Then my uncle would give off the smell of freshly baked bread which I love.
quote by Mark McKinney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
The Special Bread For My Lover
Take wheat, barley, beans, lentils, millet ans spelt;
Mixed them in one bowl to make the special bread for my lover;
For the fuel of a cow's dung is not what she needs.
They will eat bread by weight and in anxiety,
And they will drink water by measure and in desolation;
But my lover will eat the special bread as baked from you!
For the prophets are like the jackals in the ruins and,
Their visions are false and their days are at hand.
Every vision to my sweet lover is fulfilled,
For she has now got the special bread as baked by you;
And you did as instructed by my formula.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bottled Joy
The sounds of children laughing,
The fresh smell after rain,
The new buds in the Springtime,
The clatter of a train,
The buzzing of the bees
As they pollinate the flowers,
The ticking of the clock
As it counts away the hours,
The taste of Summer berries,
The smell of fresh-baked bread,
The memories of days gone by,
The pillows on my bed.
So many joys I'd bottle up
And keep them close to hand
To open when I'm feeling blue -
Oh! Wouldn't that be grand?
poem by Dawn Ferrett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Barmbrack
I break this brack, a bread of fruit,
A bread too good for the eating.
My wives still make me some sawn ring,
A bagel, or a bangle, or sweet pie so much.
My breakfast needs a bracelet
From the opposition, an angry mob,
Who condemn my family of loaf-eaters;
Their argument survived,
And all I ate was the actual bread
That was baked a dozen times a day.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sliced Bread
Sliced bread...
Whole wheat and toasted.
Buttered with jam,
And munched.
Either with tea, punch...
Or just plain water for lunch!
Sliced bread...
With cheddar cheese and tomato.
Add Romaine lettuce,
Topped with fried strips of bacon.
This too will certainly do.
Sliced bread...
Oatmeal raisin,
Oven baked and fed.
Sliced bread...
Crumbed to stuff a turkey.
And seasoned to gobble...
With an aftertaste on the tongue,
Deliciously nutmeged!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry as bread - In the spirit of Rumi 28
Poetry is like bread – daily bread,
like ‘Irish’ soda bread, best eaten on its day:
In the bakery of the heart and mind,
the baker’s woken early before dawn,
refreshed and clear of purpose, full of the day’s promise;
brings air to flour, moulds and shapes;
as the sun rises, so the bread.
Here it is, warm from the heart,
smell it – this is the smell of goodness, isn’t it?
Touch it, both crisp and soft by turns;
taste its goodness, beauty, truth, its very being;
this is not yesterday’s bread, with which you toy
while waiting between courses, your head’s straying mind
in a thousand other places; this is here and now;
coming warm from the heart; eat it with your heart;
this is the heart’s nourishment; tomorrow it may serve
tomorrow’s mind; today, it is your daily bread,
your nourishment – this poem, warm from heart to heart.
And when you've eaten it - the bread has disappeared -
only your satisfaction remains, beyond all sense;
as these words, already staling on the page,
exposed to all the wanderings of the mind;
only the love that they were made with, still remains;
this, is your daily bread.
[from a metaphor in Rumi's writings]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Please wait
Please wait
‘O’ Moon,
‘O’ Moon uncle,
Plz give us money and medicine for my mother.
She is ill and on the bed.
Our mama (Maternal uncle) ,
Who is very kind and of helping nature is away from us.
Mother says that you are also our CHANDA Mama (Moon uncle)
So plz give us what ever we need.
The little child was praying to the moon
Who was blooming in the sky?
Her mother told him
‘O’ my child
This Moon uncle is also very kind and generous
And has only coolness and brightness.
He is giving all these things not only to us
also all those who are living on this Earth.
So, plz wait to your Mama (Maternal uncle) .
He will sure come and will give us money and medicine.
poem by Vijay Gupta
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Some-Fake-A Baked Cake
No I don't have...
What I do have.
And I do have...
That which I don't.
A peaceless sleep...
Like many who walk 'mean' streets.
No I wont have,
None of that!
Strung out on dope,
Because I can't cope.
No I don't have,
None of that to keep me off track.
Or,
Make an impact.
No I don't have...
