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An empty sack can’s stand up anymore. All the potatoes are gone, and it lays silently on the floor. When will it be filled again? Will it be a day or a month, the children patiently wait! We tend to buy more food than we will ever eat; then throw away the remains. Hunger pains are felt by many young children daily all over the world. An undernourished child should never be a factor in the richest country in the world; the United States. There’s no food in many ice boxes and sometimes there’s no ice to even keep food cool and safe. It’s not the child’s fault, we know this, but it’s exceedingly difficult to hide a child’s hunger pain. Sometimes, there’s no water for the family garden to grow basic vegetables to eat. No clean water to drink happens to many children everywhere, it’s incredibly sad. The silent tears trickle down their faces as they try to fall asleep at night. Even the animals are dying from the lack of clean water and food in many places. Yes, the empty sack is empty and can’t stand up anymore. It lays in the corner near the empty rice bin. No one should die from starvation or malnourishment; especially a child. This poem has received recognition by FanStory. Click on the file below to listen to the recording of the poem: 
 Joyce Williams Graves is a native of Fredericksburg, Virginia. She lives in Fort Washington, Md (over 20 years) with her husband Glen Graves. She is a woman of faith. She has been retired for 7 years. Ms. Graves worked at the Environmental Protection Agency for 22 years for the Office of Inspector General as an Information Technology (IT) manager. She is an Entrepreneur and works as an independent skincare consultant (Jafra International) for 8 years. She has been a US Notary Public for over 30 years. Ms. Graves is a playwright. Her play is called, “Cotton Field to Concert Hall.” It was performed at the Public Playhouse (2017) and the Kennedy Center (2018). Her hobbies are painting, writing poems, swimming, walking, playing chess. Ms. Graves is a Numismatist (Coins Collector).
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Sustainability Sustainability is the ability to stay strong To keep generations’ moving on But literally and figuratively there have been storms Fires, floods that have ravaged lands Damaged crops And when we know the causes How can there be these great pauses of profit over margins Should we wait til all are starving We have to stop Sustaining the need to change the pain brought on by drain Straining to survive with what remains Claiming what we can from land abused Drought over land Fought over Land Bought over objections of protection By corporations with core objectives to take and take without limitations To proliferate profits without the slightest indication to sustainability Fill the coffers, meet the proffers to investors and move on Sustaining Though raining hard Yet yard refuses yield Like headstones in a fruitless field Reflecting death, from those who’ve left But messages were left behind Remember to respect the time the things contained The way things change, while staying the same These ways Sustaining must be explained, must be learned That paths of wrath may thus be turned That for our children earth remains Sustained  Brenardo aka Andre’ B. Taylor, is a native Washingtonian poet and songwriter. He has been writing for over five decades on all matters of life. His written words have been featured in countless newspapers, magazines, and poetry anthologies, and he is a veteran of stage, radio, and television, who believes in being of service to the word which graces him to help others.
GINGERBREAD When my mother packed my lunch, she wrapped a slice of gingerbread in wax paper and the upper crust stuck to the wrapper when I peeled it open, so I set the greasy paper aside, and meant to throw it out, but that Malony girl, whose dress was always stained, snatched it from my desk and licked the crust off the waxed paper, all the while beaming with delight the way an epicure might grin to avail herself of a fine morel paté. Her family lived in a rundown farmhouse behind the cemetery, all the paint worn off the clapboards. How many siblings she had no-one could count, and because I didn’t understand, I told my father how that girl took my trash to eat, and wrinkled my nose in disgust. But my father, who had been to Calcutta during the last war and seen people sleeping in the streets, only sighed and said softly: “You must have compassion.” I still didn’t understand, but I wanted to be a good son, and now I wonder what became of all the Malonys, and if that girl grew past her hunger, if she ever tasted anything sweeter than my mother’s gingerbread crust, and if one day she got to wear a dress without a stain. Here is the link to the video on You Tube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGcu7pPvBOg  W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland and a retired special educator. His poetry has been published in numerous journals as well as several anthologies. He is the author of four poetry chapbooks: “Not Quite: Poems Written in Search of My Father”, (Finishing Line Press, 2015), and “Our Situation”, (Prolific Press, 2018), “Everyone Disappears” (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and, “Little Wars” (Kelsay Books, 2021).
When Schools are Soup Kitchens She doesn’t raise her hand when the teacher asks who wants to order the free snack/supper even though she knows she will go hungry. No one else raises their hand. He shrugs and tells his friends he isn’t hungry, covers his growling stomach with laughter because he’d rather starve than his classmates discover his lunch account is empty again. Dining with dignity impossible when nothing at school is anonymous. Her teacher slips bags of chips into her desk while they are in P.E. so her classmates won’t see. The counselor fills his backpack with boxes of mac and cheese and cans of beans a bag of rice so he won’t go hungry over the long weekend. Bandaids on the gaping wound of their hunger. Click on the file below to listen to Gabby read the poem:
 Gabby Gilliam lives in the DC metro area, more specifically Montgomery County, Maryland. Her poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming from, The Chesapeake Reader, The Fredericksburg Literary Arts Review, and Tofu Ink Arts Press. Her short fiction will appear in a forthcoming anthology from Black Hare Press.
