On the Breadline
In the baked dough of flour, water and yeast
they were chatting merrily while baking.
The robust baker listens; ' flour said' I was in a big field
and then after the crop they took me to a mill and they grind.
Water laughed and said' I don't know where I have come from? '.
Yeast said 'I was a fungus dear; not only in the bakery
in the brewery too a good demand for us.
I heard that they make bread, cake and so many varieties out of us.
Our price goes high everyday and a poor cannot afford.'
History says; Marie.Antoinette said to the poor
'if you cannot eat bread then why don't you try cake? '
And the following day they invaded the fortress Bastile.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Related quotes
Bread Hair
Im a wigged-out daddy with bread on top
I dig an easy-bake granny with a whiskey mop
If you love me, you neednt the whole wheat crop
cause they had a useless battle andll never stop
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Im a pumpernickel-do for you, dough you do
Use a yarmulka of hallah bread if youre a jew
I belong to cayope*, I be the wheat for you
Yeast and flour, bake an hour, its annoying shampoo
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Drivin all my hope away
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Thats a gone rug, buddy
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heat of Hunger
'Jesus took the Loaves,
Gave thanks,
And distributed them.'
In a bakery the poor baker rolls the dough with water and his sweat.
Bakery owner is a registered miser among the poor folks
Who never throws a bread crumb to a crow.
The stray smoke rises from chimney to the helpless sky in its usual rhythm
And I see a man who sits on the pavement just opposite the bakery.
He must be a homeless and he thinks if he's the baker
Then he could have swallow a cookie easily.
Saliva comes out from his toothless mouth
Like in a leaked urban tap.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Gingerbread
'Gingerbread,
Go to the head.
Your task is done;
A soul is won.
Take it and go
Where muffins grow,
Where sweet loaves rise
To the very skies,
And biscuits fair
Perfume the air.
Away, away!
Make no delay;
In the sea of flour
Plunge this hour.
Safe in your breast
Let the yeast-cake rest,
Till you rise in joy,
A white bread boy!'
poem by Louisa May Alcott
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The Baker Man
Well here comes a dance that will never be banned now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Yeah, stolen from a story called "The Baker's Man" now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
It's impossible too sweet to cross the land????
(Patty cake patty cake)
Put your favorite records on and start the show now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Abra-cadabra look at everyone go now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
Alakazam this dance has got to grow now
(Patty cake patty cake)
Well they tell me that it's optional to use your feet
But now you really don't need them if you keep your beat
Well Arthur Murray's gettin' blurry tryin' to learn that jive
When all the kids from coast to coast are really comin' alive
Well go tell the gang what a time you've had now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
This Friday night we'll start a regular fad now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
We'll do the Baker 'til it drives us mad now
(Patty cake patty cake)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Come on and take a lesson now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Clap your partner's hands
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Not too hard
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Now slap her in the face
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
What a disgrace
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
(Patty cake patty cake)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet XIII:The light that rises from your feet to your hair
The light that rises from your feet to your hair,
the strength enfolding your delicate form,
are not mother of pearl, not chilly silver:
you are made of bread, a bread the fire adores.
The grain grew high in its harvest of you,
in good time the flour swelled;
as the dough rose, doubling your breasts,
my love was the coal waiting ready in the earth.
Oh, bread your forehead, your legs, your mouth,
bread I devour, born with the morning light,
my love, beacon-flag of the bakeries:
fire taugh you a lesson of the blood;
you learned your holiness from flour,
from bread your language and aroma.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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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
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Marie Antoinette
They told to Marie Antoinette:
"The beggers at your gate
Have eyes too sad for tears to wet,
And for your pity wait."
But Marie only laughed and said:
"My heart they will not ache:
If people starve for want of bread
Let them eat cake."
The Court re-echoed her bon mot;
It rang around the land,
Till masses wakened from their woe
With scyth and pick in hand.
It took a careless, callous phrase
To rouse the folk forlorn:
A million roared the Marseillaise:
Freedom was born.
And so to Marie Antoinette
Let's pay a tribute due;
Humanity owes her a debt,
(Ironical, it's true).
She sparked world revolution red,
And as with glee they bore
Upon a pike her lovely head
--Her curls dripped gore.
poem by Robert William Service
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A Cook’s Battle
The ship -cook was tired it had been a long day, the ship was old
full of cockroaches, one had found its way in his bread dough and
when the captain cut a slice of bread it was there, a brown raisin;
the old man had been very angry. The cook’s trouble was roaches
they were everywhere. He had asked to have the galley fumigated
when the ship was in dry dock, but no it was far too expensive.
Every week he boiled a big pan of water and squirted into corners,
it helped a bit and he had buckets full, but soon they were back
encroaching his galley. Then there were mites in the flour which
he had to sift before baking bread, not his fault yet he had to take
the flack. He often worked till late evening to keep the galley clean
he had even painted it so on the surface it looked bright and nice.
