CONFESSION ZERO

If you click the above photo you will be redirected to an odd site, I certainly hope it's an oddity or, at the least, a parody of an oddity. It claims to be America's Leading Christian pro-family news-source , either way, it is sure to get the blood boiling. I stumbled upon it when I was looking for "hunger" photos to go along with the poem. The post is from 2006 and it may well be tongue in cheek, but these days it is hard to tell. Whatever it is, or pretends to be, it is inspiration for today's hunger poem. Here's a mere taste of what you'll run into if you click the above photo...   ~ Shelley The Republican : -Hunger in Africa : So what? This is what happens when you reject God and don’t work!- - Helping Africa? Never again! If you like to learn more about Africa, I suggest you watch the movie “ Black Hawk Down “, it will be an eye opener! It was for me!- -These young Africans look like criminals to me! Why should  we  feed potential   terror...

(Ben Heine - Art - The Blog) PRESIDENT MERKIN MUFFLEY : ...You can't fight in here! This is the War Room. ~ This is the hour of madness. This is the thirst that waits without minutes. This is the hour of thirst and hunger and madness. This is the jackal that paces in the hour of thirst and hunger and madness. This is our maddening choice. This is the selection on our maddening time-pieces. This is the moment of occasional sanity, the flies on the child’s face, the hour of our madness. This is the lanced beast and the whimper of freedom, the cry of whales, the laughter of maddened swine, the grief of hours, days and years. This is the waste of affection’s reach, the death, if you will, of this second, this minute, this day, this year, this time of madness in the world, like the previous, that erupted in howling, hands around the neck like a buoy snarled in razor-sharp hooks left behind by the hunters, those earlier inheritors without breath or reason. This is the w...

What’s come of this, our day? Feels like a pale remembrance as if we've not slept since or our eyes never fully opened, living near death, over and over, never realizing what we've done. The dead walk by our closed doors just as they did before. Maybe years from now someone will open them and see there’s no one there, open the cupboards and gaze at the ghost’s of a bare boned affection that move about in the living dust, in the echoes of our dancing within the last of our days, even if there’s nothing worth remembering or somehow it all got misplaced, perhaps tucked away for a rainy day, a keepsake for tomorrow that never came… or never was. Walk with heads held high. Honor all the love that’s been taken away by your own hand and all those you were meant to touch, or should have smiled upon and embraced, for soon all this will be gone. © 2010 by mark prime World Food Programme ~ 911 ~ More 9/11 poetry ...

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. Alongside the sheen of uncertain sunlight, my stomach’s alarm floats a bitter pang like an omen. Low down, it rises. Ahead of nightfall, grumbling loud, reminding me its there, “Remember the hungry”, it clangs, “You’ve enough to spare.” Running in like a frightened child the messenger stumbles ever so briefly with news meant to feed me, afford me a message of affection. My face feels most ancient. My love feels new. I smile upon the runner w...

When hunger came I hid beneath its shadow, quaking from its reach. Children’s laughter. I waved to them, a caution, famine’s eagerness, its cruelty and its breadth. They smiled. Too late, it was upon them. I cried, I howled. Hunger said, “I’ve triumphed! I am death’s ally!” Unhappiness fell down next to darkness as I plotted against its teeth, its pale talons. I would wait in its shadow, with arms ready, with my hands whittled into flags. When hunger comes again I’ll be ready, flags pointing to its conceit, fierce love upon it. © 2010 by mark prime Freedom From Hunger  

I stand speechless at the blind door of charity. My hands glide the surface of its disguise taunting me with its veiled entrance of precious fare. Hand to fist, knocking a wishing well’s secret, my fingers swell with hope, the clank of a serious note. Upon the obscure wooden frame I tap a Brailled plea, a sightless rap, a prayer made of skin and bone. © 2010 by mark prime Feeding America

I see a world of starvation stooping down to the machine, then rising to the sound of clocks ticking of riches, material nourishment. I see a world in anguish, bowing to war and accepting disorder as if peace were dead and buried, useless as an unexploded shell. I see a globe filling up with the least of man, the plague of man seeping into her veins from the lowest reaches, into our worship. Starvation has many faces. Let us begin at the edges of our own and erect a visage worthy of a smiling peace, of devotion. © 2010 by mark prime Starvation.net