Two-faced Hunger Stomachs dressed in cardboard signs gurgle will clean anything for a living wage. Roots dry rot waiting for hire. A tesla-patient mob rushes to click the X on my pop-up Ad box, making hectares of my willingness blink and sputter. Self responsibility Sir Ma’am they say as if they know the circumstances. Yeah, like you’ve never needed anything you’ve never needed anything. I walk the rim of asphalt toward the next window. Hunger. Talking about Hunger who when satisfied gives me enough mojo to fake a home address. Not talking about Hunger fueling the fortunate in this realm so that they can go to bed and fly the imagination. Food will smack them awake at sunrise. Talking about Hunger gasping a prayer for a pound of protein packaged veggie lentil burger mac & cheese I don’t care Big Mac Big Mac My body is now a religion without a living head. Vapor. Not talking about Hunger Mahatma Gandhi shapes into a bullet for the caste system. Protest fasting’s been chopped down now even appropriated by some now. Hunger snaps a rubber band against my pale lips yet it lays a pregnant self bare for the other muse full of inspiration, verse, fantasy, romance Greek cornucopias, architecture, inventions prisons and supermarkets full of xenophobia. It slings chummy arms through the elbows of plunderers dot death and political ’trepreneurs. This lover air kisses my dream. It savages my world into a food desert, driving back the lion who once kept watch, protecting me from pandemics and the platform shoes of the elite. Now the king and I step one then two with less conviction. Don’t waste your heart. Untie Kindness. The stinging will stop if you share your bread for a moment. Click on the file below to listen to Faith read her poem:
 Faith P. Nelson holds a B.A. in English from the University of Maryland and freelances as a tourism copy-writer and indie publishing consultant. She programmed a literary festival and gained years of experience working behind the scenes at BET, Viacom. Bear, her tabby cat, keeps her humble by running away when she picks up the guitar. Water Therapy is her first collection of poetry: https://www.watercoursepublishing.com
[Copywriting, Book Development and Indie Publishing Production Assistance] American Madonna Hunger wears a face full of hope like the girl on the magazine cover cradling a loaf of white bread as if it’s a miracle. Tonight she will sleep with food in her tummy. Hunger’s face is innocent like the little boy buying a corn-dog at the corner store or his neighbor who’s grateful for two plump strawberries tucked in the family’s food box. Hunger tells the same story sweeping across time and place from Oklahoma’s Dust Bowl to Mississippi’s Delta towns— Loss and desperation landing sucker-punches on families across America. Hunger’s face is weary like the fictional Rose O’Sharon heavy with grief after birthing her stillborn child. Her pain ripples through the air, palpable and raw like the fresh scar on her heart. She seeks refuge from the rain in an old barn, a boy offers her a musty blanket. She spies an old man huddled in the corner gripped by hunger like a fist in his belly. Rose offers him the only gift she has lying down next to him, baring her breast, and sharing her milk. Click on the file below to listen to Ann read her poem:
 Ann Bracken has authored two poetry collections, No Barking in the Hallways: Poems from the Classroom and The Altar of Innocence, serves as a contributing editor for Little Patuxent Review, and co-facilitates the Wilde Readings Poetry Series. Ann advocates for arts-based interventions for mental health, education, and prison reform.
The harvest Truth will be the seed the brethren of the earth encounter droplets of a liquid sun filling up all wells the way that dreams fill up a melody of illusion The earth has remained dry and crumbling who would have imagined that iron showers could never bloom a green of feasts but rather bleed an old despair? Rich nations let barrels of food go to waste like depth charges exploding in poor people’s faces. Hunger is no longer tragic just unbearably absurd Come, climb the stairs look up to the spheres and find a comet that even the blind can see then stab the earth slit its veins with love and light and joy and let the truth begin anew We will have bread the field songs will strum a venerable earthquake of memory and we will remember what sharing meant because we’ll learn to share again.
Andrés Abella (born in Valparaíso, Chile, 1970) is a journalist, activist and poet. He lives in Takoma Park, MD, with his family. He studied English language and literature at the Pontifical Catholic University of Valparaíso, Chile, and Journalism at San Francisco State University, California. He worked as a journalist and news editor for more than 15 years in print and online media.
