Winter Evening
When snow falls against the window,
Long sounds the evening bell...
For so many has the table
Been prepared, the house set in order.
From their wandering, many
Come on dark paths to this gateway.
The tree of grace is flowering in gold
Out of the cool sap of the earth.
In stillness, wanderer, step in:
Grief has worn the threshold into stone.
But see: in pure light, glowing
There on the table: bread and wine.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Inside the House of Bread
Everyone has a table inside the house of bread
Pouring in into the chairs the fish have come to roost
Its already started to happen inside the house of bread
Feasting and Forever enough to go around the table.
And I keep to myself in the age of all this water
We can share an ocean but don’t drink from my open well
I wont mind sharing in the house of bread
Everyone at the table deserves to be fed
poem by James Daniel Gabriel
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The Threshold Stone
WHEN I went to live in the little house,
That stands on the hilltop alone,
What touched me most of all
Was neither roof nor wall,
But the smooth, worn face of its old threshold stone.
For when I entered that little house,
With its four rooms cool in the heat,
And its windows clean and bright,
There it lay, new-washed and white,
With its tale of the coming and the going of feet.
Then I lost count of time in that little house,
And the world and its things all about,
And I hearkened there, alone,
To the footfalls on that stone,
Of the young coming in and the old going out.
And the folk that had dwelt in that little house,
They were mute, spectre-mute, at my side —
The young man, strong and bold,
And the grey man, wise and old,
And the little, pinched woman and the new-made bride.
Oh, often in haste to that little house
Came love in the night-time alone,
And dallied there a while,
With a little, wistful smile,
And with feather-weight feet on the old threshold stone.
And men hurried home to that little house
When the round of the daytime was o'er
With its worry, heat and noise,
And kissed their girls and boys,
And the patient little mothers that waited at the door.
Though I dwell now no more in that little house
That stands on the hilltop alone,
Yet this I got from it —
This human story writ
On the smooth, worn face of its old threshold stone.
Though they take stone from stone in that little house,
Making litter of all it has been.
Yet they shall not destroy
All the grief, all the joy,
All the youth, all the love that its threshold has seen.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Hand
the hand on my heart
feels a lot like you,
the shadow of the stranger,
feels like clothes i have worn.
the cup on the table
is waiting to be filled.
on the plate a slice of burnt bread,
and the clock's stuck at six.
sounds i didnt hear before
resonate in the stillness.
the taste clings to my lips,
the old worn curtain blows.
and i cant for the life of me
remember what i was thinking.
my heart feels frozen
by the hand on the door!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Chocolate in the Rain
Dark clouds
loom in the sky;
now the sound of thunder -
breaks the stillness of the evening air.
A flash of lightning
lights up the dark sky.
A light drizzle at first -
and then a heavy downpour.
My heart revels…
at the beautiful sight
of the white rain
outside my window.
And my mouth waters as I see...
a large slab of dark chocolate on the table.
Is this not a little unfair
that it should be just sitting there?
So I decide to nibble on it…
and marvel at its bitterness.
As I watch the falling rain, I tell myself
I shall eat as long as it continues to rain.
But it rains for a couple of hours
and the chocolate is no longer there.
I now wonder -
why I ate it all without a care!
01 June 2010
6: 40 pm
poem by Gita Ashok
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With the Young Wine
Sun sets purple,
Swallow has already flown far off.
Under arches in the evening
New wine goes round;
Snow falls behind the mountain.
Summer's last green drifts away,
Hunter comes from the forest.
Under arches in the evening
New wine goes round;
Snow falls behind the mountain.
Bat blows around the forehead,
A stranger comes silently.
Under arches in the evening
New wine goes round;
Snow falls behind the mountain.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Today... 'Living Bread
The Living Bread came from heaven
down upon earth to dwell
That we might eat of Him and live
and thus be saved from hell.
To taste and see that the Lord was good
I went to Calvary.
Saw Jesus on that cross of wood
broken there for me.
Your body was broken
and Your blood poured
I was forgiven
Thank You Lord.
******
In Your banqueting house I stayed
on the table I could see
The Bread and the wine had been laid
Speaking such love to me
Bread was broken
the wine was poured
I stand forgiven
Thank You Lord
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
The Colonel
What you have heard is true. I was in his house.
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles
were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of
lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes,
salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed
the country. There was a brief commercial in
Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk of how difficult it had become to govern.
The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel
told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the
table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to
bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on
the table. They were like dried peach halves. There
is no other way to say this. He took one of them in
his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a
water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of
fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone,
tell your people they can go f--- themselves. He
swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held
the last of his wine in the air. Something for your
poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor
caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on
the floor were pressed to the ground.
