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On the Breadline
In the baked dough of flour, water and yeast
they were chatting merrily while baking.
The robust baker listens; ' flour said' I was in a big field
and then after the crop they took me to a mill and they grind.
Water laughed and said' I don't know where I have come from? '.
Yeast said 'I was a fungus dear; not only in the bakery
in the brewery too a good demand for us.
I heard that they make bread, cake and so many varieties out of us.
Our price goes high everyday and a poor cannot afford.'
History says; Marie.Antoinette said to the poor
'if you cannot eat bread then why don't you try cake? '
And the following day they invaded the fortress Bastile.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Deaf Trumpeter
How long are you going to trumpets
Your sad melody for the Trumpet flower in the Trumpet woods?
Brother! You get trampled one day by the trumpet weeds
And we never hear of you again.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Gobi Manchurian
Remember you are not living for eating only
To change taste you may take this.
This chinese cuisine would be ready
With in fortyfive minutes.
You are the starter and
This is yours main course.
You can take the ingredients
Like couliflower plain flour
Corn flour spring onion ginger
Garlic salt soya sauce green chilli
Tomato ketup oil water.
Preparation method to taste.
Make experiments in this
Revolutionary new way.
Remember you are not living
Only for eating.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Trumpeter
The war was all around
And the city was small.
The doctors laughed at him,
He was not like de Gaulle.
Well, may be the trumpeter?
OK, trumpeter, as a trumpeter!
Being a trumpeter is so good,
At least you don't have to bow.
The bullets whistle over your head,
As the winds sometimes blow.
But why it happened like that?
For a boy the war was a spit.
But once in the autumn rains,
In a strange unknown land,
The regiment was waned,
No one heard the command.
No one was there to be astound.
Come on, trumpeter! You sound!
In smoke and flames he stood,
His lips pressed to the trumpet,
The regiment, like knighthoods,
Followed the trumpeter.
The International they sang,
And the triumph bells rang.
The trumpeter,.. but a real soldier
Was devoted to a peaceful music,
He had to defend the border,
With a trumpet to do the trick.
If you are a man but not a hick,
The trumpet you will pick.
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Trumpet Voice
I live to hear my father sing
People come
Far and wide
Gathering like anchovies in a can
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
My father burns a record
Neighbors and friends
Float from their lonely birdhouses
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
My father records a tape
The family sits in the living room
Under the golden chandelier
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
My father has a CD
My brother and I sit in my room
Playing Parcheesi
We open the player
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
I lie on the city bus
One seat for my head
The other for my feet
I turn on my small, silver iPod
And zone out from the world
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
poem by Aury Cecile
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With Trumpet and Drum
With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It 's this way and that way they circle and file---
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way, and after a while
They march straight into this heart of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!
Come on, little people, from cot and from hall---
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,
As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;
It will rock you away to the dreamland above---
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,
And jollier still is it bound to become
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum!
So come; though I see not his dear little face
And hear not his voice in this jubilant place,
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your play---
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine
Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!
And my heart it is lonely---so, little folk, come,
March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!
poem by Eugene Field
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Sonnet XIII:The light that rises from your feet to your hair
The light that rises from your feet to your hair,
the strength enfolding your delicate form,
are not mother of pearl, not chilly silver:
you are made of bread, a bread the fire adores.
The grain grew high in its harvest of you,
in good time the flour swelled;
as the dough rose, doubling your breasts,
my love was the coal waiting ready in the earth.
