How I wished she could drift my hunger away. How I wished her touch could quench my thirst, her smile could fill my stomach in this famine-ravaged land. She looked at me, eyes kind yet weary, and shyly smiled-- her smile fluttered, like prayer flags weathered by the winds of the Himalayas.  Bhuwan Thapaliya is a poet from Kathmandu, Nepal. He has authored five poetry collections, including his most recent work, Slipping into Another World, published by Ukiyoto, and Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected, published by Nirala Publications, New Delhi. Beyond his writing, he actively engages with the global literary community, having read his work and attended seminars in countries such as South Korea, India, the United States, Thailand, Cambodia, and his native Nepal.
Blueberries on my porridge 10 times removed Carefully I spoon frozen blueberries from the self-sealing pouch, Purchased from New World frozen food section, Stocked by part-time underaged and retired night staff, Offloaded from the Gilmore’s frozen food behemoth in the middle of the night, Coming from a central depot, previously shipped from the Hastings factory, On to my porridge. Thanks sorters and the pickers from far and near Flaxmere, paid for performance, Not to forget the bankers, advertisers, and human resources, presumable well reimbursed. The blueberry plants imported from North America, Where I found them in ‘57 growing wild on “Blueberry Hill” Sudbury Canada. Food for thought, now to add a sprinkle of Chia seeds. First published in 30 Years of the Hawke’s Bay Live Poets’ Society, Seasons’s Voices, 2022 BIO: The Canadian Shield is their Maunga, the Niagara is their awa. US poet Billy Collins is an ancestor-in-law. Aotearoa New Zealand is their home.
Cold Crooks by This Fire Pit A pigeon naps by a dozing man, their heads are tucked in. One to its chest, the other under cardboard. How long will they stay a duo by this fire pit? These cold crooks, thieving flames. A chip wrapper folds in wind. Whose meal was that – and when’s the next? It must be hard to live without respite. Pigeon’s feathers twitch, man’s grunts dampened by coats, one trainer beside his head. A helicopter whirrs. Crew searches for convicts. Nearby, a woman fist bumps anyone in sight. She thumps of optimism, even near this pit, as graffiti warns against the 9am-5pm. Suits jest on their way to lunchtime drinks. Pigeons fly up to 700 miles in a day – more if they break their trip. This one chose to doze here. Still half a day to go. Click to hear the poet read the poem.  Chris Campbell, from Bristol, UK, was Highly Commended in the 2024 Cobh International Poetry Competition and shortlisted for Canterbury Poet of the Year 2023. Chris' poems appear in publications including Magma, Prole, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Waxed Lemon, Indigo Dreams’ The Dawntreader and Black Bough Poetry. He has two pamphlets published, plus a collection of poems called ‘All Island No Sea’ (Alien Buddha Press, 2022).
The Lonely Side My name is Homeless I carry myself in this bag On this lonely side of the street I walk down the street on my feet I smell their fear when we meet I look down at shoes not at eyes I hear the repulse in their sighs I want for the meat of their teeth I feel the quick cringe just beneath I thirst for the taste of their wheat I sink with their stare at my need I ache with the need to entreat I cry at the heat of defeat I live the long nights of that shame I’m sore with the fingers of blame I know that they would me delete I walk down the street on my feet On this lonely side of the street I carry myself in this bag My name is Homeless Click to hear the poet read the poem.
Food Bank Another working day, Twelve hours with the elderly, Waiting for my pay, Loving family tenderly. Nothing to report but, Dreading the journey home, Claiming income support, No credit on my phone. Another payday loan, Council flat is dank, In shadow seeds are sown, Waiting at the food bank. Britain Needs Gurdwaras There are 300 Gurdwaras in the UK, A little-known statistic, If you’re hungry, they will feed you, This gift of community ensures survival, Filling hearts and bellies. All ages, all creeds, all needs, good deeds, No questions asked, just humanity with a smile, Our flesh and blood are the same, just different, A first world country, leaning on community efforts, Dedicated volunteers lift spirits, When there’s nowhere else to go, What happened to social mobility? Rising beyond origins, carving success? A lost term among hidden beneficiaries, As teenagers we talked of eradicating child poverty, Eradicating world hunger, yet here we stand, Poverty and hunger in a first world country. Politicians shrug shoulders – let’s set up a working group, A Royal Commission to report back in five years, Some subjects are too big for one lifetime and a million politicians, There’s enough food for us all, you know, not just the few. Gurdwaras show society the errors of its ways, They offer true leadership, true ambition, true humanitarian love.  Born in Manchester, England, Vince first started writing poetry influenced by the 'punk' poet, John Cooper Clarke in the mid-1980s. Since then he has travelled extensively and enjoys writing about both beautiful and disturbing things. Coming from a tough background, Vince recognises the difficulties of ordinary people. He works as a trainer helping people overcome the fear of public speaking.
