Happy As Larry
I'll have
raisin bread with jam
you want
deviled eggs
on toast
washed down
with copious amounts
of coffee
suitably fortified
we're ready
for the morning crush.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Related quotes
How Should Mornings Be?
a cup of roasted coffee
a toast of bread
butter and marmalade
a slice of orange
some lima beans
a little music
some prayers
how nice would a morning be
overjoyed
by your presence
sipping same things all over again
with us
how can such a morning be so boring?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Deviled
I'm deviled by angels
They stand by my side
The more I ignore them
The more they abide.
They're there to protect me
Of this I am sure
As if some allegiance
To me they had swore.
I see them them on waking
It makes me quite tired
Left up to me I'd have them all fired.
I'm deviled by angels
Both day and night.
The first time I saw them
I had such a fright.
I know they are there
To do me some good
To keep from harm
And out of the mud.
But somtimes I wish
They would just go away,
So I could go a little astray.
I'm deviled by angels
They're not there to vex
But they worry me a little
When I want to have sex.
I feel like they're voyeurs
As they hide in the gloom
Just out of sight
In the dark of my room.
A question I'll ask
I just want to posit
I'd like them you know
Just to hide in my closet
I'm deviled by angels
What can I do?
They stand there and gossip
Whilst I'm on the loo.
They scan all my doings
Watch o'er my deeds,
Yet give no help in my daily needs.
Sometimes I wish just once in a while
They'd nip back to heaven and let mt be vile.
poem by Paul Brookes
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Ode to breakfast
Breakfast is special to me
It’s a meal supremely suited to my solitary reflection
that has a more special, culinary cachet
Than are given more familial repasts
partaken throughout the day
A certain translucency of one’s self
That only transpires in early morning time
Requiring only the key of good strong coffee
To chase off sleep and unlock the keep… of sunshine
It’s a time when one’s mind
Has the real world forsaken
In lieu of a slew of great food
Like soft eggs, warm toast…and bacon
The newly risen sun
A new day born again
A time when inspiration… unannounced,
Drops in, now and then
Just an old man… in old shabby jammies
Feelin’ the warmth of the sun, so sublime
Sittin’ out on the porch steps, sippin’ morning coffee
Hummin’ tuneless songs..to the birds… in the sunshine
poem by David Whalen
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Good Morning
Good morning.
I bet you thought you'd catch me snoring?
I had to get up early with the sunrise today.
To show another side of me...
You had not seen me display my way!
Good morning.
I wont hear you say today I'm boring.
I wanted to see a surprise look in your eyes.
But you're giving me shock...
As if I am in some kind of disguise!
It's me!
No need to look for an exit to flee!
And I've prepare for you breakfast, toast...
With your choice of coffee or tea!
Scrambled eggs just the way you like them too.
But baby don't look at me...
As if I'm trying to poison you!
Good morning!
I am glad to show an appreciation,
For you that's finally dawning!
Good morning!
Baby, I'm okay!
Sweetheart get off your knees like that...
There's no reason for you to take this time to pray!
Unless you're feeling blessed,
In the same way I discovered myself today?
Good morning!
And I'm going to do...
All those things I promised I would for you!
Good morning.
Yes, it is me!
The 'me' you thought I forgot you knew!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Breakfast
Of all the meals that glad my day
My morning one's the best;
Purveyed me on a silver tray,
Immaculately dressed.
I rouse me when the dawn is bright;
I leap into the sea,
Returning with a rare delight
To honey, toast and tea.
My appetite was razor edged
When I was in my prime;
To eggs and bacon I was pledged . . .
Ala! the March of Time;
For now a genial old gent
With journal on my knee,
I sip and take with vast content
My honey, toast and tea.
So set me up for my delight
The harvest of the bee;
Brown, crispy toast with butter bright,
Ceylon - two cups or three.
Let others lunch or dinner praise,
But I regale with glee,
As I regard with grateful gaze
Just honey, toast and tea.
poem by Robert William Service
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Coffee!
Coffee beans all ground up,
Coffee in my favourite cup,
Coffee black, coffee white,
Coffee dark, coffee light,
Coffee right, to start the day,
Coffee at work, coffee at play,
Coffee midday, coffee at night,
Coffee to sober, coffee to excite,
Coffee weak, coffee strong,
But maybe instead some Lapsang Souchong! ! ! !
TEA! ! ! ! !
