A barren, thirsty field
grows nothing it can yield to sell
and break the wicked spell
of hardship’s living hell. No crops
to share with local shops,
the hunger never stops and fears,
which bring the heart to tears,
imagine all the years to come.
Tomorrow’s hopes are numb
and where a meal comes from is void,
the harvest now destroyed.
A past with days enjoyed will roll
into a lifeless hole
buried by the dust bowl, concealed.
© Susan Schoeffield
Written for the 2/26/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Inform Poets” to write a “found” poem, taking words from another source that were not intended to be poems. This was inspired by an article I read about famine conditions in West Africa.