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Cookie Monster They call him the Cookie Monster. Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone. Striking while the oven’s hot He can scoff the lot They call him the Cookie Monster. Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone He finds victory sweet To have your cake and eat The food supply tumbles The hungry stomach rumbles They call him the Cookie Monster Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone He’s in a world of plenty Before the tin is empty. But His mind denies He is using up supplies They call him the Cookie Monster Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone A shame less greed Cares not for need More than a hunch He has eaten Africa’s Lunch They call him the Cookie Monster Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone Make him stop Or the starving drop R.Stephenson Issue 01.4 13/11/12  Richard Stephenson was born 50 yeays ago in Newcastle Upon Tyne. He is now a Chartered Engineer, working in the telecommunications industry. He lives in Reading UK where he runs the Dreading Slam Poetry Competition
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Joy Unbound Sometimes, While taking to air, The sprightly wings begin to tire The throat gets parched Hunger hounds the hollow belly Rain raids randomly And the sun bakes and boils. Yet, His life takes An unfettered flight imbued with majestic high Prosperity Three basic human needs: Bread, rags, and roof. Bread— The bread I eat these days tastes different. I have forgotten the grim face of hunger. Rags— I dress better than I did long ago But the greed in my heart still goes naked. Roof— I live in a grand and high building these days From where people appear stunted.  Chandra Gurung is a Nepali poet based in the Kingdom of Bahrain. In 2007 he
published his first anthology of Nepali poetry, and his second collection titled My Father’s Face has been translated into English, has come out in Oct 2020. His work has been featured in many international anthologies including: More of My Beautiful Bahrain, Snow Jewel, The Collections of Poetry and Prose series, Warscapes.com, and many others. Also, Chandra often translates poems from other languages into Nepali. Sheltering an ear whisper beyond means seemly out just for the hurting skin to the bones knowing to the lone dry eyes not much to see lonely cry within a sigh sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world an ear whisper through the alley ghostly ashes in the trash fingernails scraping in the dumpster for a mouse nibbling in the spoiling sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world an ear whisper a child staring at the chalkboard strain veins breathing weak enduring fatigue wishful for a bellyful sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world an ear whisper outsight in the moonlight dusk in in the footsteps tears in silence darkness settle in of many tells it all written on the wall sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world an ear whisper impose damned bare hand reach out for hand outs belittle muffle face without meaning to what ends sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world why Click on the file below to listen to the recording of the poem: 
 Guy Chambers living out at North Cooking Lake Alberta. Has two books published called “Flying Kites in the Moonlight” and “The Theater” a story told in poetry about homeless
Still Life She showed up late for picture day eyebrows shaved ratty toque pulled low Do you want to take it off? I asked. For the photo? No she pulled it lower with both fists My sister tortures me hiss-whispered between savage gulps of milkless instant oatmeal from a tiny pack stashed in a locked drawer in the school office That’s four times this week the secretary sniffed as if there’s a moratorium on food instability I don’t ask if this one knows where auntie is or if uncle still finds her and her little sister fake-sleeping under T-shirt blankets on the couch She tried to hide the circle seared into her palm the scratches on her knees from the cat, or so she said last time Is there any more? A note from the poet -- As an elementary school teacher of 33 years, I was often confronted with kids/families living with food insecurity. Ask any elementary teacher, and they will show you a snack drawer/closet/cupboard stocked with granola bars, oatmeal, beef jerky, crackers, etc. usually purchased with their own money, for hungry students. This poem is a reflection of that all-too-common situation. Click on the file below to watch the video of Brenda reading her poem: 
 Since retiring in 2017, Brenda's immersion in family research inspired a collection of poetry based on her paternal ancestry. A proud member of the Edmonton Stroll of Poets and the Parkland Poet's Society, her work has been published in Canadian journals and anthologies. Brenda is completing a certificate in creative writing and is at work on a second collection of poems.
The Capuchin Day Centre It’s Wednesday morning and the queue on Bow Street gets longer year on year - a family with two children wait in line for the blue bag from brother Kevin. Bread, butter, beans and more - their home, a hotel room, two bus rides away. Yet somehow this place, is just enough to put a half smile back on a mothers face, on these dirty Dublin streets. Click on the file below to listen to Doreena read her poem:
 Doreena is from Dun Laoghaire, Co. Dublin,
Ireland and has been writing from the age of twelve. Her writing is like a diary, reflecting life’s ever-changing emotional landscape. She is a member of the award winning ‘Carlow Writers Co-op’. Enough Would words be enough, I would sate your hunger I would build for you a well everfilled with water clean I would work alongside as you till the field Watch hope emerge green from the brown earth Would words be enough, I would end your misery Watch each child of yours grow strong and true Teach you to read and to write and to sing So that your voice be forgotten nevermore Would words be enough, I would help you bear your burden Bring healing to your wounds, end strife See beyond the lines on a map, beyond colour And you would know you are my sister, my brother If words were enough Click on the file below to listen to Josephine read her poem:
 a pearl in this diamond world … Josephine LoRe’s words have been read on stage and in Zoom rooms, put to music, danced, integrated into paintings & visual art, and published in literary journals and anthologies in ten countries. She has two collections, Unity and the Calgary Herald Bestseller The Cowichan Series.