Loaves and Lilies There is this Chinese proverb stating that, when you have only Two pennies left in the world, you should buy a loaf of bread With one and a lily with the other. Which is a good illustration Of an admirable message – feeding not only the stomach but Also the soul… man cannot live by bread alone… those sorts of Sentiments. But there is now a higher truth that involves altruism And our common humanity: spend one of your pence on a loaf For yourself and the other on a loaf for a faraway fellow human Who is desperately hungry. Involving a lack of lily, conceivably Compensated for by my sense of virtuousness – of having done The ‘right thing’. But here, for me at any rate, there is a bit of a Problem. Call me greedy or selfish if you must but I favour the Lily before me to the temporarily satiated individual, unknown to And distant from me, noble though my gesture might have been. So, what to do? Possibly fourteen of us should share the lily in Question between us and dispatch a baker’s dozen loaves to a Zone of famine – and there are multitudes of those. But, here Again, that doesn’t work for me: I want my lily, not a share in a Lily but sole ownership thereof. Any other ideas? Well, how about We clear the fields and we provide the grain and the agricultural Implements and some fertiliser, thereby enabling those starving People to produce loaves (possibly alongside lilies) themselves? Which involves some initial sacrifice on my part (half a loaf is Better than no bread) but, in a year or two, I would not need to Go without my lily and my conscience would be clear. What’s That – the rich landowners have seized the land? The villagers Have eaten the seeds? There’s no money to fuel the equipment? The fertiliser fails to meet environmental standards? Let us face It, there are some questions without answers, some problems Without solutions. I’ve certainly enjoyed my daily bread but I see That my lilium convallium has finished flowering. It must now be Deadheaded, pruned, cut back, and mulched in readiness for the Year ahead and so I’ve just no time to think further about hunger. BIO: MIKE DOUSE has worked in education internationally since 1963. His publications include An Enjoyment of Education, One World One School, and numerous journal articles and conference presentations, along with four collections of his poems: Old Ground, Gone to Ground, Grounded and Groundhog Nights. He is living happily ever after in South Wales with his dear wife Patricia.
The Recipe may take its name from the country of birth or from the author, but depends on the right amount of ingredients in the right order: no higgledy piggledy. Although tastes have proved as fickle as simile, the seas dishes sail in are groups that rise and fall in frequencies that follow whales feeding in plastic fields. Between the poetry and metaphor, between our finger and our mouth, hangs an image of a starving child above rivers of uneaten flavour. The lost recipes of Eden live in golden grains of singing wheatfields.  Deirdre is an award winning playwright and poet. Her first book of poems 'The Language of Coats' was published by New Island Books and includes the poems which won The Listowel Poetry Collection Prize. 'The Mermelf-A Fable for Our Times' was published by Austin and Macauley in April 2024 and is a verse novella for younger readers.
Green Light in the Wasteland This morning's news is that food bank usage has skyrocketed this Canadian Thanksgiving. I’ve had my breakfast and am feeling thankful. My hunger is for everyone to be fully fulfilled. Yet the garden of plenty is not feeding us all. In the corner growing is a shining hope seed. Planted to keep the night from becoming day. Let’s nourish this plentiful spirit that those who have less can be filled with the dignity of more.  David C. Brydges was an autodidact solo scholar and lover of the liminal. His kept "Poetry as Insurgent Art" by his bedside as a constant companion and reminder of how we need to listen and heal our planet with words of hope. He passed away in 2025.
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