Best Malnourished Poems
An empty look of sadness
That never bears a smile,
A malnourished mind
Aching to utter its voice,
A baby’s cry missing
The sweet tune of lullaby.
A dark moonless night
Reminiscing of shining stars,
A pensive gloomy dawn
Rising on sunless sky
Yearning lift of marigold arc
Sprinkled in magenta.
A spring lacking flowers,
Autumn bereft of fall colors,
A winter wishing for snow,
A river that does not flow;
A barren desert longing for
Glimpse of a cactus flower.
A concert deprived of music,
Dissonance of broken guitar strings,
Ballet dance lacking pizzazz,
A song of disheartened lyrics.
A world without poetry--
A curtain closed on art,
Vacant, parched existence
Staring blank pages,
Thirsty for life’s meaning.
January 22, 2020
Placed 1st: If there was no poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Placed 1st: Strand choice 7 contest by Brian Strand
Placed 2nd: Your Best Poem 2020 Contest by John Hamilton
Written: August 06, 2025
*********
The traffic roars as wounded gulls.
metal beats skated over the asphalt waves,
each honk a fractured prayer,
fleeing the city, restless breath.
I sit beneath a twisted jacaranda tree.
Its lavender flowers unfurl as the sun dips low
Parrots squabble in the canopy—
boisterous, unrepentant, and singing,
stirring the dawn with their raucous cries,
a beauty entwined with longing.
Their melody exists beyond,
concrete and clocks,
I sip coffee—malnourished warmth—
Its bitter essence wedged between my ribs,
where comfort once thrived.
The chipped cup, a reflection of lost trust.
Each face that passes me
is a silent question,
I have forgotten how to answer.
Once I skated these streets
hungry for names,
for the echo of someone to cram my void,
But identity remains a fog
caught between chain-link fences
and fragrant jasmine vines.
Yet still,
I listen for that singular voice
amid the clamorous parrots,
the one that might beckon me back
into the wholeness of myself.
Why are you here?
Your familiar skin,
Radiating miscellaneous emptiness
Trembling wanton security
Filled with finite smiles
Infinite complexities
Why should we indulge you again?
A rejected buffet of frozen tenderness,
Aching for high horses to help you gallop
Hunger, no vacancies to reside in your malnourished smile
Wishing for a soldier-in-arms
Wishing for a human-in-arms
As you reach for your step-stool glory
Another dignified teardrop
Stolen by cacti palms
Proverbial residue streaking across glassy 3rd eye
How would our cries
Affect your tomorrow
Meaningless
Why do you return?
Did your rose tints become another concaved agenda?
5 identities, incarcerated
4 revelations, engorged
3 embellishments, glorified
2 pre-judgments, sexualized
1 memory, tainted
Yet, your leech aches for another devouring of serenity.
Hoping to feel #1 again, before expiration
Of your 90 day return policy
Another Cinderella, with a shoe that was never going to fit…
©Drake J. Eszes
Young, gentle and in bondage
This innocent bird flew towards the promised land
Her frame petite yet powerful
Her eggs beautifully nested when transported from Calcutta
The sight of the new turf welcoming
A dream of hope and fair go brewing deep within
Day and night she laboured for payments equating to peanuts
The breadth of whips ploughed her like a bull in the harsh fields of Nadi
Her eggs now fertile
A pretentious malnourished glow adorning her face
No snug mattress at night
No baby shower
The scorching sun and the liberal rain
Her only companions to clad her in celebration
Cooked, then drenched, then burnt…
She finally delivers a dead bundle of tears
Her tragedy apparently not so sensational
Urging her overseer to order her back to the fields in four days
The memories of the dead child
Not at all dead in her head
Cold and depressed she refuses to present herself
Maternity leave a term alien on the ‘girmit’ fields
Gathering courage from ‘Durga’, she dares to speak of rights
Perhaps the very last time she spoke
The overseer, insulted and beats her near death
Lying in the fields with broken limbs and essence
Her veil the only bandage
To cover her wounds.