Oh, bread your forehead, your legs, your mouth,
bread I devour, born with the morning light,
my love, beacon-flag of the bakeries:
fire taugh you a lesson of the blood;
you learned your holiness from flour,
from bread your language and aroma.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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And my dad wanted me to play the trumpet because that's what he liked. His idol was Louis Armstrong. My dad thought my teeth came together in a way that was perfect for playing the trumpet.
quote by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We had grain but no mills, so I designed a special mill of wood so we could make flour.
quote by Mikhail Kalashnikov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Trumpet Player
The Negro
With the trumpet at his lips
Has dark moons of weariness
Beneath his eyes
where the smoldering memory
of slave ships
Blazed to the crack of whips
about thighs
The negro
with the trumpet at his lips
has a head of vibrant hair
tamed down,
patent-leathered now
until it gleams
like jet-
were jet a crown
the music
from the trumpet at his lips
is honey
mixed with liquid fire
the rhythm
from the trumpet at his lips
is ecstasy
distilled from old desire-
Desire
that is longing for the moon
where the moonlight's but a spotlight
in his eyes,
desire
that is longing for the sea
where the sea's a bar-glass
sucker size
The Negro
with the trumpet at his lips
whose jacket
Has a fine one-button roll,
does not know
upon what riff the music slips
It's hypodermic needle
to his soul
but softly
as the tune comes from his throat
trouble
mellows to a golden note
poem by Langston Hughes
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The Flour Bin
By Lawson's Hill, near Mudgee,
On old Eurunderee –
The place they called "New Pipeclay",
Where the diggers used to be –
On a dreary old selection,
Where times were dry and thin,
In a slab and shingle kitchen
There stood a flour bin.
'Twas "ploorer" with the cattle,
'Twas rust and smut in wheat,
'Twas blight in eyes and orchards,
And coarse salt-beef to eat.
Oh, how our mothers struggled
Till eyes and brain were dull –
Oh, how our fathers slaved and toiled
To keep those flour bins full!
We've been in many countries,
We've sailed on many seas;
We've travelled in the steerage
And lived on land at ease.
We've seen the world together
Through laughter and through tears –
And not been far from baker's bread
These five and thirty years.
The flats are green as ever,
The creeks go rippling through;
The Mudgee Hills are showing
Their deepest shades of blue;
Those mountains in the distance
That ever held a charm
Are fairer than a picture
As seen from Cox's farm.
On a German farm by Mudgee,
That took long years to win,
On the wide bricked back verandah
There stands a flour bin;
And the dear old German lady –
Though the bakers' carts run out –
Still keeps a "fifty" in it
Against a time of drought.
It was my father made it,
It stands as good as new,
And of the others like it
There still remain a few.
God grant, when drought shall strike us,
The young will "take a pull",
And the old folk their strength anew
To keep those flour bins full.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The village had a mill near it, situated on the little creek, which made very good flour. The population consisted of civilized Indians, but much mixed blood.
quote by Zebulon Pike
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Where Is My Fire Extinguisher?
My house is ablaze
Set on fire by my own kids
Who are fire playing with fire
But are arrogantly so
Burning their own mother inside
From corner to corner and rummage
Looking for my fire extinguisher
Under the bed; behind the charcoal
I search everywhere but find it not
And then I opened the flour drum
There lay mixed in the maize flour
The extinguisher while I
All the while, burning in the fire
Choke in the smoke.
Through the kitchen window I escape
Breaking my limbs after the great fall
Leaving in hell my other children
Roasting in the fire their siblings had lit
Crying out for help from their helpless mother
I in turn had to call for help
Neighbors from far and near headed
My good neighbor Koffi Annan came
Oh! The imported fire extinguisher!
Thank you sir for saving us
But now, let me bury some
Of my kids who burnt alive
As I remember that golden handshake!
poem by Kelvin Karani
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A Fish Commissioner
Great Joseph D. Redding-illustrious name!
Considered a fish-horn the trumpet of Fame.
That goddess was angry, and what do you think?
Her trumpet she filled with a gallon of ink,
And all through the Press, with a devilish glee,
She sputtered and spattered the name of J.D.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Rock Me Baby
(b.b. king, j. josea)
Producers: chris lord-aldge, tina turner and roger davies
Album: whats love got to do with it (94)
Rock me baby, rock me all night long
I said I want you to
Rock me baby, rock me all night long
I want you to rock me like my back aint got no bones
Roll me daddy like you roll your flour dough
Want you to
Roll me daddy like you roll your flour dough
I want you to roll me till I wont no more
When you see me coming go get your rockin chair
When you see me coming go get your rockin chair
I want you to rock me, rock me away from here
Rock me baby, rock me all night long
I said I want you to
Rock me baby, rock me all night long
I want you to rock me like my back aint got no bones
Roll me daddy like you roll your flour dough
I said I want you to
Roll me daddy like you roll your flour dough
I want you to roll me till I wont no more
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Well, my sister played trumpet. Can you imagine having a sister blowing the trumpet around the house, Fred? And my brother, he played piano. Everybody was playing some kind of music, so it was natural for me to get into it.
