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Sudan 2020 I am so hungry tomatoes so red so firm I eat but I starve I drink from the gourd but still thirst inside my head how to starve to drink Can wind calm hunger as it scours the desert? No it burns me too When we starve we cry bloated guts resonate but the world hears us not Click on the file to watch Sara read her haiku Sudan 2020 
 Sara M. Robinson, founder of the Lonesome Mountain Pro(s)e Writers’ Workshop, and former Instructor of a course on Contemporary American Poets at UVA-OLLI, is poetry columnist for Southern Writers Magazine and poetry editor for Virginia Literary Journal. She has served as guest lecturer at UVA’s College at Wise, Wise, VA. In addition to publication in various anthologies, including We Grew Wings and Flew (2014), Scratching Against the Fabric (2015), Virginia Writer’s Club Centennial Anthology (2017), and Mizmor Anthology (2018); Journals: Loch Raven Review, The Virginia Literary Journal, vox poetica, Jimson Weed, Whisky Advocate, and Poetica, she is poet and author of Love Always, Hobby and Jessie (2009), Two Little Girls in a Wading Pool (2012), A Cruise in Rare Waters (2013 Stones for Words (2014), Sometimes the Little Town (2016), a finalist for the Poetry Society of Virginia’s 2017 Book Award. Her latest poetry book, Needville, was released in 2019, and in 2020 was adapted into and performed as a play. Sara resides in Albemarle County.
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Love Letter to a Dairy Farmer This year was supposed to be a good one. Finally. And now the virus closes restaurants, schools, the big customers. Heartbreak is the sound in drains – a fresh tide rushing across tiles and concrete from Idaho to Maine, from farm to farm 15,000 gallons a day. And somewhere, all of it is wanted. All of it is needed. This year was supposed to be a good one. Finally. What I want to say is how essential you are. You deserve Cole Porter lyrics. You deserve a serenade and decent prices every day. No matter where milk or the voluptuous power of butter lands – refrigerators in motorhomes, houses, skyscraper cantinas, in every coffeeshop in every time zone. This year was supposed to be a good one. Finally. Udders don’t shut off like faucets. Bills don’t disappear. For generations, on schedule, stanchioned cows bring it like miners above ground. Fears and hopes lift like Jersey eyelashes, like Holstein belly-sighs. Nothing is abstract. Farmers know. What I want to say is thank you every year. And may this one come to be what it’s supposed to be. Finally. Click on the file below to listen to Katy reading her poem 
 Katy Giebenhain is an ex-expatriate poet living in Pennsylvania. She is the author of Sharps Cabaret (Mercer University Press).
Ancestral nourishment The foods of my ancestors are made quickly, can’t wait for the bread to rise so take it now with us across the desert, thin crackerlike slabs — matzah. No time to waste, freedom is so easily taken away. My ancestors labored over the foods they ate, brisket marinates for hours, becomes thick with flavor, soft and tender, beet and cabbage borscht simmers until it’s deep red and wilted. Fill yourself until you’re drowsy. When there’s not enough, my ancestors shared, slice your serving into several. Invite friends and strangers to dine with you for Passover Seder. Drink at least three cups of wine, recite stories, the taste of ancient words on your tongue. The foods my ancestors ate are still savored today, crumbling cookies called mandel bread cover your shirt, matzah ball soup warms you to your core, pita bread dipped in fresh olive oil, tangy, salty, sweet.
 Marlena Chertock has two books of poetry, Crumb-sized: Poems (Unnamed Press) and On that one-way trip to Mars (Bottlecap Press). She uses her skeletal dysplasia as a bridge to scientific poetry. Marlena is a bisexual poet and serves on the planning committee for OutWrite, Washington, D.C.'s annual LGBTQ literary festival. Her poems and short stories have appeared in Breath & Shadow, The Deaf Poets Society, The Little Patuxent Review, Noble/Gas Quarterly, Paper Darts, Rogue Agent, Stoked Words, Wordgathering, and more. Find her at marlenachertock.com
SCAVENGERS (India) the mountains loom large not pine laden and fragrant nor craggy and awe inspiring rather huge piles of garbage that daily grow higher foul rotting reeking of human waste and remnants and the women children search and dig through the odiferous malignant heaps for any prize piece of cloth object wood metal to sell or worse for a rotting morsel to eat starved as they are with blisters and open sores on their hands and feet where constant contact is made and the seagulls natural scavengers of the trash fly about competing for food the gulls ultimately having the choice and ability to leave but without education money skills the human scavengers - the untouchables - are relegated to and as garbage for life  Marsha Warren Mittman’s humorous memoir, You Know You Moved to South Dakota from New York City WHEN… (Scurfpea Publishing), is a “Western Horizons Award” winner. Poems/essays/short stories have appeared in American, British, German, and Australian literary journals and anthologies, including six Chicken Soup for the Soul tales. The author of three chapbooks, Mittman’s received various poetry/prose distinctions in the US and Ireland, and a Writer’s Residency at Alabama’s Fairhope Center for Writing Arts.
Hunger and an Impotent State Many days have elapsed Since any meal was cooked in the old pot That lies upside-down in a corner of the room Like a barren womb It has not been able to conceive a new fetus. For many days now No prospect has squirmed In the empty cereal pouch flung into a corner in the room Like a scrotum devoid of sperms Unable to engender a new life. For many days The flames haven’t played with other flames In the cold fireplace in a corner Like a cold bed That hasn’t become an amorous playground. And That old pot That empty pouch And that cold fireplace Are all together mocking At the impotent government That’s helpless like a starved man.  Chandra Gurung, from the Himalayan country Nepal, writes poems in the Nepali language, and also translates poems of Arabic, Indian and English poets to Nepali. His first poetry collection was published in 2007.
