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The Month Of Fasting
The month long fasting grants a meal a day.
Meals got before or after don't spoil it.
During the fasting you must be honest.
Be the marital life the month of fasting.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bread and games
They told me I should sing
But I didn't know what to sing
So I asked
What do you want me to sing
Sing bread and games
Bread and games and sing a long
And so I sang
And BANG
The pianist was shot
He had too long a finger
He had too short a thumb
And he was dumb
The said and you sing
Sing bread and games
Bread and games and sing a lot
And so I sang
And BANG
The trumpeter was shot
He had too round a face
He had too long a chin
For a musician a terrible sin
And you sing
Sing bread and games
Bread and games and sing a lot
And so I sang
And BANG
Sorry we had no choice
You've got such a terrible voice
2010.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Sexy Ginger Bread Man
On his body is a ginger bread thong
To soften you up he sings a sweet sugar song
If you hit on him he’ll play along
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
He’ll seduce you with candy wine
One a scale from 1-10 he is a 9
Girls look at him and say, “He’s so fine”
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
On his face are peanut butter eyes
He has powdered sugar on his manly thighs
He will reel you in with his seductive lies
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
On this neck is a chain of candy
Around the house he can be handy
If you add frosting he can be pretty randy
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
Out of the batch he is the pick
He has a giant ginger bread stick
It has rainbow sprinkles on it
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
You bite the chain and swallow the thong
Eat the stick which is very long
You gobble him up till he’s all gone
NO MORE sexy ginger bread man
poem by Paul Celano
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Bread Hair
Im a wigged-out daddy with bread on top
I dig an easy-bake granny with a whiskey mop
If you love me, you neednt the whole wheat crop
cause they had a useless battle andll never stop
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Im a pumpernickel-do for you, dough you do
Use a yarmulka of hallah bread if youre a jew
I belong to cayope*, I be the wheat for you
Yeast and flour, bake an hour, its annoying shampoo
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Drivin all my hope away
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Thats a gone rug, buddy
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bread is wiser
Butter is richer than bread
But can’t replace bread.
But butter is better with bread
For which is not sad the bread.
Wives are not wiser than bread.
05.02.2000, Palakkad
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Feathers on head
The one who sings on God does so for one’s bread.
The one who spells gospel does so for one’s bread.
The one who serves God does so for one’s bread.
You give them bread and keep them on your head.
16.01.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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God be praised for his gracious long suffering towards me in sparing my life so long. Grant, gracious God, that I may make a good use of the time that thou mayest be pleased yet to grant me for repentance.
quote by Patrick Gordon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Food To Cook
Food is a miracle from the One God who loves,
His followers obey him by declaring
A secret love of food;
The dinner appears to be forsaken
For love, and this we call fasting,
But fasting has been prescribed from Him,
And you are an eater of plants and animals,
So there is gratitude demonstrated.
This is a miraculous action:
A stop to ill-health has been committed
And a sin is now impossible
For those with faith,
For those with the love of food.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A Picture Of Greed
on one hand
he carries a
big loaf of bread
on the other
he carries a
basket
of the same
loaf of bread
on his head
is another
basket of
the same loaf
of bread
a little child
spreads his
hands for
a loaf of bread
then he speeds
his way
as he bites
a loaf of
bread in
his mouth
the little child
follows him
and there he
is closing the
door of his
house all
made of bread
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Street Cries
WHEN dawn's first cymbals beat upon the sky,
Rousing the world to labour's various cry,
To tend the flock, to bind the mellowing grain,
From ardent toil to forge a little gain,
And fasting men go forth on hurrying feet,
Buy bread, buy bread, rings down the eager street.
When the earth falters and the waters swoon
With the implacable radiance of noon,
And in dim shelters koïls hush their notes,
And the faint, thirsting blood in languid throats
Craves liquid succour from the cruel heat,
Buy fruit, buy fruit, steals down the panting street.
When twilight twinkling o'er the gay bazaars,
Unfurls a sudden canopy of stars,
When lutes are strung and fragrant torches lit
On white roof-terraces where lovers sit
Drinking together of life's poignant sweet,
Buy flowers, buy flowers, floats down the singing street.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lord let it be so inspired by the Holy Bible
Lord let it be so
O' Lord give us our daily bread
And let it be so
if Despair be our Our daily bread
No Lord let not be so
Examine me my Lord
And know my mind
Keep me on good ways to go
And Lord let it be so
Set me free from distress
Make me good and strong
For sinful gains i must long
No Lord let not be so
Lord listen to my call of help
And be always at my side
Be with me when i need you
And Lord let it be so
O'Lord give us our daily bread
And let it be so
If despair be our daily bread
Lord let not be so
O' Lord give us our daily bread
And let it be so
If despair be our daily
Lord let not be so
And let it be so
Set me free from distress
Make me good and strong
For sinful gains i must long
No Lord let not be so
Lord listen to my call of help
And be always at my side
Be with me when i need you
And let it be so
O' Lord give us our daily bread
And let it be so
If despair be our daily bread
Let not be so
poem by Rehanayakoob Yakoob
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Tzom Gedaliah /The Writing Wakes Me From My Sad Fasting Slumber
TZOM GEDALIAH/ THE WRITING WAKES ME FROM MY SAD FASTING SLUMBER
Tzom Gedaliah.