quote by Freddie Hubbard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fufu Momo and Kottu
Noises of different tongues
Occupying stoves in the kitchen
It is not belonged to any one
But belonged to a time
Spreading smells of continents
It is the global identity of art
Every one washes in same sink
Using the water in common
Asia Africa Arabia and Eastern Europe
People in the kitchen being refugees
Using material in same some extent
Make and cook the identity of own
Using flour and flour made
Decorate in an exhibition hall
Like amateur painters pain
Create noises and silence in mixture
Identity of meat flour and leaves
Transformed into their own
On and in the cooking pots
Steam becomes smells
Fufu in the vessel
Pasta in very common
To be well cooked
An African guy in a struggle
Momo like oysters
Made in art by a Tibetan woman
A Nepali prepares Chapatti
Burnt culture of secularity
Leeks, Carrots and green chilly
Cutting into pieces Rotti
In a war like their home
Making Kottu in loud
Everyone looking in surprise
Occupied Sri Lankans noise in kitchen
In two three hours war of kitchen
Gradually becomes calm
One of the oldest in the camp
In midnight begins to cook
Washing everything in psychiatric clean
Cooks Halal singing a song
He is called ex- mayor in his land
Midnight ghost of different rhythm
poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
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0258 While the enamel holds
I've just made a passable loaf:
the mixing bowl could almost
be called a Thanksgiving Bowl -
maybe, could start a fashion:
it's made, not of catering-trade steel
which spins nicely on the worktop
nor of plastic, but
of enamel, made about 1929 I guess,
by Kockums of Sweden, size 28 cms
it's clearly stamped -
Kockum's whose proud claim is that
'it lasts a lifetime' - if
you're fortunate enough to be able
to test it thus...
my mother used it to make cakes
- I can hear the scratch of sugar, butter, flour, right now;
sometimes the smell of lemon or vanilla too. And
for her, too, gratitude, I guess,
while she used it, hands and thoughts,
although she could not put it to
the Kockum's test...But the silvery marks
of the fork, or whisk, or careful knife that
left little for me to lick,
disappeared from its strong enamel
and now I use it to make bread
wondering how many of
the current users could verify
to Kockum's management
their proud claim
for it was only late in life that
my mother told me that this bowl
this small 28 cm bowl
was my first baby bath
so as I use it with these mixed emotions
mixed together in this mixing bowl
receptacle of love on love
and thanksgiving
I note with some reflection
that recently, one slight chip
in its circular bowl has appeared
due perhaps to carelessness, not in
the preparing but the washing-up...
and think I'd rather think
(you see - the baby turned out intellectual)
my life were rounded by my failures in my care
than the life of an enamel bowl
however guaranteed
perhaps we'll go together...
dust to dust, flour to flour,
flowers falling to nourish
the seeds of flowers to come
I must remember to ask
my executors to write Kockum's
and confirm their not so often
substantiated claim
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-65
Blue Trumpet Bush
(Strobilanthes tomentosa
Aechmanthera gossypina)
Little eyes look at so many
Little brain eats as many
Yet too little known only
Puzzling blues as are many
My folly'Bluebell, Bluebell'
Yelled my mouth of little
In brain gathered brittle
Ho, but different and subtle
Shrubby bush leafed elliptic
Blue, violet, purplish hectic
Clustered flora trumpet-magic
Tubed raise of an elysian chic
Hunt o' my heart hunt ceaseless
Anyway for blue trumpet endless
Stop, hear her hush relentless
Wonder at the goddess ageless
poem by Indira Renganathan
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