Best Famine Poems
IN THE FAMINE OF JUSTICE
Besieged with wrenching pangs of hunger,
bloating a belly of despair, I painfully called out
to my mother—justice—cold just-
ice.
With a Mona Lisa smile and covered eyes,
she revealed her prune-like sagging breast,
the closed the door of the pantry of mercy,
and walked away, leaving my lingering
hungry—
There is not a day I do not trace the trail
she left behind—not a morsel can I find.
The tongue of the freedom bell
no longer speaks. My ears grow weary;
worthless words echo mere memories.
But be beholding my children.
Be not dismayed; for hope unborn
is not dead; nor is its audacious spirit.
Justice may have walked gently into the night,
searching—Tomorrow,
the perfect storm of resurrection shall fill her sails,
balance her scales, and rip the blindfold from her eyes;
and she shall awake from the ravaging nightmare
of injustice and rain down liberating righteousness.
Please do not take your
pomegranates for granted,
especially if you have the
last one on the planet,
a smart person would
take some seeds out
and plant it,
but couldn't if the
government suddenly
regulated everything
and banned it,
then someone who
was still a maverick,
would risk his life and
have to go on
the lam with it in
order to plant it,
and people everywhere
would uprise and not
stand for the banning
of the pomegranate,
and before you know
it there would be a
bumper crop of
pomegranates again
that would surpass it,
letting people to
have the freedom
once again to
make their tasty
fruit salad!
There lies a land behind the smoke,
Where silence screams and hearts are broke
Where lullabies drown in bombs and drones
And cradles turn to shattered stones
Babies cry with lips so dry
No blood, no milk, no tear left to cry
No schoolbell rings, no hospital stands,
Just bones and ruins buried in the sand
They queue for crumbs and bleed for rice
A bottle of water, the price of life
Each has lost __ be it a child or spouse
a parent, a sibling or a shattered house
Then phosphorus rains on wrecked-out souls
To burn their skin to elevate their pains
And we the modern civilized race
Watch stage 5 famine take its place
What further war-crimes must I define
Palestine bleeds while the world stays blind
'Twas a horrible thing called the blight,
diseased potatoes a depressing sight,
starvation begone,
crossed over the pond,
arrived Ellis Island future looks bright.
3-13-17
The people of Ireland were suffering a terrible fate
Many of them were starving at an alarming rate
Their potato crops were failing because of the blight
Bit little or no help was given now that wasn't right.
The wealthy landlords fed their faces with meat so lean
Whilst the poor people starved now I call that obscene
They could have helped them but chose to let them die
The horrors that they suffered a grown man would cry.
The heartless landlords didn't care, they showed no pity
More concerned about profits for their masters in the city
They evicted many poor dying people victims of the blight
How in God's name did these landlords sleep at night ?.
At the roadside's men, women, and children lay dead
They put profit before people that they could have fed
Landlords exported all the grain to feed the wealthy elite
Whilst the poor starving people were dying at their feet.
"An act of God "said Trevelyan, now that was shocking
To use that as a lame excuse to do little or nothing
And he certainly wasn't alone, the clergy said it too
How simple minded they all were to think that was true.
They all looked the other way, they all had no shame
And did not do enough and found others to blame
One day they'll face judgement and that is a fact
And they can all explain to God why they didn't act.
Thirsty shadow crawls,
While the tree reaches for rain;
Earth cracks from the drought.
Fighting famine starvation
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
As a poet should I write?
Words in this world!
That is not right.
Words on paper for you to read!
Do they bear weight?
Will these words intercede?
Famine now rears its ugly head.
Men, women, children cannot be fed.
As nothing is grown to make living bread
Fighting as I write you know.
Causes families to start to flow.
Away from danger, they do you know.
Killing, raping, has mankind gone insane?
For everywhere, it seems the same.
Will life ever be normal again?
Fighting must cease, irrigate the land.
Feed all from the seed, sown by man’s hand.
Live together in peace do.
Help each other, you must, it’s true.
As only then you will survive.
With food and water.
You’ll surely thrive.
I know no one fleeing strife will read this . But with such bad news just sending money seems so inadequate. Hope someone can channel the abundant free water from places that have too much to those that have none. as without water, well less said about that. Oh by the way I am cancer free, how about that? A little good news amidst the world's doom and gloom. Stanley (TnmA)
-
Terence a Griffiths of Tyrone or Leitrim!
