En.Citatepedia^®.ro

0142 Buttering Bread

Yesterday
I was buttering bread for sandwiches
when I saw myself doing this
as I must have watched you all those years ago,
and forgotten ever since 'til now -
the butter firmly spread right to the edges of the crust,
pressed into the yielding bread,
and then the surplus gently scraped off on the knife

with all the careful but not mean economy
of a family which after your father's lungs
gave in to the cotton dust of the mill
where he worked so proudly for John Bright
the reformer (and there's a thought)
and your mother opened the front door of your home,
whose street-front window now became
a front-room shop for home-made cakes
so that the neighbours' help was charity with dignity and fair exchange;
the butter for the scones
you made before you left for morning school
came from out of a wooden tub
from the 'Italian warehouseman' or
the very first Co-op, down in Toad Lane...

Whether the tears poised at the corners of the eyes
were of sadness or of gratitude
for this so unexpected memory of the living dead
I couldn't say. But now,
gratitude. And, and, beauty.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Bread & Butter

I love bread and butter
and jam upon hot toast
and flowers in the summer
but I love you most.

I love the red spring tulips
and cold strawberry mousse
and I love chocolate pudding
but I love you most.

I love bread and butter
and honey for to spread
though honey is but nothing
to your warm caress.

I love bread and butter
but egg with chips will do
although they only half compare
to my love for you.

I dare not feign indifference
I love a red, red rose.
Their scent is ever fragrant
but I love you most.

You know I love my mother
and sumptuous Sunday roast,
I love her home made puddings
but I love you most.

poem by Ruth Walters
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0427 We'd never have guessed..

There’s so much
we never know,
would never have guessed,
never asked,
and now regret that
we never asked,
about what it was like for ‘them’
before we were born…

I can’t remember exactly
how old I was – eight? - when I knew
that Mum couldn’t possibly
have been my mother.

She was so innocent, so simple, yet
so quietly organised,
so sensible, so unlike me
- who was unlike Dad anyway, didn’t he remind me -
that she could never
have had.. sex? .. with Dad..

It must have been my ‘naughty’ aunt, who had me,
‘father unknown’ but conveniently
adopted by my ‘parents’ -
the one who had an eye for the boys
and boy did the boys have eyes for her,
who asked every evening if she could
go out and play with them, while
Dorothy did her homework,
learned double-entry book-keeping by post,
did part-time secretarial work,
became the first female bank-clerk in the town, and still
made the cakes and scones to sell
in the terrace front-window shop
before she went to morning school or work,
while Grandad wheezed in the armchair, sick from the cotton mill..

It was only when my mother, in her sixties, took me
on her annual holiday once to see my
aunt (?) Mary, and the two played one-up
all the time, that I realised the truth of this
familiar family play of life:

Two daughters, fighting for their father’s love,
picking each their role: the one,
doing all the right things to win his love;
the other, forever testing his love
with naughtiness; (she never married, just
played the Magdalene) :
he died, and yet
they carried on their fight; Grandma was
some bystander, I guess. And of course,
Grandad loved his ‘scamp’ so much –
she, the same twinkle in his eye
that he had when he courted Grandma..
Who won, in the end? Neither? Both?

After I saw that, it didn’t seem to matter so much
which of them was really my mother. It would
have been fair if they could, somehow,
have shared me; and maybe, I them.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story

—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,
And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday—
When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,
Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon
Looking off down the long street
To nowhere,
Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation
And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why?
And if-Monday-never-had-to-come—
When you have forgotten that, I say,
And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell,
And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang;
And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner,
That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner
To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles
Or chicken and rice
And salad and rye bread and tea
And chocolate chip cookies—
I say, when you have forgotten that,
When you have forgotten my little presentiment
That the war would be over before they got to you;
And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed,
And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end
Bright bedclothes,
Then gently folded into each other—
When you have, I say, forgotten all that,
Then you may tell,
Then I may believe
You have forgotten me well.

poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
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Bread is wiser

Butter is richer than bread
But can’t replace bread.
But butter is better with bread
For which is not sad the bread.
Wives are not wiser than bread.
05.02.2000, Palakkad

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Leaving

Tears on flushed cheeks,
stomping on the floor!
Her little hands are clenched as fists
her eyes are looking sore.