Down in Haiti
Far from the dream
Way on back
From the vacation scene
Lives the people
Trapped in a life
Poverty, sadness
Toil and strife
Children weeping
From worm infested,
Swollen, malnourished
Starving little bellies
What would Golden
Flower think of today
The country she loved
Destroyed in such a way
(Missionary from Haiti came to visit our church yesterday. With his visit and
talk, I see solutions to problems in an instant. Something to treat the water
before the people use it, reforestation, wells in places that need them, and
proper out door facilities for areas that don't have them. Money, work, and
time is needed to carry these projects out .)
Without you next to me as I sleep, it’s like carbon monoxide in my lungs. I awake rotten and malnourished. Experiencing life as a ghost, everything is gray. Everything in ashes. Frail to the touch. Sickness resides in the majesty’s kingdom, yet I press on. Knowing you’re somewhere I must venture. I’ll find you this disfigurement of a waking life. My personal holocaust. The other side of the barbwire leads to you and I’ll rip myself limbless to bleed out into your soil. If only for a moment we’re together, than a moment shall be an eternity. My scared flesh tells tales of dreams foreseen. Golden rays of amber claim my vision, and I’ll never lose hope as I break my fists upon the stone walls of my oppression. With you in my heart I’ll survive the winter drudge. Towards the summer within your arms. Our love is timeless. Our love is God’s whispers.
What is this resplendent thing that sparkles ahead,
Pacing faster than limbs of incapacity
Beyond the all-pervasive dakness of want?
Could my eyes be playing upon me some sly pervasity,
Seeing things untrue, askew and errant?
Or is it a reality that they will be resewn
The torn bonds that linked me to the world of bounty,
Where I may be returning soon?
I've had a glimpse of the future;
What a beautiful and gorgeous sight!
Streams of milk do freely flow,
And pots of honey glitter bright
Against the blinding rays of a rising sun.
This days of plenty seem set in the Promised Land,
For I see the fertile shoots of a germinating future
Guarded by an armed angelic band
Recruited from beyond the azure;
A fulfilment of a trashed prophecy.
And children of fate weakened by ages of plight
There do sing day and night;
Feeble frames malnourished for centuries
Enrich themselves from celestial treasuries,
Where the obedient minions of the sky
Gathered in response to their cry,
While they laboured on the red soils of Egypt
Before God heard their cries and His mercies leapt.
Who else can see this vision
Of relief from pandemics of fate
And the gaping gallows of death?
A time coming when sons of men
Shall storm this ogres den
And avenge the murderous terror
Inflicted upon their long gone kith and kin!
And the forbears long dead,
Shall be awakened by cries of war,
And with might reserved for decades
Shall avenge the pain inflicted before
By their wicked adversaries
Who maim parents and drink the blood
Of their offspring left behind.
I've been served lots of unappetizing things
that simply did not please my palette.
Being force fed with bitter or insincere words
is unappealing presented as a crisp green salad.
I would rather be underfed and malnourished
than to feast on something too briny or cheesy.
I won't feast on a buffet of regurgitated foods,
like dill pickles offered as sour grapes... sleazy.
Nothing has more stench to me than rotten food.
As an example, mold spores inside blue roquefort,
and don't ask me to swallow one bite of sarcasm.
That would take far too much of my time and effort.
I'd spit out a spoon of any soup if in it swims a fly,
or if the spices were added by the hand of a hypocrite.
A warm peach cobbler would make a scrumptious dish
as long as inside there'd not be left on purpose... a pit.
He was young, small, perhaps malnourished
Looking out from deep set eyes, rimmed with neglect
I could see, he wanted ...
To know why?
To know what? ... I did not know.
I sensed he was trying to form the words
And the questions in his mind
The words did not form on his unwashed face
He just stared.
I wanted to say: I understood
That I remembered, what it was like to be small
Surrounded by huge ‘Grown-ups
Pushed by bullies stronger than me,
always in groups of three and whispered at
by clean starched girls with bright blue eyes
Laughed at or even worse, pitied.
Years later, I saw him again
Now he was taller and tougher looking
His jeans and jacket still reeked of poverty
His eyes deeper set yet, acne skin
and oily pits around his nose.
He didn’t have that same searching stance
Now I could see he no longer cared
Now he was ready to fight
His fingers yellowed by cigarette smoke
His fingernails filled with dirt and grease
As was the collar of his shirt.
Shoelaces broken and then re-tied
with a knot covering the shoes tongue
His own tongue tucked behind thin lips
and decaying teeth.
