We can tolerate anything
But not being overly loved
It feels like flood sometimes
And famine at other times
He deserts her when she is need
Yet drags her close when he is in need
He doubts her a lot
Criticizes her
And demands her explanations
Yet she gives even more
Because she loves him so much
She admires him
She wants him
And never wants to lose him
She can do anything for him
But who is going to explain
The suffocation of her heart?
He never understands the
Beat of her heart
Because that beat is HIM.......
children of hoarders
I imagine they are similar to children of ministers
they either embrace their parents’ lifestyle
or they run from it screaming
I see many of them living in a minimalist’s habitat
with few surroundings
whereas their siblings are also hoarders,
living in cluttered rooms with messy paths
I see many children of preachers, themselves preaching the word
getting the calling
whereas, their siblings are transsexual and will never go inside a church again
it is often feast or famine for these children
Fields once green, now turned into stone,
Silent hunger fills the night.
Families gather, flesh and bone,
Darkness swallowing the light.
Whispers drift all along the moor,
Hope like mist, beginning thin.
Footsteps echo from the dark door,
Empty pots where feasts had been.
Children’s laughter now lost and frail,
Memories beneath the rain.
Brisk winds lament each ghostly tale,
Carrying their silent pain.
Resilient are roots below,
Hearts endure through famine’s blight.
Ireland’s great spirit, soft and low,
Rising high against the fight.
I sit watching the news
with tea in hand.
Surplus food. And I despair.
Man-made hunger: ribs like xylophones, crushed.
Reaching for food, they are fed bullets.
A child, just looking for bread.
Warnings that neither warn nor miss.
A kilo of flour costs a life.
Doctors die—from hunger, or from trying to feed it.
Humanity: misplaced.
This is what grief has carved into the world.
Overcrowded. Airless. No refuge.
Aid centres that don’t aid.
The dead don’t get labelled.
Food rots at the border while the world watches.
Months of meals sit still.
A ceasefire whispers.
A spine: a skeleton curled like a fetus.
Mother made family made famine.
Hate is inherited, spoon-fed to children with dust and grief.
And I sip my tea.
It tastes like shame.
But hunger is louder—
and one voice raised
might ignite others.
I sit watching the news
with tea in hand.
Surplus food.
And I despair.
Man-made hunger:
ribs like xylophones, crushed.
Reaching for food,
they are fed bullets.
A child, just looking for bread.
Warnings that neither warn nor miss.
A kilo of flour costs a life.
Doctors die—
from hunger,
or from trying to feed it.
Humanity: misplaced.
This is what grief
has carved into the world.
Overcrowded.
Airless.
No refuge.
Aid centres that don’t aid.
The dead don’t get labelled.
Food rots at the border
while the world watches.
Months of meals sit still.
A ceasefire whispers.
A spine:
a skeleton curled like a fetus.
Mother made family made famine.
Hate is inherited,
spoon-fed to children
with dust and grief.
And I sip my tea.
It tastes like shame.
But hunger is louder—
and one voice raised
might ignite others.
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.
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
A man who wrote with strokes so bold’ of the
Struggle of humanity.. Long may his excerpts
Be told’ he helped write the American constitution, all his writes are original; and Often Concerned with restitution.. Yet too much
To satan I see he gave, with that line on ruling
A error (most grave!) though he was only human as
Anne Lise put on shaky…Yet effects are far reaching, through many a century..’ As I will
Here put this man’s work on the whole was good’ yet I’d not give a whit to the devil..’ if
I do? Then condemn me, that things may be
That be well understood.’ Consider Joseph in
The Egypt of old, who gathered the grain and
Kept it as gold, slowly he took all the people did
Hold, then put them in usury.. Was God really
Glad? It says much of the world that he”s a
Hero at all. Do we have inbuilt moral decrepitude? What say ye all.?
by his mother's side
a famine child cries
while a suburban family sits down
to eat more then they need
in a land so rich with wealth
grain stocked piled
in silos so high
so much more than the little consumed
a blind eye is turned
to the horrors of the third world
When there was no rain,
I realized the drops were trapped,
either dripping in the prison yard
or maybe their scape are leaked
from my home's faucet.
When I turned it on,
what falls is only a rain's smell,
and my kitchen whose hunger
keeps screaming.
Here’s the age of Feast and Famine,
Ruled by men whose god is Mammon.
These consumers’ satisfaction
Comes with every swift transaction.
They crave neither bread nor honey,
Their main course is fueled by money:
Bar codes, coupons, discounts, price tags.
All leftovers go in gift bags.
Online ads on new devices
Lure its prey with “Better Prices!”
Name-brands play the role of giver
Just so fools can hoard their sliver.
These consumers starve unknowing
Parasites are ever growing.
Devil is the god of Mammon
In the age of Feast and Famine.
Famine spread
Famine of bread
Famine that dread.
We were in love
but never at peace
Starving together
— choking the feast
(Dreamsleep: July, 2024)
Floating away from worldly chaos
My mind engages with the stars
Consumed with emotion at earthly pathos
Humanity hurts with so many scars.
Endless wars inflicted on innocent
Famine endured, where is the rain?
Pandemic and masks we were vigilant
Global problems with endless pain.
A stolen moment where peace did reign
Earthly matters did not exist
All was calm there was no disdain
It was gift sublime chaos not missed.
My Lawn
My lawn is my garden it’s weeds you see.
In times of famine, it is food for me.
Grass may be pretty, so shiny and nice.
But it is only food to grubs and mice.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
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