Mother's making sandwiches,
adds delicious filling
little blobs of salad cream,
these are really winning.

"So your going, " mother says,
"Have you any money?
I've made a lovely lunch
there's cake with fruit and honey"

Little girl is silent
takes the sandwiches
then goes out the front way,
still with rolling tears.

Sitting on the front step
she eats her picnic there
with teardrops in her eyes
and dirty fingernails,

then creeps around the back,
waits by the back door
asks mum very sheepishly,
"is there anymore? "

"You'd better come back in
and dry those weepy eyes,
there's fish and chips for supper
and the pudding will be nice."

poem by Ruth Walters
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Jack Honest, or the Widow and Her Son

Jack Honest was only eight years of age when his father died,
And by the death of his father, Mrs Honest was sorely tried;
And Jack was his father's only joy and pride,
And for honesty Jack couldn't be equalled in the country-side.

So a short time before Jack's father died,
'Twas loud and bitterly for Jack he cried,
And bade him sit down by his bedside,
And then told him to be honest whatever did betide.

John, he said, looking him earnestly in the face,
Never let your actions your name disgrace,
Remember, my dear boy, and do what's right,
And God will bless you by day and night.

Then Mr Honest bade his son farewell, and breathed his last,
While the hot tears from Jack's eyes fell thick and fast;
And the poor child did loudly sob and moan,
When he knew his father had left him and his mother alone.

So, as time wore on, Jack grew to be a fine boy,
And was to his mother a help and joy;
And, one evening, she said, Jack, you are my only prop,
I must tell you, dear, I'm thinking about opening a shop.

Oh! that's a capital thought, mother, cried Jack,
And to take care of the shop I won't be slack;
Then his mother said, Jackey, we will try this plan,
And look to God for his blessing, and do all we can.

So the widow opened the shop and succeeded very well,
But in a few months fresh troubles her befell--
Alas! poor Mrs Honest was of fever taken ill,
But Jack attended his mother with a kindly will.

But, for fear of catching the fever, her customers kept away,
And once more there wasn't enough money the rent to pay;
And in her difficulties Mrs Honest could form no plan to get out,
But God would help her, she had no doubt.

So, one afternoon, Mrs Honest sent Jack away
To a person that owed her some money, and told him not to stay,
But when he got there the person had fled,
And to return home without the money he was in dread.

So he saw a gentleman in a carriage driving along at a rapid rate,
And Jack ran forward to his mansion and opened the lodge-gate,
Then the gentleman opened his purse and gave him, as he thought, a shilling
For opening the lodge-gate so cleverly and so willing.

Then Jack stooped to lift up the coin, when lo and behold!
He found to his surprise it was a piece of gold!
And Jack cried oh! joyful, this will make up for my mother's loss,
Then he ran home speedily, knowing his mother wouldn't be cross.

And when he got home he told his mother of his ill success,
And his adventure with the gentleman, then she felt deep distress;
And when Jack showed her the sovereign, the gentleman gave him,
She cried, We mustn't keep that money, it would be a sin.

Dear mother, I thought so, there must be some mistake,
But in the morning, to Squire Brooksby, the sovereign I'll take;
So, when morning came, he went to Squire Brooksby's Hall,
And at the front door for the Squire he loudly did call.

Then the hall door was opened by a footman, dressed in rich livery,
And Jack told him he wished Mr Brooksby to see;
Then to deliver Jack's message the footman withdrew,
And when the footman returned he said, Master will see you.

Then Jack was conducted into a rich furnished room,
And to Mr Brooksby he told his errand very soon,
While his honest heart, with fear, didn't quake,
Saying, Mr Brooksby, you gave me a sovereign yesterday in a mistake.

Why, surely I have seen you before, said Mr Brooksby;
Yes, Sir, replied Jack Honest, bowing very politely;
Then what is your name, my honest lad? Asked Mr Brooksby;
John Honest, sir, replied Jack, right fearlessly.

The, my brave lad, you are Honest by name, and honest by nature,
Which, really, you appear to be in every feature,
But, I am afraid, such boys as you are very few,
But, I dare say, your mother has taught you.

Then Jack laid the sovereign down on the table before Mr Brooksby;
But Mr Brooksby said, No! my lad, I freely give it to thee;
Then Jack said, Oh, sir, I'm obliged to you I'm sure,
Because, sir, this money will help my mother, for she is poor.