He was losing the battle against insects he often felt he was losing
his mind as well, they appeared in his dreams strangulating him.
Time was hard not easy to get a job, still when his ship docked in
Bombay he was off and the crew could get someone else to insult.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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To Bake One Cake
To bake a cake needs pride,
I stay and hear, stay and watch
To see what is clear on this work.
Offer us a cake when it is sweet,
Savoury dishes need to wait.
My superb lunch needs a dessert,
Why do cooks especially provide us?
Because we are rich, and our cakes,
Our cakes are poor, just far too away.
The caking and baking needs time,
And money costs a fortune, like pain.
To then make a lake of water,
It needs you and the real deal of riches.
poem by Naveed Akram
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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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Song Of A Baker - Originally By The Small Faces
Theres wheat in the field
And water in the stream
And salt in the mine
And an aching in me
I can no longer stand and wonder
cos Im driven by this hunger
So Ill jug some water
Bake some flour
Store some salt and wait the hour
While Im thinking of love
Love is thinking for me
And the baker will come
And the baker Ill be
I am depending on my labour
The texture and the flavour
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ough''A Phonetic Fantasy
The baker-man was kneading dough
And whistling softly, sweet and lough.
Yet ever and anon he'd cough
As though his head were coming ough!
"My word!" said he," but this is rough:
This flour is simply awful stough!"
He punched and thumped it through and through,
As all good bakers dough!
" I'd sooner drive," said he " a plough
Than be a baker anyhough!"
Thus spake the baker kneading dough;
But don't let on I told you sough!
poem by William Thomas Goodge
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude IV.
When the long murmur of applause
That greeted the Musician's lay
Had slowly buzzed itself away,
And the long talk of Spectre Ships
That followed died upon their lips
And came unto a natural pause,
'These tales you tell are one and all
Of the Old World,' the Poet said,
'Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall,
Dead leaves that rustle as they fall;
Let me present you in their stead
Something of our New England earth,
A tale which, though of no great worth,
Has still this merit, that it yields
A certain freshness of the fields,
A sweetness as of home-made bread.'
The Student answered: 'Be discreet;
For if the flour be fresh and sound,
And if the bread be light and sweet,
Who careth in what mill 't was ground,
Or of what oven felt the heat,
Unless, as old Cervantes said,
You are looking after better bread
Than any that is made of wheat?
You know that people nowadays
To what is old give little praise;
All must be new in prose and verse:
They want hot bread, or something worse,
Fresh every morning, and half baked;
The wholesome bread of yesterday,
Too stale for them, is thrown away,
Nor is their thirst with water slaked.
As oft we see the sky in May
Threaten to rain, and yet not rain,
The Poet's face, before so gay,
Was clouded with a look of pain,
But suddenly brightened up again;
And without further let or stay
He told his tale of yesterday.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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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
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Lemon Cake
The radio plays
Sunny afternoon, it's The Kinks
She's in the kitchen, cooking.
All chaos reigns,
flour, butter, mixing bowls
her, trying to make lemon cake.
She sings loudly
as chefs do in restaurants,
cafes and bakery shops.
It's a lemon cake
like her ma' used to bake
She sings loudly
and the radio's blares,
the telephone rings
and the dog barks.
The neighbour, next door,
throws her watering can about
in protest of the racket.
Fresh lemons fill the air
as I watch from the cat basket
my whiskers twitching
fur bristling, back arched
my eyes -
on the cat flap.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Bible in Poetry: 1 Corinthians 5
Expel the Immoral Brother!
1 That sexual immorality
Exists amongst you is real,
And of a kind that doesn’t occur,
Even among the pagans yet:
If man has his own father's wife,
2 Can you be proud at anytime?
Shouldn't you be rather filled with grief?
And cut your fellowship with him?
3 though physically not present,
I’m with you in spirit always.
I’ve passed judgment on this bad man
Just as if I were present then.
4 When you’re assembled in Lord’s name,
I am with you in spirit then,
The power of Jesus is present,
5 hand over this man to Satan then,
So that, the sinful nature dies,
Or may be destroyed finally,
And his spirit saved on Lord’s Day.
6 Your boasting is not good at all.
Don't you know that a little yeast
Works through the entire dough fast?
7 Get rid of old yeast so that you
Could be a new batch without yeast—
Which you really are in fact!
For Christ, our Passover Lamb of God,
Has already been sacrificed.
8 Therefore, let’s keep the Festival,
Not with old yeast of malice, wickedness,
But with bread of sincerity and truth.
9 I have written you in my letter,
Not to associate with people
Who are sexually immoral—
10 not meaning people of this world
Who’re immoral, or the greedy
And swindlers, or idolaters.
In that case you must leave this world.
