In these days a man is nobody unless his biography is kept so far posted up that it may be ready for the national breakfast-table on the morning after his demise.
quote by Anthony Trollope
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Breakfast Is Ready
(7: 45 in the morning)
to choose between a
hot breakfast ready on the table
and finishing another poem
i choose the breakfast
together with my wife
this poem can be suspended
in time
and become another unfinished
act of creation
by a man wanting to fill this
world with poems
after a while
when i have my fill and when
i make some nice conversations with my wife
and my dog beside the table
looking at me
for a piece of fried pork
when the sipping of coffee is over
when i finally wipe my
chin with the sky blue napkin
when i consider
eating as finally over
as promised
i will come back again
and finish this poem
and there is something
nice in this
act of creation
you feel it
it is warm like the hand of
a beautiful woman
it is as hot as ever
like this wanton desire
lovely,
as lovely as you love each letter
of the word
of your poetry
i am feeling it in the bone
of my soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bench By The River
It’s six thirty on Sunday morning
and I’ve been here since three.
I don’t sleep much now-a-days,
but that don’t bother me.
The flies are here as usual
taking salt from my skin
whilst I’m having breakfast
of blood red wine and gin.
I remember when I was married
I had food three times a day.
Now, I eat when I’m hungry,
but not much comes my way.
I live in a one room bed sit,
which is big enough for me.
I don’t give parties anymore,
besides I’ve got no settee.
Two chairs, and one’s my table,
a sleeping bag on the floor.
A cup, a glass and a tooth brush,
don’t need anything more.
Another bottle is approaching
along with friends of mine.
We’ll continue having breakfast,
at least until lunch time.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For The Happy Housemaid...
early morning
the housemaid turns on the radio
in full volume that the
neighbors know that
she is already awake
and cooking breakfast
the house smells fried
egg and bacon and
steamed rice
when i come out my room
she smiles and
turns off the radio and
says that breakfast is
ready
only to be told that
no one likes to eat breakfast
(unlike the two the housemaid
likes it much to eat all these matters
alone by herself,
she is attuned like a loud radio
early morning
and she does not mind what
the housemaids' neighbors say)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hooked And Eyed
hooked
is the eye
the fish
cannot get
away
caught and
sliced
salted and spiced
on the table
breakfast
one fishy morning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Spider As My Analogy For You
the black spider
with a yellow mouth
and invisible tongue
early in the morning
on the jack-fruit tree
webs its house, so
beautifully transparent
against the sun
it is art and functional
at the same time
a house of beauty
and a trap for prey
a fly is trapped and
breakfast is ready
at the center table of
its creation
full, the spider basks
in the rain as i watch it
still thinking about you
and your house of lies.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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438
To Choose Between A
Hot Breakfast Ready On The Table
And Finishing Another Poem
I Choose The Breakfast
Together With My Wife
This Poem Can Be Suspended
In Time
And Become Another Unfinished
Act Of Creation
By A Man Wanting To Fill This
World With Poems
After A While
When I Have My Fill And When
I Make Some Nice Conversations With My Wife
And My Dog Beside The Table
Looking At Me
For A Piece Of Fried Pork
When The Sipping Of Coffee Is Over
When I Finally Wipe My
Chin With The Sky Blue Napkin
When I Consider
Eating As Finally Over
As Promised
I Will Come Back Again
And Finish This Poem
And There Is Something
Nice In This
Act Of Creation
You Feel It
It Is Warm Like The Hand Of
A Beautiful Woman
It Is As Hot As Ever
Like This Wanton Desire
Lovely,
As Lovely As You Love Each Letter
Of The Word
Of Your Poetry
I Am Feeling It In The Bone
Of My Soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Objectified
All beautiful things meet their demise
Flowers in bloom surely will die
Frozen are the wings of the dead butterfly
Because all beautiful things meet their demise
All beautiful things meet their demise
Clouds of gray spoil the light of the skies
The ocean must fall in order to rise
Because all beautiful things meet their demise
All beautiful things meet their demise
I knew I was doomed when you first said, “Hi.”