Mrs Brooksby came to see Mrs Honest in a few days,
And for Jack's honesty she was loud in praise;
And she took Jack into her service, and paid him liberally,
And she gave Mrs Honest a house, for life, rent free.

Now, I must leave Jack Honest and his mother in fresh found glory,
Hoping my readers will feel interested in this story,
And try always to imitate the hero-- Jack Honest--
And I'm sure they will find it the safest and the best!

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Butter

Pull me from the toaster
Straight into the roaster
Fill my head with the stuff
Brightest dreams are made of
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Duh
Promising the big guns
Reward when the light comes
Screaming from the damage done
Screaming from the damage done
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Duh
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up like I know you will
Cover it up like I know you will
Better yourself like I know you will
Breaking the trust like you always will
Be good for it, you never will
Be good for it, you never will
Be good for it, you never will
Be good for it, you never will
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Duh
So you think you got the best
Thought I was like all the rest
Reaping from the damage done
Reaping from the damage done
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Duh

song performed by by Ultraspank
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Im Ok

Once upon a time there was a girl
In her early years she had to learn
How to grow up living in a war that she called home
Never know just where to turn for shelter from the storm
Hurt me to see the pain across my mothers face
Everytime my fathers fist would put her in her place
Hearing all the yelling I would cry up in my room
Hoping it would be over soon
Bruises fade father, but the pain remains the same
And I still remember how you kept me so afraid
Strength is my mother for all the love she gave
Every morning that I wake I look back to yesterday
And Im ok
I often wonder why I carry all this guilt
When its you that helped me put up all these walls Ive built
Shadows stir at night through a crack in the door
The echo of a broken child screaming please no more
Daddy, dont you understand the damage you have done
To you its just a memory, but for me it still lives on
Bruises fade father, but the pain remains the same
And I still remember how you kept me so, so afraid
Strength is my mother for all the love she gave
Every morning that I wake I look back to yesterday
Its not so easy to forget
All the lines you left along her neck
When I was thrown against cold stairs
And every day Im afraid to come home
In fear of what I might see there
Bruises fade father but the pain remains the same
And I still remember how you kept me so afraid
Strength is my mother for all the love she gave
Every morning that I wake I look back to yesterday
And Im ok
Im ok

song performed by by Christina Aguilera
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Age Of Dallas

What did it mean
To be young
In the Age of Dallas?

To come home
To the farmhouse?

Ironing strewn
Across the living room
Mother crying
In front of the T.V.

Re-runs of Dealey Plaza.

I remember someone
Mentioning Camelot
Third-grade in Corvallis
My teacher came from Austin

But the School Secretary
Came from the
Principal’s office

Met our teacher
At the classroom door.

Tears
Flushed cheeks

We were filed
Onto the school bus
Solemnly driven home.

(Portland, Oregon 1978)

poem by Justice Putnam
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Growing Up Hard

Counting pennies, to buy a loaf of bread
More often than not, hungry going to bed
Us carrying mothers sewing machine, every thirty days
Three blocks to the pawn shop, till the welfare check pays
Got the welfare check, would get the sewing machine out
We'd pawn it again next month, without a doubt
Living on commodities, free peanut butter and cheese
Going to school without a coat we'd always freeze
We never had many nice clothes to wear
Mother would mend them when they began to tear
Having meat for dinner was a real rare thing
Breakfast and supper, beans and rice we were eating
We wore our shoes until they fell apart
Mother could only buy one of us a pair, at the mart
Quiet often we were left all by ourselves
While mother worked or went out for cocktails
The days weren't so bad alone, we were in school
But young and left alone at night was really cruel
Feeling so alone, just us three
Please stay home tonight mama, we'd plea
Times were hard when I was a child
This poem I've written, is putting it mild

poem by Donna Nimmo
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Butter Up

Butter up,
If you want to keep me weak and numb.
Butter up,
If you want to be my number one.
Butter up,
If you want to have the weekends done,
With nothing but a loving and done with fun.

Butter up,
If you want to keep me weak and numb.
Butter up,
If you want to be my number one.
Butter up,
If you want to have the weekends done,
With nothing but a loving and done with fun.

And when Monday begins,
We'll have those memories...
To keep!

