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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).
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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.
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: 
 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.
A brief statement by Mr. Allen follows each poem OUR DAILY CURSE Give us this day Our daily curse Which impacted our kin, Seventeen of us youth, Our elders, including our two dear Eldest females under one roof-- Give us this day Our daily curse Which presented us w/ Almost emptied shelves, Cupboard & refrigerator nearly clear, Our meals reduced to mustard sandwiches-- Give us this day Our daily curse Which forced us to contend for space With colonies of roaches & the occasional rat, Two or three in a bed against evening cold, Waiting for warmth, conditions like that-- Give us this day Our daily curse Which robbed us of necessary Charmin© rolls on the toilet, had us reaching For newspaper for wiping, deprivation Was the norm in my 7-yr.old life-- Give us this day Our daily curse Conclusive proof That the god we prayed to nightly Was so sadistic, they abandoned Black folks to suffer slowly from Our daily curse. My early childhood remembrances of dealing with hunger & poverty at the same time. At my old house (and it was a big one), as quick as my aunts, uncle, grandmother and great-grandmother would bring food, beverages and sundry items home, they'd be gone within days. We'd run out of food, toilet paper, you name it. This feast-and-famine cycle happened a lot, especially with kids to feed and raise. FEED This ain’t no charity. This is a protest. Supermarkets, hotels, Eateries, coffeeshops, Make waste out of fresh & prepared Food, tonnes, at day’s end. This ain’t no church function. This is a protest. Bullets, assault rifles, tanks, Aeroplanes, destroyer ships, bombs Make far-away lands killing fields. National budget spent mostly on this, forget homes. This ain’t no city programme. This is a protest. Hunger tends to exist In the First World, too. So food is recovered From rotting as waste. This ain’t no welfare line. This is a protest. Ongoing against military build-up, Gearing up for war, nights and days Dining from empty plates, drinking from empty cups, Sleeping on empty bellies, dreaming of a decent meal. Revolution sometimes begins from The bottom of a bowl. Public space gets reclaimed. That space becomes inclusive. Fresh, prepared, free Vegetarian food is shared with neighbours. Afterwards, workers & poor alike leave The corner with fuller bellies. Hunger is much worse on the streets. So some do what class society fails to do: Feed the people. Food to every fork. This ain’t no charity. This is a protest. My salute to the work of international hunger relief collective Food Not Bombs. I used to work with the San Francisco and East Bay chapters. They were the one social justice group I knew of that connected hunger with poverty, food-wasting and the federal government's national defense budget. They were saying, through their actions, "Feed the people, not the war machine. BARREN Barren Streets—Oakland’s 74 miles closed To cars—Mayor Schaaf prioritises Two-wheeled exercise and safety For gentrifiers. Barren Subway stations—Social Distancing maintained To the extreme. Underground Solid concrete ghost town. Barren Hotel rooms—They’d make better Shelter in place for the homeless than being Warehoused in close quarters on mats. Existing method: Good way to get infected. Barren Shelves—Inside the supermarket-- The spirit of hoarding Cleared them of supplies. Long line of humanity outside are in for a nasty surprise. Barren Heart—There’s Nothing left dwelling within the husk for some. Nothing left but hostility—Blame for sickness Lands on descendants of Asia. Barren Describes this reality, re-configured By rapid infection—Humanity homebound-- There’s no reverting back To normal after this. I survived Ten presidents, the residual terror of four Foreign wars, power outages, outbursts of nature, A petrol shortage, evictions and homelessness. I will survive this, even as this contaminated air World quickly goes Barren. Personal observations/feelings on how the Coronavirus pandemic changed the Bay Area, Oakland and San Francisco. WOULD YOU? Would you… Bite into a watermelon without seeds? Munch into an ear of corn without taste? Suckle the bittersweet juice from a pomegranate the size of a baby’s skull? Would you… Chew on a tomato grown with fish genes? Eat bread made with wheat that can withstand heavy clouds of insecticide mist? Cook a meal with spicy chili peppers that can make their own pesticide? A loaded gun is no longer required To play Russian Roulette with your own body. The game can now be played much slower When feasting on the cisgenic harvest. Keeping hunger away Original intent Perhaps an excuse by scientists. The poor are left to take that gamble. White rats in a cage took a chance On a potato they were fed for dinner. Liver failure Weakened immunity Are what they’d gotten in return. Will these be the effects That mistakes of science Corruptions of nature Have on us? A loaded gun is no longer required To play Russian Roulette with your own body. The game can be played much slower When feasting on the cisgenic harvest. I wouldn’t take such a chance. Would you? W: 9.6.13 [ For Miguel Robles, Rachel Parent and Tami Canal. ] [ From the new book Elohi Unitsi: Poems [ 2013 -2018 ], Conviction 2 Change Publishing, 2020. ] A statement against the genetic modification of food. A few documentaries, including one produced by the University of New Mexico, inspired this poem. In this audio recording Dee Allen is reading his poem "BARREN":  Dee Allen is an African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California. He’s been active on the creative writing & Spoken Word scene since the early 1990s. He is author of five books (Boneyard, Unwritten Law, Stormwater and Skeletal Black, all from POOR Press, and his newest, Elohi Unitsi*) and 24 anthology appearances including Your Golden Sun Still Shines, Rise, Extreme, The Land Lives Forever and Civil Liberties United, edited by Shizué Seigel. *TSALAGI (Cherokee): “Mother Earth.” Pronounced: Ell-oh-ee Oo-nee-chee
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