https://www.josephinelorepoet.com/ An Gorta Mór (The Great Hunger) Ireland 1845 - 1852 I Ireland. The aching. Stomach tight, skin taut, stretched across poking ribs. Mo dhia, prataí ar maidin agus prataí ar nóin mar a duirt an file -My God, potatoes in the morning and potatoes in the evening, - as the poet said - A hot clammy Summer. Potatoes! Lifegiver! dragged from the earth with fevered hands, dirt scared nails, scratching, digging the mulched black thing, cloying to the touch, from the earth. A fouled death stench, from what had been a potato. A sábhála Dia orainn! - God save us! - Níl aon rud eile againn! - We have nothing else! The Land bereft of it's nourishing harvest; potatoes. Even along the coast, the boats are no more, in the cities if you have the money for the inflated prices at the food markets, and islands where there is fish, there is some salvation, if you have the strength and skill to catch them. If you have a currach to set sail to find them, or the ragged groups of women and girls, chipping reluctant shellfish from the sea drenched rocks, or, eating raw seaweed to ease the knawing need, their guant frames poisoned, leading to the agony of death without hope. Cad a Déanfaimid anois? - What will we do now? The cravings, walking barefoot, to the Landlord's House, the smell of cooking from his kitchen. Turned away by his bailiffs with masks about their faces, to hide the stench of human despair. Food. Scenting like hunting dogs, the imagined taste on the air, like ragged unseeing things, they stagger across moor and heath. The mountain wind, cutting through to the bone, II the chill of streams crossed numbing their bloodied bare feet, staring unseeing, with grass-juiced mouths, the final act of despair and madness, dripping from slack jawed lips. Dying in heaving gasps, amidst a mountained landscape, falling to emerald beauty to the quiet of field and valley. The last sight and sound they see, lying face up, in a ditch, or on the side of the road, watching with the indifference of the dying, the slow moving gunmetal clouds pasted across a cold sky, reflected in their eyes. A raven hovering, feathering a winged beat for the approach of endless night. A lonely cry on the air, notes their passing. A lonely place to die, by the roadside, a light breeze, bending blade of grass and petalled flower, fingers clawing the earth in a final rigor of agony, before blessed death takes them. An Gorta Mór: 1845-1850 Click on the file to listen to Tony read the poem:
 Tony Treanor is an Irishman living in Limerick on the Mid-West coast of Ireland. He has enjoyed writing and reading poetry all his life.
Laura Mulcahy, Irish Singer and Poet, presents her moving song/poem, Sunken Cemetery, 1849, about emigration caused by the Irish Famine.
Several musicians and poets join her in this tribute. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ypRiYttVGE&feature=emb_logo The Wait As I write Someone, somewhere Waits- I imagine "What it is";, to say Hungry and stay, that way And if- She could be, my friend At lunch A table well laid- When asked "Are you a vegetarian", I remark Hunger has no caste- It eats, itself, and lasts Longer than You and I, ever thought. Click on the file below to listen to Abha read her poem:
 Abha Das Sarma lives in Bangalore, India.
An engineer and management consultant by profession, writing is what makes her happy and fulfilled. Cold Chicken Its raining, and windy no shelter from the cold I’m ailing, though young still, I am really feeling old Christmas is coming, I still can’t find a home No money, no shelter Wandering the streets alone My shoe won’t stop leaking my toes are turning green My stomach is so empty I wish that I was clean Searching through the rubbish For something nice to eat A leftover chicken leg A succulent, seasonal treat Nourishing, but still hungry What else is there to do? I approach a stranger and say “A merry Xmas to you.” Here is the video of Fin reading the poem: https://youtu.be/V3IKFdKJm8E  Fin Hall is from New Pitsligo, in the North East of Scotland. He has been writing since the early 70’s. He hosts a Zoom Event called Like A Blot From The Blue. Fin's work mainly focuses on social issues as well as reflective personal stories.
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