Butter up!
Butter up!
Butter up, butter up, butter up, butter up!
Butter up...
If you want to keep me weak and numb.
Butter up,
If you want to be my number one.
Butter up,
If you want to have the weekends done,
With nothing but a buttering done with fun.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The King's Breakfast

The King's Breakfast
The King asked
The Queen, and
The Queen asked
The Dairymaid:
"Could we have some butter for
The Royal slice of bread?"
The Queen asked the Dairymaid,
The Dairymaid
Said, "Certainly,
I'll go and tell the cow
Now
Before she goes to bed."

The Dairymaid
She curtsied,
And went and told
The Alderney:
"Don't forget the butter for
The Royal slice of bread."
The Alderney
Said sleepily:
"You'd better tell
His Majesty
That many people nowadays
Like marmalade
Instead."

The Dairymaid
Said, "Fancy!"
And went to
Her Majesty.
She curtsied to the Queen, and
She turned a little red:
"Excuse me,
Your Majesty,
For taking of
The liberty,
But marmalade is tasty, if
It's very
Thickly
Spread."

The Queen said
"Oh!:
And went to
His Majesty:
"Talking of the butter for
The royal slice of bread,
Many people
Think that
Marmalade
Is nicer.
Would you like to try a little
Marmalade
Instead?"

The King said,
"Bother!"
And then he said,
"Oh, deary me!"
The King sobbed, "Oh, deary me!"
And went back to bed.
"Nobody,"
He whimpered,
"Could call me
A fussy man;
I only want
A little bit
Of butter for
My bread!"

The Queen said,
"There, there!"
And went to
The Dairymaid.
The Dairymaid
Said, "There, there!"
And went to the shed.
The cow said,
"There, there!
I didn't really
Mean it;
Here's milk for his porringer,
And butter for his bread."

The Queen took
The butter
And brought it to
His Majesty;
The King said,
"Butter, eh?"
And bounced out of bed.
"Nobody," he said,
As he kissed her
Tenderly,
"Nobody," he said,
As he slid down the banisters,
"Nobody,
My darling,
Could call me
A fussy man -
BUT
I do like a little bit of butter to my bread!"

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Butter in her mouth

Butter in her mouth
School time is just too over, waking up and ready for the school otherwise I will beat you bitterly.
He put off the bed sheet from my body, stretched my hand,
In addition, put me on my foot.
Tears came in my eyes then I went slowly and slowly to my mother in the kitchen,
I put my finger towards my father
And complained about the rude behavior of my father,
Who was asking him to go to the school?
She embraced me; kiss my fore head, and politely asking me to become ready to school because I have to be an officer by studying in the school.
Orders were the same.
Father orders me to wake up and to go to the school while he was having a stick in his hand.
Mother also orders him to go to the school having butter in her mouth.
(From the diary of an Indian)

poem by Vijay Gupta
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I, The Soldier

I killed a man today, did not know his name
I did not know his history, I am the one to blame
I searched his pocket for grenades and guns
Found a photo of his three little children having fun
His body is lying there still and cold, no breath of air
I look in his eyes, I am not allowed to ask if it's fair
But I have to be strong because I am a soldier at front
And I fight for my countrymen and I am a part of this man hunt

I am glad I am alive and I am longing to meet my wife
My child who must be waiting for me, they are my life
I wish I could hug them, cuddle them for eternity
Till I could feel the distance no more sneaking inside of me
But I have to be strong because I am a soldier at front
And I fight for my countrymen and I am a part of this man hunt

I have not seen my home for months and it is eating me inside
I have forgotten the taste of food and the looks of a butter knife
I am loaded with weapons and ammunitions push my shoulders down
But I have to walk, for my country, for my state, for my town
We don't sleep sound at night with the fears of confrontation
Now my rifle is my body part and bullets are my bourbon
But I have to be strong because I am a soldier at front
And I fight for my countrymen and I am a part of this man hunt

I don't want to kill anybody, it haunts me
At night I can feel their spirit, hallucinations I see
I look in the mirror and see only blood and corpses around
The cries of widows and orphans is the only sound
The nights are scary with in my sleep deprived eyes
The days are frightening trying to save what's left of my life
But I have to be strong because I am a soldier at front
And I fight for my countrymen and I am a part of this man hunt