Many years have since passed
as I happened to see his reflection
In the passing of a store front glass
Except, now I see,
He was and has always been, me.
Just 38 Cents a Day
Throughout history food has been used as a
Weapon of Mass Destruction. The Romans
would pillage and plunder – then burn the
fields of the defeated, punishing all who
survived. The Apache are alleged to have
poisoned the water holes when retreating
through the desert – a form of death by
desert inflicted on the pursuers. Sherman
marched to the sea punishing all to break
the will of the beaten confederacy.
Today, trucks stand idle, food supplies
rot in the heat at checkpoints that keep
those in the “ghettoes” confined and
dying. Children and the elderly scavenge
through dumpsters for simple sustenance
as armed “thugs” loot and destroy the
“humanitarian” aid denied them.
We preach “mindfulness” as we plow crops
under to satisfy the calculus of a subsidy,
divert rivers to irrigate golf courses,
preach nutritional values to the malnourished,
gasp at the news footage of starving children
as we prepare “gourmet meals” for our pets.
Our consciousness only aches when WE
are hungry and is soothed when WE are
sated by the saturated fat of a fantasy
wherein the solution can be purchased -
for just 38 cents a day.
John G. Lawless
7/1/2015
submitted to – Food Can’t Live with it can’t live without it – poetry contest
sponsor – Debbie Guzzi
We’re complaining about life and throwing food away,
But there’s nearly 800 million people going hungry in the world today.
Over 150 million children involved in child labour worldwide,
And Innocent people are being killed right now due to genocide.
More than 80 million working in hazardous conditions,
While women in the middle-east are victims to old-age traditions.
Celebrities in restaurants paying a hundred dollars for a dinner,
While kids in third world countries just keep getting thinner.
More than twenty percent of children in Asia and Africa are underweight for their age,
And some are so malnourished, you can actually see their rib cage.
Kids in sweatshops are paying the ultimate price,
Just so we can wear fancy Nike merchandise.
They’re digging for coltan in the Congo while being worked to the bone,
So think about that when your texting on your blackberry phone.
And how can you be happy with the world that we’re living in?
When people are getting murdered due to the colour of their skin.
We need to break down racial barriers because we all breathe the same air,
We need to show more respect for each other and learn how to care.
Human life is worth more than paper but some are obsessed with greed.
Life is about caring for each other, so why take more than we need?
We can still be happy without materialistic treasures,
It’s time to wake up and relish small pleasures.
We are all the same, we are all equal,
We are all human, we are all people.
So why can’t we all work together and try to live peaceful,
We’re only here once, in life there’s no sequel.
I’m trying not to get emotional but it’s just too tough,
Humanity please wake up, enough is enough.
Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney*—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.
Rushing,
mother and child ride along.
Greasy, dirty, malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.
Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes
His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…
He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration
I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.
He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.
I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.
I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.
He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.
The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.
What do you do,
what can you do?
The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat.*"
It goes straight to my heart.
Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?
That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…
Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…
What can you do?
--For Debbie’s Tell Me a Story contest…
*jeepney—is a public transportation vehicle here
*Salamat is “Thank You”
Born into suffering
Born to be malnourished
Born in the bush
Born on the run
Born under the umbrella of poverty
Born to be a refugee
Born in the middle of despair
Born in worries
Born in the frightful time
Born with the horrified blood
Son of the scream
Daughter of bombs
Sister of landmines
Brother of war tanks
Grandson of affliction
Born to see death at infancy
Born to either die or escape death by a nose
Son of the land of chaos
Daughter of the nation of affliction
Born to suckle sorrow
Born to be a refugee in his own land
Born to be a refugee in her own land
Born to suffer at infancy
Born to worry of chaos and admire peace which won’t come soon
The tears of a South Sudanese child
I cringe at the thought
of approaching old age,
falling hair, sagging skin,
hideous wrinkles and all
as the reality of mortality
finally beckons.
Yet when I look at old photographs
from my now long gone youth,
I find to my complete horror
a malnourished-looking,
ninety pound scarecrow!
was that really me?
Youth and old age,
one side of the same coin,
neither one preferable to the other.
Here lies my wallet.
On my desk he sleeps.
His malnourished stomach’s
been empty for weeks.
No family survived him.
There is only me,
With no way to pay off
his burial fee.