What I do have.
And I do have...
That which I don't.
No I don't have...
What I do have.
And I do have...
That which I don't.
Psychotic I'm not...
Like the ones who worry a lot.
Or hooked on smoking pot.
No I don't have...
What I do have.
And I do have,
That which I don't!
No I don't have...
What I do have.
And I do have,
That which I don't!
Even though...
Some-fake-a baked cake.
Some-fake-a baked cake.
Some-fake-a baked cake.
And I wont have...
None of that.
Even though...
Some-fake-a baked cake.
Some-fake-a baked cake.
Some-fake-a baked cake.
And I wont have...
None of that.
No!
I wont have...
None of that.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Smells
WHY is it that the poet tells
So little of the sense of smell?
These are the odors I love well:
The smell of coffee freshly ground;
Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned;
Or onions fried and deeply browned.
The fragrance of a fumy pipe;
The smell of apples, newly ripe;
And printer's ink on leaden type.
Woods by moonlight in September
Breathe most sweet, and I remember
Many a smoky camp-fire ember.
Camphor, turpentine, and tea,
The balsam of a Christmas tree,
These are whiffs of gramarye. . .
A ship smells best of all to me!
poem by Christopher Morley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Fresh Graduate With A Scholar Tag
The fresh bread out of the oven,
May smell good, but has to be toasted.
The fresh graduates out of the universities,
May look smart, but have to be experienced.
What knowledge that can be obtained,
Reading through these heaps of books?
What intelligence that can be settled,
Doing all these assignment and paper work?
How efficiently that we are molded,
Attending those seminars and half baked workshops?
How out of world scholars are we,
When the lay man on the sites call us fools?
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sweet emotion
The taste of raspberry on her lips
Green apple candy
And fruit with strawberry dips
Aroma of lavender after a shower
Basil on pizza
Put there just to tease ya
Licorice sticks with sweet vanilla swirls
A beautiful girl with long golden curls
Cave into the emotion
A brand new puppy with big brown eyes
His aroma is lovely and pungent
I think I'll call him cinnamon
The smell of cloves on a freshly baked ham
And the taste of sweet candied yams
Make me drool like cinnamon
And the fool that I am.
My Uncle Gay
I can not say in a way,
That would for anyone be understood.
But I have an uncle named Gayhall,
Who stands for me very tall.
A minister he is,
With a wife Pamela and two adorable kids.
Well...
They are no longer 'kids'.
Two beautiful women I 'should' say.
Nicole and Tiffany...
Each with a uniqueness,
Anyone can see.
Although my Uncle Gay,
Has been sick of late.
I hate the fact that he's like that.
But what can I do,
Besides pray from my Uncle Gay?
I 'see' him getting better,
Each day as I 'visualize'.
I want his health to return to him.
Because he is very special,
In my eyes.
I love my aunts and uncles...
As 'if' they were mine!
And...
Hey,
They are 'mine'!
Well...
Let me define what it is I want God to do!
'God,
I know for a fact...
You are with me all the time!
But...
Will You heal my Uncle Gay?
Right 'now'!
And...
Today! '
Dedicated to:
My Uncle Reverand Gayhall Pertillar.
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
'Love you, Uncle Gay...
Pam and 'kids'.'
Nephew Larry
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad of Uncle Mukungu
He's my uncle and to my father a brother,
To many a darling or to all and sundry rather;
A pot of knowledge unique, and of humor and quit,
And queer a sight, a wonder as right.
This mine uncle as much do I love,
For he be within and near must cause me to laugh;
And you, liking or not whether,
Never can stand my uncle's weather.
I won't tell all- my uncle's long,
A story you would love as of humor strong;
I will do you a bit, and perhaps a bit more,
Of Mukungu's sweet and sometimes some sore.
At class three a dropout my uncle became,
And thus many had it- uncle has lost his aim;
But no! Who harbored thoughts so was but mistaken,
Listen to Mukungu and your ribs will be shaken.
His talk will behind leave no bit of sagacity,
That bit by bit and all kills ambiance of solemnity;
To imbue the air and emotion with humor high and enough,
To bury hate option and hatch of uncle to love.