Freshman 10 first girl in the family to go to college was hungry all year often, for a smoke to put a coat of nicotine over all-nighter pangs of exam panic dry-mouthed too many mornings anonymous in lecture halls following beer-pong night school covetous of customers’ orders waiting tables at the diner consumed by plate envy for syrup-soaked pancakes since the currency of her free meal was sacrificially bartered for calculus tutorials she might have gotten for her dimples and a feigned interest in sci-fi instead, she indulged the same sweet tooth her momma showed for boys with candied flesh no woman could ever bite deep enough to sugarcoat their rinds a binge that left her ravenous to know if that extra weight was freshman 10 or pregnancy pounds then, by finals week, bloated with relief when what she had to swallow next left a mostly hidden scar and a fat-lipped heart TJ Maxx What mom hopes I don’t remember about first-grade hunger: how it gulped down even the lump of fear caused by ketchup sandwich of silence and sirens that last syringe stuck like a straw in her bruised banana flesh. I pretend now that I never slept dreamless on a full belly, plump pillow in a foster family’s home the nights she spent in rehab. My eighth-grade pangs starved family pride: I was the scavenger angel in evangelical service of our lunch lady of the uneaten corn dog nugget, green bean, cooked carrot and fruit cocktail abandoned on trays of friends. At home my brother and I gorged impotently on ramen noodles, eager for mom’s McNugget pay-day miracle. Tenth-grade first job wages: I stuffed my locker and bedside table with red finger-tipped fruits crunch and burn of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos my pocket change tossed in the collection plate for college and a car. Later was never. Now was treating the three of us to fourth meal at Taco Bell until we were sick of it, and I grew too big for hand-me-downs used my employee discount on a larger size. Bumper Crop We harvested a riot in our garden tomatoes bloated after volleys of rain and our temporary decampment on vacation at the lake. Joker-mouthed fruits leaking lifeblood greeted our return. No tasers or rubber bullets could repel fruit fly surge as what we hoped to salvage rotted sweetly. This decomposing regiment of peaceful assembly occupied the sunniest spot for months entwined vines shielding assets behind pungent chainmail. We broke through the lines, captured hundreds cut away their bruises, battle scars to savor victory salads and sandwiches all summer detain nine gallons of boutique sauces seasonal POWs in our freezer. Now we surrender a field deepened by combat soil's soul turned over to red cabbages, kale, pansies not poppies-- nevertheless, haloed ground demands a mottled moment of silence for Yemen, Syria and the Congo, whose children might for peace in which to gather tomatoes like these fight insects to the death eat not around bruised fruit, but through it, suck in bloody juice, swallow bitter seeds.  Laura Stewart Webb is a keen and grateful member of the Southern Maryland community of poets who gather together to participate in workshops, open mics, and the joy and mystery of being human. Laura writes on many topics but often returns to themes inspired by her work as a community educator in behavioral health. Laura lives with an Irish Wolfhound named Fintan who has not given up trying to teach her everything he knows.
El Pan de Cada Dia (Our Daily Bread, HERE is the version in English) Se dice que la poesía es como el pan, que alimenta el alma. Pero a veces, como las buenas intenciones y las oraciones, ¡no es suficiente! Se ha comprobado que los niños no aprenden cuando tienen hambre. Fíjese en las bajas calificaciones de los estudiantes en nuestras escuelas. El desayuno debe ser la primera lección de cada día. Seguido por el almuerzo, y una merienda por la tarde antes de la salida. Las sondas gastro-nasales que alimentan a los moribundos les obligan a seguir viviendo aun contra su voluntad pero esto no dura para siempre. Y aunque no hay tubos de alimentación para los que viven, una sola comida puede ser la diferencia entre la vida y la muerte para muchos. Sin embargo, mientras tantos mueren de hambre, se desechan a diario miles de libras de comestibles en países tan prósperos como este. ¡Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! Todos somos culpables por despreciar las sobras y el pan viejo que, como la poesía, pueden alimentar a un pueblo.  Maritza Rivera (Montgomery County, MD) is a Puerto Rican poet and Army veteran who has been writing poetry for over 40 years. She is the creator of Blackjack poetry and hosts the Mariposa Poetry retreat. Maritza aka Mariposa is the author of About You, A Mother’s War, 21: Blackjack Poems, and the Blackjack Poetry Playing Cards.
This Ridiculous Struggle The yearning to pin the moth just so, is the hungry ghost. The dark of that unquenchable maw. Monkey mind tells us we're stuck here. Even as I bathe in the orange-y, pinkest sunset on my porch, those children sit huddled inside themselves. Cold or hot, dirty, bored, dirty and of course hungry. Both occur at the same time. The sky is a marvelous wash of lingerie hues and mesa burning. Each wrenched away baby frenzied by so much absence.  Julie lives in Freeland, MD and says, “I start, make & point out things. I wonder how we got here. I live on a "farm" and herd kids & pets & groan at hubby's puns, often.”
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Hunger-focused Poems by Maryland PoetsCreation of this section and publishing the works of Maryland poets was supported by the Maryland State Arts Council. Archives
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