Tea, Toast, and the Newspaper
I like reading the local daily paper
first I go to the football pages at the back
there you can keep up to date with the team
and see if the manager has finally got the sack.
Over cups of tea and slices of toast
I read about a robbery that's taken place
Four armed and dangerous men held up a security van
the Police have asked does anyone recognise this face?
Then I like to have a go at the tricky crossword
and now and again I've managed to fill it in
but most of the time it's far too difficult
and as for the Sudoku I wouldn't know how to begin.
But I always ignore the Read Your Stars column
as I reckon it's just a dodgy con trick
the Astrologer says your going to be out and about
but your in bed with the Flu and feeling sick.
I guess to some this sounds a bit morbid
but I like to see who's sadly passed away
so I check out the In Sympathy Page
anyway I'll be on it myself one day.
Then I go on to the Classified Advert section
as you can pick up some real bargains there
like a mobile phone and telly for twenty quid
and for a tenner an unwanted Lime Green armchair.
The letters page can some days be really lively
as there's always a reader who's livid and irate
like an elderly gentleman who blamed the Council
for his bus arriving fifteen minutes late.
So I finish off by smiling at Andy Capp
and seeing if there's anything decent on T.V.
then I look forward to reading the next edition
over slices of toast and a nice mug of tea.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Related quotes
Rest To Read
Read any...
Any thing read...
Read...
Day with night...
Read...
Reading is
Happy...
Reading
Is boor...
Reading
Is Knolage...
Read...
Reading is
One of body
Rest...
Rest is
One of the reading
Time...
Read daily
Take rest daily
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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The Lovely Couple
The Lovely Couple
In a café I hadn’t been to before I ate an omelet with
french fries, it was flat, boring the fries were re- heated.
Near me sat an old couple reading the paper together,
when he got and up walked outside for a smoke, she read
the obituary page, but just before he came back in she
folded the paper back to the page he was on before
leaving. He was interpreting to her what he had been
reading, something about the new president in the USA,
she knew of his views, she had heard them before,
she was listening to his voice, as they were old and near
the end of a blessed lane they had walked together.
Close they sat she held his arm and now they looked young.
It is odd to think if they knew they would live forever they
may have postponed their happiness indefinitely.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The last page
Till you complete reading
The last page of your life
You could muse and enjoy
The best pages you’ve read.
Once your life is extinct,
You cannot reminisce
With joy about the past.
Hence we want the page
That we read is not the last.
20.10.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Stifle not the reader
Reading is an art,
reading is a tool.
Those who think it dumb,
must be such a fool.
Reading is enjoyment,
reading is a blast.
Reading is a separate entity
from the future and the past.
Reading is done in present,
though written in a tense.
Reading is about life,
in surprise or suspense.
Reading is a place of joy,
full of hope and song,
Reading is a place I feel
that I truly do belong.
A trapdoor to a fantasy,
A world thought lost to us,
Reading is a place of wonder,
a place that we can trust.
Why read about reality,
when I can delve into magic.
Why stifle my own happiness,
with scenarios so tragic.
Stifle not the reader,
for it is their choice alone.
Reading is an outlet,
for hearts that turned to stone.
He's off to the gym
Make sure you look the part
smart tracksuit should do the trick
remember you haven't been for ages
just tell them you've been sick.
Take it easy and don't go mad
it takes time to get really fit
and don't go lifting heavy weights
remember your getting on a bit.
Make sure you warm up first
do some running on the spot
then do some stretching exercises
now you'll be sweaty and really hot.
You want to lose some weight
and get yourself a nice six pack
but remember your not a teenager
and you've got gout and a dodgy back.
Now you'll probably go on the treadmill
and pretend your in a real race
but remember what happened last time
you fell off and landed on your face.
Still at least your having a go
and not at home watching the telly
but it will take more than one session
to get rid of your enormous beer belly.
But I hope this time you keep it up
and not get fed up with your fitness regime
but I honestly think you've left it too late
to get a place in the national Olympic team!
poem by Kevin Halls
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He Was A Big Hero
He has just turned fifty his fastest pace slow
He is not the man he was twenty years ago
When they used to toast him at the local pub
And he was the hero of the football club
But time it did not wait for him time it ticked on
And he can only talk now of his better days gone
When he was his football club's number 1 player
And he could run as fast as a wildborn hare
And though he has such good memories of the past
The Seasons came and went and time went so fast
Whilst yet not an old man his hair is quite gray
And clearly he has known a far better day
Two decades ago when his hair was dark brown
He was a big hero the toast of the town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Marginalia
Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.
Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
'Nonsense.' 'Please! ' 'HA! ! ' -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote 'Don't be a ninny'
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.
Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls 'Metaphor' next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of 'Irony'
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.
Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
'Absolutely,' they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
'Yes.' 'Bull's-eye.' 'My man! '
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.
And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written 'Man vs. Nature'
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.
We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.
Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.
And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.
Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page
A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
'Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.'
poem by Billy Collins
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What Is These All About?
at 9: 18 p.m.
the head gets the pain
another relief
swallowed
finally you go back
to where you
started
page one
when you said
you do not miss her
page two and three
empty
pages more pages
until you reach
that page where you cried
dried tears at the middle
of the blotted letters
you quickly run your fingers
close the notebook
you stand by the window
at par with the moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Such Is Life
When it comes to women
my life has never been that well.
I used to advertise myself
and on my tee shirt wrote.
(Front) Help me please.
(Back) Take me home I
make a good bed warmer.
Sadly, no takers came forward
and I wondered why
after all I was always good
at making a hot water bottle.
Such if life I guess.
Then I thought if you got it, flaunt it
and the police could not stop laughing
when they arrested me,
but they still gave me six months
for my try.
Finally, I managed to take a girl home with me,
but the parrot escaped and landed in her lap.
She did not like feathered friends
and she never came back after that.
Such is life I guess.
Nothing I did seem to work
in attracting a mate.
I went to funerals hoping to catch a widow’s eye,
but when one thought I was a corpse,
and tried to put me in the box with her departed,
I gave up after that.
I just could not understand why
women did not like me
after all I dressed like them
with a skirt and pinnie.
Such is life I guess.
I advertised in the newspapers
and my advert read
a man in need of a woman.
He is clever and witty
and is house trained as well.
I only had one reply
from a woman who said
I am pretty and petite
and I am only twenty-four.
We married in the month of June
and everything went well until it came to go to bed.
First, she unscrewed her leg and then her arm.
She then took out her glass eye
and her false teeth as well.
When she finished scraping off the make-up
my ravishing beauty of twenty-four
looked like an old hag of ninety-four.
Such is life such is my life.
Now I am left with a wife in the bed
and most of her bit on the floor.
26 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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The 'Poem A Day' Project - Day 16
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’m feeling all alone
I can’t connect with my friends out there
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I miss its ringing tone
I’ve searched for it everywhere
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
And now I cannot roam
I must stay near in case it rings
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I do not wish to moan
It has numbers, dates and all kinds of things
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
And now I guess I’m prone
To wander like a lost zombie
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve no mind of my own
Without it there to organise me
I’ve lost my mobile phone
poem by Flying Lemming
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What Has Been Missing?
here you are again
i know
reading me
every morning
i have become
coffee to you
i am another page
of a paper
my face is a cover of
a book
and what you read
are nights
i know it is dark
and cold
and here you are again
sure of yourself
in the dark in the
cold
accepting what is
there
what is read
someday i shall ask
you
what is in me that
escaped me
what is in you that
catches
what is there
and what has been
missing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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My Song
I wrote a song
It's called 'my life'
I tried my best to make it a good one
I'd never written a song
Twas indeed my first
I had an eraser
I couldn't clean my mistakes though
It turned out to be a long song
A hundred and twenty pages worth
A page a year
I made a mess of it
Blue pen made a mark
As depression took a quarter of it
Yellow pen made an entrance
I decided it was better than blue
Red pen tried to hurt me
As all anger was kept inside
Green pen whispered a note
I wished I had my neighbour's song
So many colours on just one song
Twenty-five pages were dark
I knew not which way to go
I tried to turn a page but couldn't
I basked in pages gone
Hence left several pages blank
Twenty-five pages were wet
As tears serenaded my heart, it did the pages
Too much pain in one song
Tried to change the words
The things I thought all made the song
On a scale of good to bad, bad stole the day
I searched and found other songs titled 'my life'
I wrote my song the way they had
My song was like a painting
One in utter disharmony
One drawn by a clueless artist
But an artist whose passion burned his painting
I set my heart on fire on page 35
There had to be more
And more I had
On page 120, my eyes were dim and hands tired
Since pages couldn't be turned
My mind sat, and looked back
What had I done?
I'd been mountain high
I'd been valley low
I'd been good
I'd been bad
I'd been....
I lay my head on my song
Took my last breath
But before I did
I held a girl
Who had a song called 'my life'
She read my song
And shed a tear
And said I had written....a masterpiece.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Not the days...
Now the days
Now the days of books have gone
E-poetry has excelled and most of the work done
You have outlived and performed nice
It was all you could do as per promise
It is nice to have desires
More to feel elated when readers admire
It is as good as achievement and satisfaction
The good smile must appear on face as an indication
In old days books were published
Some proof reading was done and finished
So much care was taken for spelling mistakes
Now no more such exercise and intakes
The word spell check does it all
You feed the word and it sounds nice call
All different words appear and supplement the need
Then the poem is ready for read
It has reduced the pain of storing
Previously composition was considered as boring
Now the scene is completely changed
The poems are well edited and managed
No need to go for its publication
It is stored and kept centrally at main stations
It can be clicked and read within no times
There is no fear of loss any time
I wonder for it as blessings
Nothing goes from it as missing
Everybody has equal chance for preserving
Good name and fame too for deserving
I would love to give credit to the emerging scientists
They come up with novel ideas and beautifully insist
On new technology and its development
It is one of the most credible movements too
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Truth Or Consequence
you ask me to choose
between truth
and consequence,
i rather have
all the consequences.