May 1978
poem by Carolyn Forché
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A Day And Date
Nests to birds and holes to foxes,
Of the olive oil and honey on my table;
But in the obscurity of darkness,
The harvest time is very great.
Unmarked graves,
The choicest wine at the beginning of love;
There is a day and a date for everyone.
Of the rich man's table and the poor man's table,
Like homes without numbers to compare with these graves;
But you need ten silver coins to reach my home.
A fig tree with leaves and the horse-walk of things,
You need a 'pencilcure' act to note my mind;
And from 'dreamontology' to 'dondoorlogy'to what is prepared.
The king and the Queen do seek for me,
But i am always missing out of their sites;
Since i do have a day and a date on my lovers heart.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Heavenly Banquet
I went to the heavenly banquet
The table that Jesus had set.
and broke the bread and drank the wine
nourishing this poor soul of mine.
Then my spirit soared heavenward
as before His table I stood
knowing that He loved me so much
experiencing His tender touch.
I felt complete and satisfied
there with Jesus the crucified.
The wine was rich, the bread so sweet
as I worshipped there at His feet.
My soul fed very well that day
as I journeyed upon my way.
and back into my home I went
my spirit feeling so content.
Orphans Of Wealth
There is no time to discuss or debate
What is right, what is wrong for our people
Time has run out for all those who wait
With bent limbs and minds that are feeble
And the rain falls and blows through their window
And the snow falls and blows through their door
And the seasons revolve 'mid their sounds of starvation
When the tides rise, they cover the floor
And they come from the north
And they come from the south
And they come from the hills and they valleys
And they're migrants and farmers
And miners and humans
Our census neglected to tally
And the rain falls and blows through their window
And the snow falls and blows through their door
And the seasons revolve 'mid their sounds of starvation
When the tides rise, they cover the floor
And they're African, Mexican, Caucasian, Indian
Hungry and hopeless Americans
The orphans of wealth and of adequate health
Disowned by this nation they live in
And with weather-worn hands
On bread lines they stand
Yet but one more degradation
Yes, and they're treated like tramps
While we sell them food stamps
This thriving and prosperous nation
And the rain falls and blows through their window
And the snow falls and blows through their door
And the seasons revolve 'mid their sounds of starvation
When the tides rise, they cover the floor
And with roaches and rickets and rats in the thickets
Infested, diseased, and decaying
With rags and no shoes and skin sores that ooze
By the poisonous pools they are playing
In shacks of two rooms that are rotting wood tombs
With corpses breathing inside them
Yes, and we pity their plight as they call in the night
And we do all that we can do to
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Table
Who is sitting at our table
In our favourite restaurant.
Looking into each others eyes
While chatter smothers
Loving sighs.
As she holds his hand to squeeze
Under the table.
Will our ghosts drift on the breeze
Out of the window
Through the trees.
To be lost forever
Like a heartbeat
In dark streets
To pass away
Like loving nights on satin sheets.
Who sits at your table
Where candlelight
Lit your smile.
And we drank red wine in style.
To taste the sweetness
On your lips
The fruit of love
Minus the pips.
All out plans
We'd always discuss.
You would always make a fuss
About what you would wear
On our wedding day.
At that table
Our guest of fate did sit.
But didn't rest,
Couldn't stay.
Leaving me alone in twilight meadow
Like one last flower
To sway.
poem by Kevin East
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Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
poem by Billy Collins
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Neighbours
My neighbour has a field of wheat
And I a rood of vine;
And he will give me bread to eat,
And I will give him wine.
And so we are a jolly pair,
Contentedly unwed,
Singing with supper as we share
Red wine and crusty bread.
Now venison is mighty meat
And so is trout and hare;
A mallard duck is sweat to eat
And quail is dainty fare.
But such are foods for festal day,
And we will not repine
While on the table we can lay
Crisp bread and rosy wine.
A will to till one's own of soil
Is worth a kingly crown,
With bread to feed the belly need,
And wine to wash it down.
So with my neighbour I rejoice
That we are fit and free,
Content to praise with lusty voice
Bread, Wine and Liberty.
poem by Robert William Service
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Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
Anonymous submission.
poem by William Taylor Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Silent Night, All Day Long
Theres a pine tree in a window in a house on a hill
With a tree top angel sitting perfectly still
Shes watching the shoppers walk through the snow
With their arms full of treasures and hearts all aglow
Chorus:
We held hands and stared at the lights on the tree
As if christmas was invented for you and for me
When the angel on the treetop requested a song
We sang silent night all day long
Theres a family thats gathered in some living room
Dinner on the table thats been cooking since noon
Stockings on the mantle are hanging with care
While every body is saying a prayer
Repeat chorus
Theres a room out there somewhere with a woman in a chair
With memories of childhood still lingering there.