11 But now I write to you that you,
Must not associate with one
Who calls himself a brother but
Is sexually immoral or
Greedy, idolater and slanderer,
A drunkard or a swindler too.
Don’t even eat with such a man.
12 It isn’t my duty to judge those
Who are outside the church right now?
You are not to judge those inside?
13 God judges those who are outside.
'Expel the wicked man ’midst you.'
(7-7-2007)
poem by John Celes
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Wry!
'Now girls, you finish your rye and milk, '
Tituba said, the slave,
The girls had clattered around the house,
'You girls, you'd better behave! '
She'd laid the table with cheese on rye,
With tumblers full of milk,
'Now eat your bread like your father said,
Or the devil will make you sick! '
The winter weather was cold that year,
The crops were brought in damp,
The miller muttered but said no more,
He ground by the midnight lamp,
The baker quibbled him over the price,
They knew that it wasn't dry,
But a wink and a nod to the Money God
Said, '...use the tainted rye! '
The girls began to suffer fits,
They'd crawl around on the floor,
They frightened Tituba the slave to bits
With the blasphemies they swore,
They screamed, began to hallucinate
Saw spectres in the air,
'It's Sarah Good in a witch's hood, '
They screamed, 'but she's not there! '
Tituba baked up a witch's cake
Then fed the cake to a dog,
It leapt and staggered and threw it up
Then lay like a drunken log,
The girls would mutter of witchlike shapes
That flew in the winter mist,
Then fell to the floor by the kitchen door,
Convulsed, in a series of fits!
Tituba, she was arrested there
Along with two likely crones,
They searched for the witch's marks on them
On the poor old women's bones,
A taste of the Reverend Parris's whip
Saw his old slave confess,
That she'd met a hog, or a giant dog
And the Devil had done the rest.
The girls convulsed, and named the names
Of a score of women there,
They'd all been seen in their fevered dreams
Or as spectres, in the air,
The Judges took no time to Judge,
But signed each new decree,
And a strange new fruit was seen to shoot
From the boughs of the gallows tree.
Even the Reverend Burroughs fell
Accused by the lips of spite,
A man of God, he had served them well,
But couldn't defend his plight,
He stood and recited the Lord, his Prayer,
Impossible for a witch,
But they strung him up, regardless then,
And buried him in a ditch!
It took the words of a four year old
To seal her mother's fate,
They fed on the word 'hysteria'
Until all they knew was hate,
And one old man who refused to plead
Was pressed to death by stones,
While down at the mill, the race ran still
As the miller ground their bones!
'It's a wry old thing, ' the miller said
As the death cart passed his mill,
And the baker stopped for a friendly pipe
By the mill-run water wheel,
'But the rye is free of ergot now
It's dry, and the wind blows free,
Swinging the last eight witches there
Under the gallows tree! '
6 November 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Few Came to Socialize with the Baker
~There's an 'old' player on the field.
One who has yet been revealed,
As appealing with significance.
But...
Significant this player is.
Significant to 'that' which lives.
Under the current circumstances.
And the benefit to 'whom'...
Those significant looming circumstances,
Come to grow and groom.~
The easiest thing to do...
For those in positions of leadership,
Appointed and likeable too.
Was...
Not to create opposition,
For those elated who appreciated...
A charading done in masquerade.
When favorite cakes are baked to taste...
Those waiting in anticipation,
Can be counted on to celebrate.
But...
When that oven is finally turned off,
And the aroma of baked cakes fade away.
People once patient,
Begin to show a disrespect.
With a desire to twist the leader's neck.
And a stirring of the masses begin to rise!
When the incompetence of the leader...
Catches all by surprise.
What now becomes prioritized,
Is what has happened to the funds?
And why no one accepts responsibility...
For paying bills that has not been done!
~Has the baker taken ill? ~
No one had ever questioned,
The credibility of those 'appointed' to lead.
Or an ability to think.on feet...
To keep a sinking process,
Now believed and seen as getting deep.
Those looks of impressions,
Seem to be consciously addressed.
Those dressed impeccably with images given...
Are lost to define leadership qualities felt to express.
However...
Everyone knew the taste of good cake.
But very few came to socialize with the baker!
Or knew a thing about what the baking of a good cake takes.
They just came prepared to eat.
Feed pretentions and agreed to meet.
Slap a few backs in 'glad-hand' chatting.
Before exiting with pocketed money arrangements.
Then to hop in luxurized cars to leave!
~There's an 'old' player on the field.
One who has yet been revealed,
As appealing with significance.
But...
Significant this player is.
Significant to 'that' which lives.
Under the current circumstances.
And the benefit to 'whom'...
Those significant looming circumstances,
Come to grow and groom...
Is lost.!
And the baker has stated to the candlestick maker...
'Let them try to do this again.
Without paying 'upfront'...
Every cent that is due us,
In unpaid dividends! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Let them eat cake.
quote by Marie Antoinette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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