Two ships in the night, we were bound to collide
Because all beautiful things meet their demise
All beautiful things meet their demise
Four months can pass in the blink of an eye
We lose ourselves without having to try
Because all beautiful things meet their demise
All beautiful things meet their demise
The simplest words become hard to define
You can’t see the truth when you cover your eyes
Because all beautiful things meet their demise
All beautiful things meet their demise
Your pay the price to take this ride
Slowly, you find that you’re living a lie
Because all beautiful things meet their demise
All beautiful things meet their demise
Pictures of us will fade over time
We become strangers in a world so wide
Because all beautiful things meet their demise
All beautiful things meet their demise
You’ll keep on searching for what you won’t find
You’ll lose your faith while I lose my mind
Because all beautiful things meet their demise
All beautiful things meet their demise
Sometimes your morals get left behind
It will be too late when you realize
Because all beautiful things meet their demise
poem by Vaida Marea
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The Young & The Old
Whoa oh
Staggering home everybody sings
All the old songs the cockney routines
All the old women, all the young men
Try changing places then back again
Old man in the morning,
Young man at night
Breakfast full of wisdom
Until you hit the lights
Knock back the drinks , hitch up your skirt
Fall over backwords undo your shirt
Everyone shouting what a terrible state
Age creeping backwards as it gets late
Old man in the morning,
Young man at night
Breakfast full of wisdom
Until you hit the lights
Have a quick short, forget about work
Have a couple more then you go beserk
Who cares about this morning, wise old man
The wisdom comes up later and goes down the pan
Old man in the morning,
Young man at night
Breakfast full of wisdom
Until you hit the lights
Then another round, forget whos turn
Waking up to feel your stomach churn
Whos in the chair and whos on the floor
Incoherants knocking on the door
Old man in the morning,
Young man at night
Breakfast full of wisdom
Until you hit the lights
Hit the lights
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am Ready
I am ready
Oh, my children
When jesus knocks at my door
Ill be there come morning
Dont weep for me
Ill be with my lord
Theres my Bible on the table
Read it to me once more
I can hear gods heavenly angels
Singing me on through heavens door
Hallelujah lord
I am ready
No more sorrow
Hallelujah, yes
I am ready, I am ready
I am ready to go
Oh, hosanna
Take my hand now
Lead me to the promised land now
I am ready, I am ready
Hallelujah, I am ready to go
Oh, hosanna
I am ready to go
I can hear gods heavenly angels
Singing me on through heavens door
Singing me on through heavens door
And I am ready
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Breakfast
A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use, 'Good night,'
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet 'Good morrow,'
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn or kettle; he appears
When all have finished, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the venturous fly,
Where the sugar's pilëd high,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Because I Cannot Sleep Tonight
because i cannot sleep tonight
i have to pay the price
my morning and noon tomorrow
shall be my night
and the whole day i will sleep too
not speaking to anyone
not having breakfast
and lunch
another dinner for one on a candle light
they will all be sleeping
and i will be working
like a vampire have i become
thirsting for blood
wanting more flesh
shying away from the ordinary hustle and bustle
of this world
i wake up when everyone sleeps
i sleep when everyone wakes up
and soon they will all complain
and bury me
alive
because i have refused to learn how i must live
with them
and of course, they will not like it, tomorrow morning
the rules will be posted in the ref
they know i still need a drink, and the cold water
is stored in the ref
they are away on a trip, and they will wait
as always.......wanting to understand, wishing that i change....
i am still thinking, if i better get lost and be not found forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I am blessed because...
I am blessed because I wake up every morning with breakfast ready on my table,
when there are people waking up to hunger.
I am blessed because I wake up with clothes to wear,
when there are people shivering in the cold.
I am blessed because I wake up knowing that I don't have to walk to school,
when there are people who don't have a school to go to.
I am blessed because I get to eat even if it's not time for breakfast, lunch or dinner,
while some people wonder when the next meal will come.
I am blessed because I am living such a comfortable life, playing sports, joking around with friends, using the internet and sleeping whenever I want,
when some people are using their last bit of strength to make sure they survive hunger, illness and pain.
I am blessed because I have friends to talk to when I'm in pain, to laugh with when I'm in joy and to be my aid when I'm in need,
when there are people who feel sad, sorrow and pain without anyone
to lean on.
I am blessed because I have a caring Mum, an awesome Dad and a loving little sister, while there are people who will never know who their parents are.
I am blessed because I know I am loved by God.
The people in pain, the people in hunger, the people in sorrow,
the people who lost everything, the people who kill, the people who
steal, the people who hate, the people who persecute, the people who is the worst of all humans, are loved by God too. They just need to know it.
I am blessed, are you?
If you think you're not, remember this, God loves you, no matter who you are.
You just need to know it. =
Reluctant Traveler
Reluctant traveler
Morning driving through the vast plateau of Spain, cowboys in their sheep skin coats
are ready to ride out to Inspect the heard, It is cold the horses are rearing to gallop.
On a hillock the outline of a big black bull, underneath is written “Sandman’s sherry.”
The sign is held by wires and looks like a malapropos in morning light. Cattle’s grazing
did they spend the night standing up resting, listening out for wolves or other
predatory animals? The driver tells us we are going to stop in a town too irrelevant to
remember. The breakfast is an insult I ask for fried eggs and bacon by the time they
are ready the coach is ready to leave. Hasty breakfast but I managed to have a pee.