The writing wakes me from my sad fasting slumber -
I begin to think and move-
A New Year has begun-
How many new years have I not done
What I promised myself I would try to do?
Teshuva cannot be done by one alone
We need the other for correction-
Am I already resigned
To failures of a lifetime
I have never been able
To correct?
I pray to G-d
That this year somehow
Some correction will be made.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Crying For Bread
"Please, lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
The suit fits you splendidly--that you'll allow.
Oh! don't say tomorrow! I see you are going;
But this will not hinder long--please pay me now.
Ma work'd all night for you! ev'ry minute;
Now she lies groaning with pain in her head;
And there by the pantry (with not a thing in it),
Sits poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"On! driver, on! they have all gone before us,
And I will not be late at the ball," Beauty said;
And wintry winds echoed her answer in chorus
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
I'll run and get change for you. Don't call me bold--
But how could you dance tonight all the time knowing
That we were left suffering, hungry and cold?
Ma looks so wild! she keeps calling for Daisy;
That was the name of my sister that's dead.
Oh! what shall I do, with my Ma going crazy,
And poor little Theodore cryiing for bread?
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
She must have some medicine--that let me buy.
Now, don't speak of beggars! 'tis money you're owing:
Do please, pay me part of it--else we must die."
On the wheels roll'd, and Fidele returned weeping;
Ah! in her absence a spirit had fled,
And morning light found her a weary watch keeping,
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Psalm 127
The blessing of God on the business and comforts of life.
If God succeed not, all the cost
And pains to build the house are lost;
If God the city will not keep,
The watchful guards as well may sleep.
What if you rise before the sun,
And work and toil when day is done;
Careful and sparing eat your bread,
To shun that poverty you dread;
'Tis all in vain, till God hath blessed;
He can make rich, yet give us rest:
Children and friends are blessings too,
If God our Sovereign make them so.
Happy the man to whom he sends
Obedient children, faithful friends:
How sweet our daily comforts prove
When they are seasoned with his love!
poem by Isaac Watts
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Shortenin Bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Put on the skillet
Slip on the lid
Mammys gonna make us some shortenin bread
And that aint all
Our mammys gonna do
Shes gonna cook us some coffee, too
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
I slipped in the kitchen
Raised up the lid
I stole me a mess o that shortenin bread
I walked up to a pretty girl and I said
Baby howd you like some shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
They caught me with the skillet
They caught me with the lid
They caught me with the girl eatin shortenin bread
Six months for the skillet
Six months for the lid
Now Im doin time for eatin shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Shortenin
Shortenin bread
Shortenin
Shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Park
Muddy steps of raven's heads
Fasting of mould bread
crawling, like wood worms of storm
Hunted by passes of moon golden rocks.
Not here yet, but dear so.
I hide myself, and my hollow wealth of tarragon flavor.
Where new-born flowers hatching, in the womb of my eye's
mother's grass warm sun.
Like arms holding life,
webs of branches' tree,
Hide spiders' leafs, caught in the opening light
dazzles fading flies.
poem by Luca Menin
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude IV.
When the long murmur of applause
That greeted the Musician's lay
Had slowly buzzed itself away,
And the long talk of Spectre Ships
That followed died upon their lips
And came unto a natural pause,
'These tales you tell are one and all
Of the Old World,' the Poet said,
'Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall,
Dead leaves that rustle as they fall;
Let me present you in their stead
Something of our New England earth,
A tale which, though of no great worth,
Has still this merit, that it yields
A certain freshness of the fields,
A sweetness as of home-made bread.'
The Student answered: 'Be discreet;
For if the flour be fresh and sound,
And if the bread be light and sweet,
Who careth in what mill 't was ground,
Or of what oven felt the heat,
Unless, as old Cervantes said,
You are looking after better bread
Than any that is made of wheat?
You know that people nowadays
To what is old give little praise;
All must be new in prose and verse:
They want hot bread, or something worse,
Fresh every morning, and half baked;
The wholesome bread of yesterday,
Too stale for them, is thrown away,
Nor is their thirst with water slaked.
As oft we see the sky in May
Threaten to rain, and yet not rain,
The Poet's face, before so gay,
Was clouded with a look of pain,
But suddenly brightened up again;
And without further let or stay
He told his tale of yesterday.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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