How pretty the paper, the lights and the snow.
How precious those memories of long long ago.
Repeat chorus
When the angel on the treetop requested a song.
We sang silent night all day long
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Today... 'Bread
Manna of Heaven coming from God
walked with us and earths pathways trod.
Come let's taste and see that the Lord is good
and not just settle for plain earthly food
There is Bread that God to mankind did give
So that we might all eat of it and live.
The Body of Christ is that Bread given
The Bread of Life that came down from heaven.
This Bread was stricken and smitten of God
when up the hill of Calvary He trod.
He was wounded and broken there for me
bore the price of sin that I might go free.
I've been to communion with You Lord
Broke the Bread in accordance with Your Word.
No bread of earth tasted so sweet and fair
as the bread I broke supping with You there
Such a feast was set by God before men
sweet Bread and wine laid upon the table then.
Bread broken for iniquities of mine
and into the cup poured the blood red wine
As I broke the bread Lord, I heard You say
'This is my body broken for you that day.'
Then I closed my eyes and I saw You Lord
hanging for me upon the cross of wood.
I heard You cry in pain and agony
Shout 'My God why have you forsaken me.'
Then 'Father forgive them ', I heard You say
for those that drove the nails in deep that day.
Your body bearing the sins of mankind
was wounded for these transgressions of mine.
Bowing Your head becoming Broken Bread
as You bore the wrath of God in my stead.
Broken for me was that Heavenly Bread
for my sins You suffered and You bled.
Wondrous love has been shown my God to me
for I'm saved by Your death at Calvary.
Praise God for the Bread that came from Heaven.
Praise God for the life that He has given.
Grace and mercy He lavished upon me
when the Bread was broken upon that tree.
(see also the additional information below in the Poet's box)
Zoom-in
Snow flowers in the midst of lonely night,
Lonely moments wrapped in the mist,
The walkway, lit with the dim light of moon,
Cold and black road at
The gate of deserted house,
A forlorn voice, clings desperately to the window,
Doorsill, drowned in an unknown fear,
Everything, bewildered andspeechless,
Weary and desolate,
A lone candle on the table,
With the head thrown back
Eyes, fixed at the door.
Coffee cup on the table, cold and quite,
Distressing thoughts, daydreams and I,
A lonely book, in my cold lap and I.
poem by Amjad Islam Amjad
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A Table For Two!
Flash of dream overcome me
as I took slumber one night
I saw a romantic setting
lies a set of table for two
A bouquet of red roses
decorate at the center
where a bottle of red wine
completes the table for two
I saw you entered the haven
dressed in rainbow colored suit
your face so pretty with a smile
as we kissed at the table for two
Mesmerized by your countenance
I was filled with romantic stance
as we danced to the tune of love
such so divine at the table for two
Awaken at height of joy
I am filled with inspiration
as today it becomes a reality
a table for two on Valentines day
poem by Marvin Brato Sr
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A Burning
It all tastes like funeral ash to me;
exquisite feast set out in banquet hall.
Tonguing down the bile, a bitter dark sea,
A casket'ed table for bearers pall.
It was a long time coming, we sigh sips.
Now we gather 'round plates of dust
Scooping the dry mulch between our lips,
as our gray eyes flicker off the rust.
From a distance the feast looked amazing,
Staring through the cherry-stained estate glass.
And we rammed against hall doors, complaining
of the plundered spectral treasure amassed.
So we say Grace at the table of ash.
Our stolen jewels worn like funeral sash.
poem by Aurin Squire
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The Lake, The Fountain
by the lake so still so calm
sky-blue cloud-white
more sky than water this autumn day
the air so still above
there a tree leans over the water
as if in thanks
and here a gathering of stones
awaits the offhand lapping of the wavelets
bringing out the many colours of the stones
that remember mountains edging the horizon
with light and shadow through the day
over there a fountain plashes over worn carved stone
fed by a mountain waterfall wild fountain tamed
throwing up a million new-mined diamonds
droplets sparkling like a chandelier
the sun catches turning air and water
into unceasing dance of somehow joy
the still lake the dancing fountain
telling with water two stories
stillness in joy
joy in stillness
as two white-robed nuns who whisper laughing
laughing whisper
in the cool of the evening
beside the fountain
before prayer
and holy silence
poem by Michael Shepherd
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