Ode to farmers When I was a child, the story of the revival of Lazarus never really struck me but now when I look at our farmers I know why Jesus raised him He saw the peak of human potential in generations to come Sowing seeds in the farm, saving them from wild enemies, these godfathers ensure their little ones can be a source of sustenance for everyone. It's not easy to give up on your child like that. Especially when you don't know how his foster parents will be. Pandemic is jealous of the warmth these people show, thus disrupting the food supply chain, making our godfathers destroy their babies with bare hands. How more cruel can COVID-19 be? Snack time I thank the debris falling from my house of clay, for providing a three-course meal to my little ones amid pandemic! You can click on the file below to listen to Fizza reading her poem Snack time:
 Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her works have been published at many platforms including Indiana Voice Journal and Poetry Pacific.
Bacon and Eggs Bacon and Eggs Woke up this morning, got the bacon and egg blues. Woke up this morning, got the bacon and egg blues. Got no bacon, eggs too rotten to use. I’ll make some coffee, sweeten it with milk. I’ll make some coffee, sweeten it with milk. Milk’s gone sour, gotta dump it in the sink. Toast me some bread, gotta get something to eat. Toast me some bread, gotta have something to eat. Bread’s all moldy, couldn’t weather the heat. I’ll raid the pantry, eat some canned beans. I’ll raid the pantry, maybe eat some canned beans. Shelves are empty, no cans to be seen. Woke up this morning, got the bacon and egg blues. Said woke up this morning, got the bacon and egg blues. Got no bacon, got nothing to lose. Clifford Bernier is active in the Washington, DC poetry and harmonica communities. His most recent poems are part of the book The Write Blend, a collaboration between six DC-area poets celebrating diversity.
LOAVES AND FISHES Eggs of the full shell and shelf-stable milk, Hot stew or chili worth more than soy silk, Fresh fruits with cold sides for what they lack, And oven fired servers are empowered at back. On racks hats underwear gloves and socks As if coats of colors could cast off rocks. Much more is required to bleach white Spirits less safe running out of the light. Some welcome each day's repeating gift. Repast provides for a conversation lift; No mention is yet made of faith or grace. Free loaves with fish give no slap in the face. Claimed turf keeps distance from rebirth At an intersection that exits dead earth. Most refuse offers to wake up off the streets. But none hesitate for all the good eats. EPILOGUE A service fleet uncharged and now expanded Vehicles in the common good will be landed Fully equipped and mobile so why any fret By whom is a current secret to be kept Here is the video of https://youtu.be/fdxb0bvlqMg  MistyRose™ poetry is published in 4 hard-cover anthology books at the United States Library of Congress and in academic journals. She is the only accepted "Spoken Word Artist" in the state of Oklahoma on the Poets & Writer's Directory
http://www.pw.org/content/mistyrose_ok . She was the Featured Guest Poet in Houston in 2014. (video recorded https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=689214594500742) MistyRose poem “Frozen Treasure” won 1st in Rhyme 2013 at Inaugural ROMP Competition (Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry). MistyRose poem “Tulsa Sky” displayed 2018 in Brooklyn NY gallery. Other published poems viewable at https://www.facebook.com/mistyrose.ok?sk=notes_my_notes Hunger Hunger is a tricky beast: Those who have it Growling and grumbling, Nagging to be satisfied, Hide it from others. After all, Not everybody wants to know it They fear its demands Believe that to placate it Will mean less For themselves. Sometimes, Hunger, though shy with strangers, Leaves clues of its presence: Perhaps an empty cupboard Where once it had foraged or Its owner’s clothes Now worn and hanging thin Over rattling bones. A child might sit apart to eat One small sandwich Trying to keep Hunger at bay Which stares Big-eyed at the children With canteen money, filled rolls and fruit. Hunger grows during times of hardship And breeds during a pandemic. It looks for solace, To be fed But so many are blind They look away Shake their heads at swollen empty stomachs and Hollowed cheeks. They are sure Another will help.  Lynda Scott Araya is an educator and writer who lives in New Zealand. She has been published or as work forthcoming in Verse-Virtual, Grey Thoughts, The Wild Word, The Pangolin Review and more.
VIGIL “The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places…” J.R.R. Tolkien It was light once Before the land imploded Before the shutdown Before children shuddered The sun shone then And the moon Appeared crisp and clear Not like now – Shrouded in smog – And there were animals And growing things Like trees and food Instead of ration packs And there was water – Clean water – There was hope then All but obliterated now Yet like a winter solstice When light returns We few wait…we wait Though still in darkness For the slightest glimmer  Marsha Warren Mittman’s humorous memoir, You Know You Moved to South Dakota from New York City WHEN… (Scurfpea Publishing), is a “Western Horizons Award” winner. Poems/essays/short stories have appeared in American, British, German, and Australian literary journals and anthologies, including six Chicken Soup for the Soul tales. The author of three chapbooks, Mittman’s received various poetry/prose distinctions in the US and Ireland, and a Writer’s Residency at Alabama’s Fairhope Center for Writing Arts.
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