A flask of rum and coke, I have made some notes, taken a few picture, I drink fall
asleep, when I wake up we are in France and a new morning has arrived. I have never
been to France before, only at airports passing trough, this is a dreary little border
town and it surprise me that their inhabitances have not fled. The café is lousy, stale
bread with jam. I get into an argument with the rude staff, my wife comes and saves
the day. I Paris we are met by a Jewish gentleman who wants me to read my poems,
In defense of Palestine, In Norwegian and I’m the only Scandinavian in the room. I do
the readings, hate Paris, and take the first bus back home to Portugal.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Those Were The Days
We Ain't Lovers No More
We Don't Laugh No More
We Don't Play No More
We Don't Make-Up No More
We Don't Kiss No More
We Don't Hug No More
You Don't Please Me No More
You Don't Touch No More
Give Me Chills No More
We Don't Go Out No More
We Don't Kick It No More
We Don't Dance No More
I Remember
Walking Through The Park
Just Shooting The Breeze
Kissing In The Shade
Those Were The Days
Lounging In The Den
Breakfast In the Bed
You Let Me Have My Way
Those Were The Days
If You Don't Want Me No More
Don't Come Round No More
Just Don't Call No More
Don't Come Knockin' Up At My Door
After Ten Or So
What You Knockin' For?
We Don't Kick It No More
You Ain't Cute No More
You Ain't Fly No More
You Ain't Got It Like That No More
See In Your Clothes You Don't
I Still Remember
Walking Through The Park
Just Shooting The Breeze
Kissing In The Shade
Those Were The Days
Lounging In The Den
Breakfast In the Bed
You Let Me Have My Way
Those Were The Days
Those Were The Days
Those Were The Days
I Said Those Were The Days
I Said Those Were The Days
Those Were The Days
Those Were The Days
What's Up With This Baby?
You Done Changed On Me (You Done Changed)
This Ain't The Way It Used To Be
song performed by by Aaliyah from Aaliyah
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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ET Came To Breakfast (Fun Poem 10)
My breakfast was going snap, crackle and pop,
when suddenly in the chair opposite something went plop.
I looked across the table and was astonished to see,
a little green man looking at me.
I blinked a couple of times,
even pinched myself to make sure it was real.
He was, you can believe,
and my breakfast he was trying to steal.
We pulled at the bowl,
no one getting the upper hand,
and then he stuck his finger in the bowl,
and sucked out the blinking lot,
milk and my snap, crackle and pop.
The moral of this story.
If a little green man comes to breakfast,
Get an extra bowl.
28 April 2007
poem by David Harris
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Morning Compromises
breakfast is heavy on the
table
you only pick a cookie
and take
a sip of coffee
then you watch a part
of TV's morning news
then you leave without a
note of where you are going
you lock the door of the house
and the windows too
the dog stays with a neighbor
the car engine starts
you drive on a compromising idea
you will be back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Breakfast
Look, the golden plate is ready set
On the round table for breakfast.
Glitters reflecting tinges of my blood
In tune with the table of mud
With the green medow streaking to fret.
Listen, worshiping Aurora at dawwn daily
Comes to me that golden plate by priority.
The green paddy rooted in deep water
Fans soothingly with its ricy flavour.
Feel, it makes golden plate more catchy.
I cook the rice to petalsoft
Adding ghee and jaggery enough to taste.
I resolve with my prayers in bundle
To offer the made rice i.e 'pongal'
To the above deity of splendid light.
On the muddy table, over the glisten
Placed a plantain leaf, served on
The pongal.I then whisper'my sun,
Enlightened by the plate of your glisten'!
poem by Indira Renganathan
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You Are Always There
I am far away from you
I intended it to be
I want to travel this journey alone
I am throwing away my crutches
Arriving at the point of
no return
There is someone who wants to talk
About us
Those rainbow days
I do not like this
What I know is that
I am ready
I like to turn off myself like a conversation's
Demise
Like a cellphone without a load
A battery exhausted
But i can't
You are a scar
And will always be there
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poets Are Coming Out To Play Today
I came home this morning
after saying goodbye to a ghost.
I wrote a little poem about
and posted it. Then up popped Alison Cassidy
dreaming of summer.
In England, we are all doing that.
We have to walk in our wellies,
hoping not to get our feet wet.
Andy Wilkinson posted
another romantic ditty,
then he comes along,
and calls me sentimental
because I wanted to say goodbye to a ghost
where I used to work.
Yes, I think the poets
have come out to play today.
poem by David Harris
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Sunday 4: 44 A.m.
the church bell sounds.
you wake up.
you wash your face.
comb your hair and
wear the best dress
on sunday.
you look again
in the mirror to check
if all about you is well
and presentable.
you take the rosary
and the prayer book.
you read the gospel.
you mumble your prayers,
you thank your husband.
you take the puppy.
you smile again in the
mirror. you thank God.
now you open the gate
and head for the nearby
church and hear mass
and the usual sermon
of the parish priest.
90% of your life
is devoted to religion.
10% is devoted
to anything else.
you have aged.
you still mumble.
i still wonder whether
it is you who misunderstands me
or i misunderstanding you.
everything seems to be
mangled and mingled.
when you come back
breakfast is ready and
everyone in the house
pretends that there is nothing
wrong with the table, or the
cover, or the broken pieces
of the glass.The maid is
quick in sweeping them
away from the door into
that thick grass beside
the window of this house.
sunday morning is still
our morning. A nice one.
the sun has come and
we are planning for another
picnic in the nearby beach.
there will be no questions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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