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Showing posts from September 13, 2009

The 12th Septmeber Song (a poem for hunger)

Who for this hunger hungers for more underneath a russet sky?

Stood with your thinning back turned away from mottled loss and ache with nothing to seize in your weakened hands. Gripped of emptiness, your breath and breathing to your mouth gone bitter, poison for your struggle and empty bowls placed upon prayer's wishful cart.

O hunger in your scrawny temple sits with a craving carved in sorrow, who will lift your nodding head, and food bid to your beautiful lips?


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Thirteenth September Song

The Three Top Sins Of The Universe
On Tuesday September 11, 2001, at least 35,615 of our brother and sisters died from the worst possible death, starvation. Somewhere around 85% of these starvation deaths occur in children 5 years of age or younger. Why are we letting at least 30,273 of the most beautiful children die the worst possible death everyday? Every 2.43 seconds another one of our fellow brothers and sisters dies of starvation. Starvation doesn't just happen on Tuesday September 11, 2001, it happens everyday, 365 days per year, 24 hours per day, it never stops.


Terrorize me. Do not starve me. Bring terror booming. Lightening quick would be the best, I’d rather not notice than be eaten away, bent for darkness come again and again.

The dead could lay at my feet curled up like kittens and I with them, contented and liberated of hunger’s fee, a wretched, agonizing, empty death beneath my flesh.

Terror long before I blanch of famine, water the flower before it wilts, nourish th…

14th September Song

They're inching near my folded arms.
What am I to do?
What am I to think
when their dream becomes tattered,
When their hope lives so near mine
and mine's alive
and theirs is writhing on the ground,
young and old, emptied of food for consideration,
stretched out, ready to stiffen of winter's march?

O! The growl will not lessen!
The din of barrenness augments its dreadful noise!
I know the thrum striking at madness-
the thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
it shakes the refrain of humankind.

These hungry sounds are moving upon my back.
Hunger stands open-mouthed at my feet.

Will I deny it, unbelieving in my own,
my own hunger licking at my toes?
I wake to the noise.
Shudder.
Believe.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

HUNGER'S OWN 15th September Song

When they removed the last bandage from Hunger the crowd gasped, Hunger had, ironically enough, been eaten away almost to nothing by the hungry. there was nothing left now but a grave dug with joy. Hunger had spent too many years eating away at flesh, too much time roaming the world on ravenous, weary-born legs and was not able to defend itself against its rapacious spawn. Too many years having its way with the needy and unsuspecting masses, Hunger had finally come upon itself. Too many years had passed since it knew how to defend its realm, trekking over the deserts and snow and oceans and sidewalks and roads without a worry or a care in this world of who it touched, it would walk over a hundred Mountains to get to one child, standing open-mouthed at Hunger’s monstrous breadth.

Yes. Innocent children and their mothers and fathers happily tore away Hunger’s flesh with their weary worn claws made of the stiffened air and untold bereavement.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

16th September Song (another poem for the hungry)

(I have been having this dream lately. The same one, but I cannot, for the life of me, recall what it’s about.)

The money we thrust so easily into the mouth of a machine- soda, candy, chips, a car-wash, cigarettes, coffee, anything.

The human mouth of billions sealed in a death sentence, a tiny bird wedged in the pipes, a young deer in the road, unsure of where to go, startled.

We needn’t concern ourselves with these creatures. Life is a candle.

The suffering is too great to fathom, the grief. We all suffer in this life, hunger’s just another form.

At times the pressure is too great and the beast howls a song for me. I feel the wrench of regret and stop, turn to the consumption machine, facing it, I stiffly push my crumpled nourishment into the slot.

(I remember the dream now. I am this machine and-or am I the sustenance the world seeks? It was dark.)


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

September Song Number Seventeen (a poem for the hungry)

Of every city, every town, every village
hunger scrapes its dry stone from corner to corner
like a pipe organ to dangle its howling from,
the ugliest song ever composed.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

BARE NIGHT the 18th September Song

The people who are without food are like a bare night sky. Their faces move across the landscape, each one a fading star. Their delicate frames move unnoticed, unexplained travelers. The people who are without food wish for nothing more. They smile at angry visitors who pass by their dwellings and scoff at their bones. The people who are without food see ghosts next to them. They have loved, given of themselves, and they have wept. Like jutting shadows they pass without notice. The people who are without food are like a bare night sky.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman