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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Tea 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.
What is wrong with being a mother first?
What is wrong with putting your children first?
What is wrong with providing, a loving caring, nurturing home?
What is wrong with giving, an abundance, of love and security?
What is wrong with putting husband, children and home first,
so that family life and family, will be strong and thrive?
A woman of determination and ability will still work.
A woman of determination and ability will still triumph.
She will still achieve, a productive rewarding, successful career.
She may still rise, to the top, dominate any profession her abilities;
dedication, education, personality, management skills; training allow.
Few men, will achieve any better, most will achieve far less.
A man, a true partner, can will, also be a house husband.
A man, can will, also sacrifice, for the career of his partner.
Society, including women, still predominantly, frown on this?
I didn't think women made scones
any more.
People still have tea and scones!
I thought the feminist's philosophy
had driven most women...
forever out of the kitchen and sadly
a few into emulating the worst...
kind of ruthless; misguided
male clone type; exploiting women...
or into brand lesbianism,
forever espousing, rights of women...
forgetting love for fathers
forgetting love for brothers sons...
forgetting a strong family equality practices
strong societies like families safeguard female liberties rights...
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Forever Out Of The Kitchen
I didn't think women made scones
any more.
People still have tea and scones!
I thought the feminist's philosophy
had driven most women...
forever out of the kitchen and sadly
a few into emulating the worst...
kind of ruthless; misguided
male clone type; exploiting women...
or into brand lesbianism,
forever espousing, rights of women...
forgetting love for fathers
forgetting love for brothers sons...
forgetting a strong family equality practices
strong societies like families safeguard female liberties rights...
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
5. All Scone
Fresh baked scones all golden brown
With jam and clotted cream
Espresso coffee frothy whipped
For high tea what a dream
A platter full of sandwiches
Garnished green with salad
Piano in the corner plays
Another well known ballad
Torn between selections
Is it brown or maybe white?
Having cut the crusts away
Leaving nothing but one bite
Out came the fancy cake plate
Full of fresh baked scone
Six of them and four of us
I hope for more than one
We finish off the platter
Now scones all piping hot
I didn’t eat mine quickly enough
So one was all I got
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 3
(It is advisable you read parts 1 and 2 first)
Grace watched him for a few minutes, and then moved to the back of the shop. “He is going to come around at six tonight. I do hop Mr Potter like him.”
“I’m sure he will. Grace.”
“I can’t help feeling bit concerned after Mr Armad.”
“It was the curry Mr Armad insisted on making. Revolting stuff. I felt queasy as Mr Potter afterwards. Anyway Mr Potter always prefers Englishmen, even when Aunty had him staying with her.”
Charles checked his watch, and then knocked the door. The lights appeared in the shop and the silhouette of one of the sisters grew large in the glass panel of the door. Charlotte smiled.
“Do come in Mr Latimer.”
Charles entered and followed Charlotte through to the back of the shop. As they entered the room, Grace turned from the oven with a tray of freshly baked scones. She smiled.
“Please have a seat, Mr Latimer. Tea is ready.”
“Call me Charles, Mr Latimer seems so formal.” he replied as he sat where Charlotte directed. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but where is Mr Potter going to sit? ”
“Unfortunately, Mr Potter prefers to eat alone. You will meet him later. I have told him you are coming and h I looking forward to meeting you.” Grace replied and brought forward the tray if scones. “Please help yourself Charles.”
Charles waited until the sisters were seated before starting.
“I think these are your best scones, Grace.”
“Thank you Charlotte.”
“I will second that. These are best scones I’ve ever tasted. I hope that Mr Potter will appreciate them.”
“I’m sure he will.” Grace replied and watched with satisfaction as the scones disappeared from the plate.
“Another cup of tea Charles? ” Charlotte asked holding the teapot poised.
“Thank you.”
As Charlotte poured out the tea, Grace collected the dishes from the table. “While Charlotte and I do the washing up you sit and enjoy your tea.”
“What about Mr Potter? ”
“We’ll collect his dishes later.”
“Charles drank his tea slowly. He wondered how he could thank the two women. He would have to think of a way later.
Grace and Charlotte smiled and nodded to one another. Mr Potter would enjoy Charles. They dried their hands and placed the dishes into the cupboard.
“I see you have almost drunk your tea. I presume you would like to see Mr Potter now? ”
“Yes please.”
“If you will follow us.”
Charles followed the sisters out of the room and into the garden.
“Unfortunately we have only one pair of stairs leading to the basement.”
“Basement? ”
“Yes, Mr Potter is not one for coming into the house. He is a bit eccentric.”
“Oh.”
2Grace dear, would you put the light on? You will have to watch the bottom step Charles. It can be a bit slippery at times.”
“Aren’t you ladies coming down? ”
“No. Mr Potter does not like women that much. “She said and smiled. “I will close the door behind you.”
Charles descended the stairs. A peculiar stench rose around him. Just as he put his foot on the bottom step, it tilted and he fell forward.
Charlotte heard the splash followed by the thrashing of water. She closed the storm door and called to Grace to switch the light off. Grace joined her there a few moments later.
“How did Mr Potter greet Charles? ”
“His usually noisy self. I do not understand why crocodiles have to make so much noise when they eat. At least with Charles he won’t get indigestion”
8-9 September 1987
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Golden Days
Honeyed baby kisses,
sweet warm baby breath,
chuckle bunny murmurs,
little frilly dress.
Roses in the garden,
Daddy mows the lawn
Baby's feeling sleepy,
we all watch her yawn.
Summer sun is shining,
holidays ahead.
Candyfloss and ice cream
running through my head.
Mother's in the kitchen
baking cakes for tea.
Chocolate cake for you,
Fresh cream scones for me.
Paddling pool for nanna
to dip her toes into.
Grandpa reads his paper
while sitting on the loo.
Dreamy times are over,
reality is here
but I can still remember
those days of yesteryear.
poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Skin & Bone
Fat flabby annie was incredibly big
She weighed just about sixteen stone
And then a fake dietician went and put her on a diet
Now she looks like skin and bone.
Do the meditation and yoga
And shes thrown away the good food guide
And shes given up the alcohol and pizzas
And the pies and now she looks as if shes ready to die,
You cant see her walk by.
Dont eat no mashed potatoes,
Dont eat no buttered scones
Stay away from carbohydrates
Youre gonna look like skin and bone.
Living on the edge of starvation
And she says shes got no appetite
And her father and her mother
And her sisters and her brothers
Couldnt see her when she walked by
She looked like skin and bone.
Dont eat no mashed potatoes,
Dont eat no buttered scones
Stay away from carbohydrates
Youre gonna look like skin and bone.
She used to be so cuddly,
She used to be so fat,
But oh what a sin cos shes oh so thin
That she lost all the friends that she had,
She looks like skin and bone
If you look flabby
And you feel overweight,
And you wanna lose a couple of stone,
Take a crash course diet do your daily exercises
And youll look like skin and bone.
Come on rattle them bones,
Put your hands up to the ceiling,
Bend your hips and touch your toes,
Do your daily exercises,
Youre gonna look like skin and bone,
Dont eat no mashed potatoes, etc.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
It Makes Me Happy, To Be With You
It makes me happy, to be with you.
To watch you smile and hear you speak
and see your eyes turn softly warm,
makes me happy to be with you.
It makes me happy, to be with you.
To watch you spreading jam and butter
on your home made scones,
makes me happy to be with you.
It makes me happy, to be with you.
To be able to put my arms around you
and draw you gently close to me,
makes me happy to be with you.
And it makes me happy, to be with you
when holding your cheek close to mine,
breathing the warmth of you
and feeling the warmth of you
soaking quietly through me,
makes my breath tremble in my chest.
You make me happy to be with you.
poem by Red O'Mara
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Nice Cup Of Tea Sonnet
Her advice reminds me
of ladies afternoon tea.
Scones and a jolly good brew
shared by two just you and me.
Do you take your tea
with milk and sugar?
Your tea is served with two
spoon fulls of sugar or three?
We shared a chat a cup of tea
we talked over important decisions.
We poured all pros and cons
to map out future career ambitions.
We sorted all future troubles out
we cleared a path of fear and doubt.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Ladies Relax
The Tea Room,
with the chatter, and the clatter
of crockery
as each lady
sips her tea
with gentility.
Scones and jam,
sandwiches with ham,
cream and cakes,
which the tea room bakes.
Open at three
close at six o'clock.
Waitress in black frock,
serves with a smile
moving down the aisle
between the tables and chairs,
handing out the eclairs.
The ladies relax
discussing the facts,
gossiping away,
passing the day,
over a cup of tea
and some strawberry
conserve,
and one can observe
the scene,
watching them all,
having a ball.
Another pot of tea for two,
and a strong brew
if you please,
Thank you!
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Troubled Soul
In the early hours
I saw church spires,
graveyard stones
and decaying bones,
troubled souls that lay
beneath the clay,
one entered my mind,
a release to find.
She gave no peace
until she found release
from her burning thoughts
that had been caught
in a world where time
refused death to the mind,
where the past won’t die
in those that lie.
I tried to end my dreams,
but in vain it seems.
Forever tormented I would be
until I willingly agree
to let her see her days
in dream like ways.
To revisit once more
through my mind’s door.
Her family and friends,
and days she would spend
playing and having fun
in the warm bright sun.
Her childhood dreams
of scones, jam and cream.
Another push of the swing
before church bells ring.
Chains of daisy flowers
that seemed to take hours.
Watching for who’s peeking
when hiding and seeking.
Playing postman’s knock,
wearing a party frock.
Hopscotch and skipping,
and toffee apple licking.
Eating bread by the fire
toasted on wire.
Poking burning flames
during guessing games.
And a fire that spread,
whilst sleeping in bed.
A world unlike her last
where seeing is past.
With memories all seen,
she’s left my dream,
but maybe one day
she’ll again come my way,
knowing there’s a pillow
and a mind to borrow.
She whispers sleep tight
and fades from sight.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sheltered Memories
I did some traveling
A few years ago
I wanted to meet family
That I really didn’t know
Some lived in the same
Family home for years
Full of precious memories
From happiness to tears
I listened to stories
These folks had to tell
Treasured sweet memories
I saw my notebook swell
For these were the stories
That needed to pass
Down through generations
So questions were asked
I saw how they lived
A different life from mine
Heard tales of today
Many from another time
I smile as I see photos
Of family from the past
Photos shelter memories
That will forever last!
poem by Marilyn Lott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
London
How can I write here when the walls have poetry?
And my soul is satisfied
When art hovers in the air and dances free?
When the heart has been explored over scones and tea?
How can I write when Keats once live down the street?
And Shakespeare rests beneath my feet?
What is there to add to the words of the greats?
With all that has been explored between love and hate
Do I lay to rest my pen?
Do I throw it to the air and in their words swim?
How can I write all that is in my heart and soul,
When my tale has been told
With far more tender grace
With far more eloquence and pace?
Please do check my grammar and spelling,
For I much to learn if I have a tale for the telling.
poem by Bridie Latona
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
She
She is the one
who will notice
that the first snapdragon
of Spring
is
in bloom;
She is the one
who will tell the most
funny
&
complicated
joke.
She is the one
who will surprise you
by knowing the difference
between turnips
and collard
Greens;
& between biscuits
& scones.
She is the one who knows where
to take you
for dancing
or where the food
& the restaurant’s
decor
are not
to be
missed.
She is the one
who is saintly.
She is the one
who reserves the right
to dress
like a slut.
She is the one
who takes you shopping;
She is the one
who knows where
the best clothes
are bought
cheap.
She is the one
who warms your
home
with her fragrance;
the one who brings
music, magic & joy.
She is the one
speaking
the truth
from her heart.
She is the one at the bedside
wedding, funerals
or divorce
of all the best people
you dearly love.
She is the one
with courage.
She is the one
who speaks
her bright mind;
She is the one
who encourages young &
old
to do the same.
She is the one
on the picket line, at the barricade,
at the prison, in jail;
She is the one
who is there.
If they come for me
& I am at her house
I know
she will hide me.
If I tell her
where I have hidden
my heart
she will keep
my secret
safe.
She is the one
who
without hesitation
comes to my aid &
my defense.
She is the one
who believes
my side of the story
First;
She is the one
whose heart
is open.
She is the one who loves.
She is the one who makes
activism
the most compelling
because she is the one
who is irresistable
her own self.
She is our sister, our teacher, our friend:
Gloria Steinem.
Born 75 years ago
Glorious
To your parents
& still
Radiant
Today.
Happy Birthday, Beloved.
The grand feast
Of your noble Spirit
Has been
& is the cake
that nourishes
Us.
We thank you for your Beauty
& your Being.
Namaste.
poem by Alice Walker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Halle Loo? Jah!
(May be sung to the tune of 'Hallelujah'; ¬)
They say ye canny fill yer breechs
Wi' tatty scones and boiled leeks
But you don't know whit we went through tay see ya
Diarrhoea. Diarrhoea
Diarrhoea, Diarrhoee-ee-ee-ee-ya
I'd like tay lay hons oan the bam
Who hid ma feekin diocalms
That's why ma erse is hingin o'er the pier
Diarrhoea. Diarrhoea
Diarrhoea, Diarrhoee-ee-ee-ee-ya
That Blackpool beach had golden sand
Before these things got oot o' hand
The consequence o' dodgy grub and bee-arr.
Diarrhoea. Diarrhoea
Diarrhoea, Diarrhoee-ee-ee-ee-ya
And when ma erse hole touched the sea
The briney watter stingin' me
I knew that it wiz gonnay cost me deer
I could've filled the Firth of Forth
I screamed until ma throat wiz hoarse
I've never cared for onomatopoeia.
Diarrhoea. Diarrhoea
Diarrhoea, Diarrhoee-ee-ee-ee-ya
poem by Hola Mentirosa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lazy Day
Lazy day, sunday afternoon,
Like to get your feet up, watch t.v.
Sunday roast is something good to eat,
Must be beef today cause lamb was last week.
So full up, bursting at the seams,
Soon youll start to nod off, happy dreams.
Wake up, for tea and buttered scones
Such a lot of work for you sunday moms.
Its such a crying shame
Week after week the same.
Todays heaven-sent and youre feeling content,
You worked all week long.
Still, its quite sad tomorrows so bad
And I dont feel so strong.
Lazy day, sunday afternoon,
Like to get your feet up, watch t.v.
Sunday roast is something good to eat,
Now its almost over till week.
Thats how your life goes by
Until the day you die.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Lean On Me (Tonight)
Lazy day, Sunday afternoon,
Like to get your feet up, watch TV.
Sunday roast is something good to eat,
Must be lamb today 'cause beef was last week.
So full up, bursting at the seams,
Soon you'll start to nod off, happy dreams.
Wake up, for tea and buttered scones
Such a lot of work for you Sunday moms.
It's such a crying shame
Week after week the same.
Today's heaven-sent and you're feeling content,
You worked all week long.
Still, it's quite sad tomorrow's so bad
And I don't feel too strong.
Lazy day, Sunday afternoon,
LIke to get your feet up, watch TV.
Sunday roast is something good to eat,
Now it's almost over till next week.
That's how your life goes by
Until the day you die.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
God Was Right
God was right when he made the women
Because men built house for the women to live in with their families
And he included a kitchen
But God knew that if the house had a kitchen the women would be better The whole night cooking for her family
And God knew that the kitchen was the perfect place for women
God was right when he made women so that they can have babies
And feed the babies milk from her breasts and change all the babies Diapers everyday
Because the only way babies communicate is by crying
And all the babies needs their naps
God was right when he made the women
So she could be there to do the family laundry also
And women's job is never done at home
Because as long as she lives she will be the slave of home
poem by Aldo Kraas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Childhood Memories Sung to the Tune of Shawnee West Franklin Bison Blues
Some people have a childhood garden
Filled with green and growing things
Some people have a childhood garden
Filled with purple peonies
Mine is sere
Throughout the year
Nothing grows here
Some people have a childhood rainbow
A sea of colors all aglow
Some people have a childhood rainbow
Red to violet in a row
Mine is gray
Bow of clay
Without a ray
Some people have a childhood temple
Covered with a million treasured dreams
Some people have a childhood temple
A sunny Wat of Gods and kings
Mine is plain
Squats in the rain
Functional 'n sane
Where childhood memories abound
Life flows vividly around
Where childhood memories have fled
Hearts lie dead