Did he know but later of 1820 he would be there born
A Flax Grower a renter from landlords of Lord Leitrim's domain
To thresh and sack and cloth and sow by wife and all but slavery go
A brother Bartholemew younger and two rented fields up
They toiled and cut their respective Dromahair tracks for family food and church
Imagined home of limestone scraw and thatch and little more
To Him and Mary had children born but died and died but - James a smile born at last
Year of 42 destined of birth and life much the same
With toil and despair like all the rest of this peopled land
A famine near but river trout and oats and eggs kept going without the potato plant
Blyte and desperation spared on none but those ready those prepared
Not prepared evicted on the lonely green lined road and board of works pittance
For those a fraction better or more a trip to port and bay to look across the sea
Without a family to meet or lodgings to lay
The night before a sorrowful wake of music and porter barrel there
With food and tears and pennies off never to see no more
Terence proud and sad James he sends America to go
And send some money home to mother to lowly sons
She creaks and breaks and steers the stomach
Up and down the drains of hungers pains
The deck to break of wave and sounds and New Amsterdam emerge
Better lands and money sent home to purchase 20 Acres and 2 roods no more
Never to return is not true. A loyal James to Landlord downed and to family too
He roots and spreads and family bear and atained a generation there
But cannot see to bear another ship for those he knows and hates the family split
A neighbour lined up at the poor house and green lane go. He can stand no more
And sacks the postman's bag with others and throws the notice to the ditch
The brutal notice of postman's summons blocks arrests the rabble and gaols the mob
I saw the picture of Limerick gaol a bowler hat not there but pride
Pride in a smile. - James a smile born at last.
Along a summer road of eternal dust
that flies in the face of poverty and disdain
red and hardened faces with hands
as brown as the shine on shoes that
at one time reflected in their youthful faces
oily overalls now replace the snappy suit
he used to wear and the shiny automobile
that took him to his job in the city
memories well up in tired eyes that
fill with tears as bony shoulders heave
and protrude from a undernourished body
blows his peeling nose on the red handkerchief
stuffed in a torn back pocket
crafty crows swing from last year's harvest
as a dry wind rustles and crackles through
skeleton corn stalks...
he searches in vain for one piece that
the crows have missed as he salivates
thinking of the kernal mash in his dry mouth
crows heckle his futile attempts and take to
wing as back to the road he trudges..
back to that tiresome journey called life..
I looked, behold, there stood a great white horse;
Its rider had a lethal, silent bow.
And on his head, a crown, rough-hewn and coarse,
And there he went, a-conquering his foe.
And lo, there came another horse, bright red;
Its rider reaped the peace and sowed discord
So great that people slew each other dead,
And in his hand, a perilous great sword.
A stallion, black like the night, then strode;
The rider’s hand gripped scales, ‘twas heard a voice:
“The cost of wheat and barley shall explode;
Harm not the finest oils and wines of choice!”
Alas, a proud horse, pale and bearing Death,
With Hades lurking close behind in tow,
Brought famine, war and pestilence, snatched breath,
And left a wake of desolation, woe.
(from Revelation 6)
Passionate kisses fall upon my hungry lips,
As loving hands, caress my cheeks.
Knowing eyes look deep into my soul,
Searching for my innocence
That wanders lost and starving
Inside my darkness.
Soothing words call forth restrained emotions
Locked deep within the ravenous confines
Of my loneliness.
The sweet aroma of your passion
Wafts gently into my nose
And fills my head with the promise
of your delectable sustenance.
Do I break my fast
And ingest your delicious promises
That entice my hungry senses?
Do I let my love starved innocents
Be found by your searching eyes?
Shall I follow those soothing words
Straight to the rapturous bounty
That is your love?
Or trust those loving hands
And take hold,
And be pulled from the dark depths
Of my loneliness and emotional famine?
Am I ready
to feast upon the sumptuous banquet you offer,
Or has my appetite been lost forever?
I think I will just taste your passionate kisses
And let my heart decide
How hungry it really is.
One day I dreamed …
There was no longer any 'Third World',
Just a united 'First',
Famine clearly vanquished forever,
And no-one died of thirst.
Power was never used to enslave,
And wars were fought no more,
Man's resources were pooled together,
To help aid all the poor.
Man respected his fellow creatures,
Living in harmony,
The oceans free from all pollution;
Helped by 'green' energy.
People didn't need to live in fear;
Crime a thing of the past,
A planet no longer fragmented;
A one-peace world at last.
I awoke in time to catch the news;
News of crime, famine, war,
Moist-eyed I headed back to my bed,
To try and dream ... some more!
Famine Foretold
(Stalin, 1930, 30 million, and Mao Tse Tung 1960, 42 million, et al)
The land is the lord of men who live
Near yellow and lime-green fields,
Who plant it and till it and gladly give
All their toil, for crops it yields.
Dictators forced them to the modern way,
Profaning ancestral farms,
The land did avenge itself one day
With the prophesied, ancient harms.
The sinking sun is now undone,
the sky is fading red
and shadows prowl neath cloak and cowl
for midnight lies ahead.
Beyond the heap, the honchos sleep
with bloated bellies fed;
for, yes indeed, no one's in need,
at least, that's what they've said.
Amongst the ones that hunger shuns,
in day's retreating tread,
are spiders black ensnaring snacks
while spinning silken thread.
But as it stands, in conquered lands
a famine reigns instead
where kids at noon, collapse and swoon
on stones they call a bed.
With aching eyes they fantasize
and dream of gingerbread,
and after while, they wake and smile,
now dining with the dead.
Momofuku
what did you do
took a dried noodle
and made a caboodle
a country in famine
you took time to examine
and created fast food
to feed the whole brood