Uncle is a guru of eating great,
And many a cuisine none he does hate;
And thus he's indefatigable bull of village,
Cuts through others like a sharpest edge.
Perfect artist he is and scientist as well,
He'll sing a song and tell the stars fell;
He has his language and in he's a virtuoso,
Moreover he acts and he's a star so.
poem by Willy Munyoki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Note from Gaza
O uncle
say how you feel when you see the tiny bodies of my friends scattered everywhere. there is a real pain and the smell of death that makes me sick
tell me
why do you get violent like the devil
why do you think you're mighty
while my mom taught that the Lord of all that exists in the world
and my dad said that the fair punishment would be enacted soon
O uncle you could handcuff my little hands
blinded me deafen ears clamped my mouth, but you can not eliminate the memories of savagery yourself
uncle know, if one day I grow up I swear on my little friends that I'm going to turn the world and will never forgive you
Copyright © 2012 ℠
Sad Sacking Uncle Daddies
My heart goes out,
To those unknown who carry...
In their minds they can not rid,
The fact...
They are the products,
Of some sad sacking uncle daddies.
And these uncle daddies brag about their kids.
As if supporting them is what they did!
But they don't care a bit.
OR do a disciplining.
All these uncle daddies do,
Is dropp a seed to leave and scoot.
I'd like to shout from rooftops,
But to who would give a hoot?
I'd like to stick my booted foot,
Up a pooter with a couth.
But...
Who would benefit from it?
Not the kids who walk around,
With feelings dismissed.
I'd like to shout from rooftops,
But to who would give a hoot?
I'd like to stick my booted foot,
Up a pooter with a couth.
To knock some sense in uncle daddies.
Those sad sacking uncle daddies.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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That smell of freshly cut grass makes me think of Friday night football in high school. The smell of popcorn and cigar smoke reminds me of the stadium. The cutting of the grass reminds me of the August practice.
quote by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Ballad Of Refreshment
The lady stood at the station bar,
(Three currants in a bun)
And oh she was proud, as ladies are.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
For a weekly wage she was standing there,
(Three currants in a bun)
With a prominent bust and light gold hair.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
The express came in at half-past two,
(Three currants in a bun)
And there lighted a man in the navy blue.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A stout sea-captain he was, I ween.
(Three currants in a bun)
Much travel had made him very keen.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A sober man and steady was he.
(Three currants in a bun)
He called not for brandy, but called for tea.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
'Now something to eat, for the train is late.'
(Three currants in a bun)
She brought him a bun on a greasy plate.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
He left the bun, and he left the tea,
(Three currants in a bun)
She charged him a shilling and let him be,
And the train went on at a quarter to three.
(And the bun is old and weary.)
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That Smell
Whiskey bottles, and brand new cars
Oak tree you're in my way
There's too much coke and too much smoke
Look what's going on inside you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Angel of darkness is upon you
Stuck a needle in your arm
So take another toke, have a blow for your nose
One more drink fool, will drown you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Now they call you Prince Charming
Can't speak a word when you're full of 'ludes
Say you'll be all right come tomorrow
But tomorrow might not be here for you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Hey, you're a fool you
Stick them needles in your arm
I know I been there before
One little problem that confronts you
Got a monkey on your back
Just one more fix, Lord might do the trick
One hell of a price for you to get your kicks
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
song performed by by 3 Doors Down
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rachel
Give me bread to eat and clothing to put on my love,
Give me water to drink and money to put into my pocket too;
Look and behold! Rachel is coming with the sheep and,
I am in love with this shepherdess.
And like Romeo and Juliet,
She is very beautiful and her food is so natural!
Surely, she is my bone and my flesh.
Of the love that i have for her,
Of her beauty and appearance!
I really have delicate eyes on her love.
Of bread and a skin of water,
Along the banks of the Nile;
But i am a stranger in this foreign land of love.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Homegrown Stuff
Simple.
Profound...
And to the point!
No detours or scenic views.
Directly applied,
Without sedation.
Or an offer of a variety,
Of freshly baked desserts.
Topped with icecream with a cherry.
The identity present...
Does not seek definition.
This is homegrown stuff.
And it is good.
Trust!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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