you are the truth
and you begin
to hurt. I face you
again, i have no more
tears
attuned am i
to these blunders
and sorrows
and pains, , , ,
to all these
redundancies
a thesaurus of
lamentations,
i open a page
of this truth,
i still hope to find
this word....
happiness,
i still have faith, that this word
is not lost, among the pages
of your stories,
some bookmarks
are thrown under the bed,
i remember reading this page.
there is this fingerprint
of my laughter,
it is still alive and
smiling at me.
I still believe, what mother
said: keep the marriage
there are always threads
and needles for whatever
is torn.
Father was lucky.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Listen, Learn, Read On
In ages past when spells were cast
In a time of men in steel
When a man was taught no special thing
It was all done by feel
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
Hear the song of lovely joan
Her sound so sweet and clear
In the courtroom of the king
Among children and the peers
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
now hear ye the words of taliesyn,
On the foaming beach of the ocean,
In the day of trouble,
I shall be of more service to thee
Than three hundred salmon...
The hare he bounds across the page
Past castles white and fair
Past dreaming chessmen on their boards
With a fools mate as a snare
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
three times I have been born
I know this from meditation...
The bird he flies the distance
From pages two to six
Past minstrels in their boxes
To the waters of the styx
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
Dont take the pictures lightly
Listen to their sound
For from their coloured feeling
Experience is found
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
all the sciences of the world are collected in my breast,
For I know what has been, what is now,
And what hereafter will occur...
song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Burn All The Letters
I am sorry that I set my sights
On the things I read
Something meant for your husband
Maybe you left it under the bed
Once upon a love those words blew free and secret
The pages lay around
Drifted to the hands of the publisher
And the greedy generations on down
Burn all the letters
(someone is always watching)
The governments on the phone
(whether openly or secretly)
Burn all the letters
(now breathe life)
Send them on
(into your story)
To a safer home
(I said burn it to secrecy)
Burn all the letters
Brand them in you before you go
Soldiers are coming to plunder
But there are some things they will never know
We made our love out of dignity
Dug our nails in the dirt
(hung our towel soaked souls out on the line)
Hung our towel soaked souls out on the line
We loved so hard that it hurt
To ease my pain I took a pen and paper
Incarnate came the bleeding
Send it back before the public eye
Perverts it in the reading
And burn all the letters
(someone is always watching)
Ah the governments on the phone
(whether openly or secretly)
Burn all the letters
(now breathe life)
Send them on back
(into your story)
To a safer home
(I said burn it to secrecy)
Burn all the letters
Brand them in you before you go
The soldiers coming to plunder
But there are some things they will never know
Burn all the letters
Ah the governments on the phone
On the phone
Burn all the letters
(all the letters)
Send them on to a safer home
(send them on to a safer home)
Burn all the letters
To you
And you to
To me
Coming to take what they can
They cannot read
What they cannot see
Mmm
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Would Be So Nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet, sometime
Everybody wakes, and in the morning
Hot tea and cant stop yawning
Pass the butter please.
Have you ever read the daily standard?
Reading all about the plane thats landed
Upside down?
And no one knows what I did today
There can be no other way
But I would just like to say
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
Everybody cares about the weather
And everybody should know better
What a waste of time
Everybody lives beneath the ceiling
Living out a dream that sends them reeling
To a distant place
But no one knows what I did today
There can be no other way
But I would just like to say
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry
Reading poetry is my afternoon tea
It's my crossword puzzle when my time is free
It's my game of football, where I scream and shout
Reading, reading, reading; what's it all about
Nothing think I delights me so
A new poetress has a show
Or when a young poet man
In words takes he a stand
It's good to know, as the world's poets go
Tis strong and has force to show
That moments come, and they pass
Poets rise up, assume their tasks
poem by Midnights Voice
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Warm Milk And Toast
Warmed milk sweetened with honey
toast buttered with a thin spread of jam.
A bedtime story told by my Grandpa
times of Castles and Giants, living in some Fairy Tale land.
The warmed milk would make me sleepy
the toast would fill that nightime hunger need.
Sounds of Grandpa's soft loving voice
as he would sit on my bed and read.
My Grandpa's gone so many years ago
now I am one myself.
I warm and sweeten my Granddaughters milk
and take that same book down off her shelf.
Her eyes are wide open, as she chomps away
at the toast with butter and jam.
She tells me how much she loves me so
and just how neat of a Grandpa that I am.
I see her eyes growing heavy now
as I continue to read the story.
And am proud that I'm a Grandpa
and now can read, my Grandpa's Fairy Tale Story.
poem by Linda Winchell
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