I do this for my country but when I will be back
No one thanks me, there is no one to pat my back
They don't realize the nights I have lost so they could sleep
The wounds I have endured so that they could have treats
They don't see the picture, they are just happy for a movie
When hundred lost lives so that they can be free
I begin to wonder, if it is really overrated to be a soldier
The picture must be worth a thousand words and much bigger
I wonder who am I, what am I doing away from home, my home
But I fight, because I am a soldier, a protector of the prone
I am the righteous protecting what is right and worthy of dying for
I live for my family, I die for my country, my men, my corps.

poem by Kumar Parashar
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Krishna Denying He Stole The Butter

O mother mine, I did not eat the butter
come dawn, with the herds,
you send me to the jungle,
o, mother mine, I did not eat the butter.
all day long with my flute in the jungles
at dusk do I return home.
but a child, younger than my friends
how could I reach up to the butter?
all the gopas are against me
on my face they wipe the butter,
you mother, are much too innocent,
you believe all their chatter.
there is a flaw in your behaviour,
you consider me not yours,
take you herd-stick and the blanket
I'll dance to your tune no longer.
Surdas, Yasoda then laughed,
and took the boy in her arms,
mother mine I did not eat the butter.

poem by Sant Surdas
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She's Leaving Home

Wednesday morning at five o'clock
As the day begins
Silently closing her bedroom door
Leaving the note that she hoped would say more
She goes downstairs to the kitchen
Clutching her handkerchief
Quietly turning the back door key
Stepping outside she is free
She (we gave her most of our lives)
Is leaving (sacrificed most of our lives)
Home (we gave her everything money could buy)
She's leaving home after living alone for
So many years (bye bye)
Father snores as his wife gets into her dressing gown
Picks up the letter that's lying there
Standing alone at the top of the stairs
She breaks down and cries to her husband
Daddy our baby's gone
Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly
How could she do this to me
She (We never thought of ourselves)
Is leaving (never a thought for ourselves)
Home (we struggled hard all our lives to get by)
She's leaving home after living alone for
So many years (bye bye)
Friday morning at nine o'clock she is far away
Waiting to keep the appointment she made
Meeting a man from the motor trade
She (what did we do that was wrong)
Is having (we didn't know it was wrong)
Fun (fun is the one thing that money can't buy)
Something inside that was always denied for
So many years (bye bye)
She's leaving home (bye bye)

song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gratitude dawning

Alarm clock. The sun rises.
The buses, railways, flights are running.
There’s a bottle of milk on the doorstep.

Facts of life. Except when they’re not there.
Who lives a life of continual gratitude for life?
Hey guys, the sun which disappeared last night
has turned up again today! Wow! Relief! Let’s get down
on our knees, raise hands, voices… and
while we’re about it, put your hands together for
all morning milkmen, where they still deliver milk…

Except – no milk this morning.
Shall you telephone – politely,
with a subtext of unpractised gratitude?

I only saw the current milkman once;
said to him, this is the first time I met you…
he said, well, you’re not around at 4 ay em are you?

So you telephone. A foreignish voice from
the land of holy cows replies from
a script I guess, …your previous milkman…
left the company… late…on his way…

Morning gratitude. The cow who gives you
the love for her calves, in liquid form;
yielding too, the butter for your toast;
the pig who gave her life for your bacon rasher;
the hen who parted with her offspring for you
to kill its life in sizzling frying pan…
they’re all female, you’ve just noticed; how about
the oranges whose liquid praise of the morning sun you drink?
tomatoes, mushrooms, anybody?

maybe you should write a note to the dairy,
say, please convey to the milkman
who has now left the company for
pastures new, hur hur, and we hope
a creamy, frothing future,
our gratitude for services rendered
which we would not ourselves
be easily persuaded to take on…
yes, maybe you should.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Home Baking And Scones

I didn't think women made scones
any more.

People still have tea and scones!

Home baking and scones
are memories remembered...

from the earliest childhood years...

when family was primary
and the housewife's role, was esteemed honoured.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Shifts

you shift from poetry
with regret you must
get into the ramifications
of the law of bread and
butter, you want to kill
time and just lay there,
the law, the law, how
dry can these laws be,
you gaze outside the
window, sighing, looking
to the blue sea and
feeling the breeze salty
to your brain, ahhh, it
is this salt of the earth,
talking. I shift my head
now to these lines,
i live for the moment.
now, back to what i
detest, this bread, this
butter, i too live here.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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