Things to buy with last fifty dollars: worthy elected leaders, peace of mind, justice,
Red beans, black beans, toilet paper, watercolor paints, surgical masks, almond milk, black tea, bread.
In my mother tongue, the word "pain" is the translation for bread.
I weep for the children whose daily pain is the begging for bread.
Even as I tumble poor and hurried and find no words to climb, I'm daily fed
by inspiration I once buried in the batter's heart my mother kneaded into bread.
Each night, the curl of hungry in the corner
With no hope to dream -- even of stale bread.
Bread no, bread no, bread no, bread no
Bread now, bread yes, bread all, please bread!
Inez McCormack with the big laugh said: Together
all are needed at the table, to gather, break bread.
Hardhearted soldier softens now like lead -- 
the belly remembers Ma's banana bread.
Nothing to eat, nowhere to go in this season of endless lockdowns, let poetry be my bread
Day after day alone in the garden, I shed
The gnawing ache of solitarily breaking bread.
From my window in New Delhi, as I watch hungry children tread,
“How good would it have been,” I ask my Lord, “If to live, no one needed bread?”
The Muse visits those in this time of dread
who hunger for words as comforting as bread.
The lights went out we sat in dread
Does the market exist where we once bought bread?
Lilly off yet life, tanager's wet; wings red and on on egg
Yet the sun finds me smile; I'm the dead again with bread
Seas of grain, waving at cloudy blue skies,
Now finally shared--our common bread.
How much we suffered already, yet to come is what we have to tread.
Before the fire's cheerful grow, God laughs upon, ‘One’ snatching ‘Other’s’ bread.
This society is so polarized that some people are highly overfed;
While many don't have access to a loaf of a bread.
The killers are ours, and ours are the dead
A bitter stain on our daily bread.
Sorry the pandemic canceled our poetry party in Pensacola, Fred.
At least the goverment is giving away free bread.
Words come like ghosts on an invisible thread
The dead for a moment come to me and break their bread
Who saw it coming after miles of walking barefoot and unfed,
their bodies chopped on rail tracks like charred pieces of burnt bread?
The words you spoke, were someone else's bread
The words you spoke, were someone else's bread
Else, you stood for me in every fash with all your bread
The word, murder, on empty streets it winged and spread
It’s rage, anguish, grief, dear lord, give us today your bread
Overwrite the verse, and the verse is good as dead.
Overheat the yeast, and the verse becomes your bread.
We dreamt intentionally. We spoke in tongues.
On my tongue ‘bread’ tasted like ‘Brot’. Who brought it to me? Mother? Love?
Or was it just a little crumb of bread?
Wir haben absichtlich geträumt. Wir sprachen in Zungen.
Auf meiner Zunge schmeckte "Brot" wie "Brot".
Wer hat es mir gebracht? Mutter? Liebe?
Oder war es nur eine kleine Krume Brot?
The wise who found true nourshment
Realized that bread is called bread.