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Crush On You
Im a zombie in the moonlight
Im sleepin when its daylight
I really should be alright
But Im feelin kinda uptight
Im messin with a neighbour
Who killed my amp and fender
He looked to sweet and tender
Its hard to tell his gender
Got coffee on the paper
My dogs an alligator
I want you now and later
I got a crush got a crush on you
Got a crush got a crush on you
Im rentin the wrong movie
Im laughin at the wrong guy
Im drivin on the wrong side
My brain is gettin cock-eyed
The flag is never chequered
Cant find my f-beat records
God, give a little lovin
The moneys in the oven
Got dead flies in my scotch with ice
My talents always vaporize
I want your bird of paradise
I got a crush got a crush on you
Got a crush got a crush on you
Crush! crush! we got a good thing goin on
Crush! crush! such a good thing goin on
Im freezin in the summer
Im sweatin in the winter
No middle in the centre
No colours in the printer
No treatment at the pharmacy
No lessons learned from history
No future in the factory
No meaning in the poetry
No changin in the weather
No elvis in the leather
I want you now or never
I got a crush got a crush on you
Got a crush got a crush on you
song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Continued - II
Oracle of the market! thence you drew
The taste which stamped you guide of the inept. -
A North-sea pilot, Hildebrand yclept,
A sturdy and a briny, once men knew.
He loved small beer, and for that copious brew,
To roll ingurgitation till he slept,
Rations exchanged with flavour for the adept:
And merrily plied him captain, mate and crew.
At last this dancer to the Polar star
Sank, washed out within, and overboard was pitched,
To drink the sea and pilot him to land.
O captain-critic! printed, neatly stitched,
Know while the pillory-eggs fly fast, they are
Not eggs, but the drowned soul of Hildebrand.
poem by George Meredith
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Favourite smells
Freshly cut grass
home made bread
sweetness of jam and honey
just washed sheets on the bed.
Tarmac being laid on the road
Brylcream on my fathers hair
the aroma from coffee
leather of a brand new sofa or chair.
Talcum powder on a baby's body
smell coming from a flower
the pages of old and new books
and the air after a heavy shower.
Scent that was worn by my mother
the aroma of a Sunday roast
candy floss at the fair
and Cheddar Cheese on toast.
Just some of my favourite smells
aromas that just make me feel good
as they can evoke moments in time
and take me back to my own childhood.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Sliced Bread
Sliced bread...
Whole wheat and toasted.
Buttered with jam,
And munched.
Either with tea, punch...
Or just plain water for lunch!
Sliced bread...
With cheddar cheese and tomato.
Add Romaine lettuce,
Topped with fried strips of bacon.
This too will certainly do.
Sliced bread...
Oatmeal raisin,
Oven baked and fed.
Sliced bread...
Crumbed to stuff a turkey.
And seasoned to gobble...
With an aftertaste on the tongue,
Deliciously nutmeged!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Coffee Is Fine
Having a brewing cup for coffee is fine,
Facing weather too hot, too much iron.
This strong iron is too late in taste,
Much of the flavours are inside.
The coffee is not tea, not even anything
Like the leaves of danger and bread.
My loaf of bread enriches the stomach
And all emptiness is about.
The cup of coffee has managed my upper class,
My thinking causes thinkers to abandon,
The ridding of thinkers and scholars is appalling
In the extreme.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Eat
Cold and dark in the morning
talk comes with a price
it is a bargain for the waitress
and diners get what they need.
The eggs are served with sympathy
for another birthday missed
the road is more than miles for
the trucker who takes them over hard.
Booth number 9 is an omelet and oatmeal
a preacher and acolyte looking for a church
the preacher's collar is frayed and yellowed
in service to a god who speaks too softly.
At the table by the door the farmers drink
coffee and talk of weather tractors prices
they have the look of a dying breed not because
they are old -their sons are off to college the
army the city or anywhere else
daughters will wait
not one of them will marry a farmer.
A young couple passing through
sits in number 8 close almost huddled
the boy counts his coins the girl looks cold
the waitress brings hot tea
'It's on the house honey.' They order toast
to share, she slips ham onto to the
plate when the cook's not looking
'I'll take that outta your tips.'
he never does.
The woman at the end of the counter
tattoos a glass with her lips
she is the blue plate special one egg
one pancake two strips of hard salty bacon
the long night gives her an appetite for
comfort and something real before going home
to wash the haze of stale cologne out of her hair.
Street lights go out
the sun promises warmth
diners pay bills homage thanks
and go out to live in the light
the waitress cleans tables
then counts her tips
She floats from counter to table
to booth serving coffee water eggs toast and
some things not on the menu
reassurance hope sustenance for the day
she takes their orders brings what they need
and all of this beneath a sign that says EAT.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Breakfast
Marmalade,
Tangy orange heaven.
Chunked to the max
Smothers toast.
A bite, a crunch.
That citrus burst.
A sigh,
A slurp of coffee.
Ready to tackle the day.
© 2012
poem by Nick Strong
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You are sitting on the veranda
You are sitting on the veranda
enjoying the breakfast
of eggs fried with tomato with toast
and huge cups of very special tea
that I had made for you.
Sweet innocence radiates from you
while you watch the blooming
purple irises, some white lilies, pink,
orange and ruby red geraniums
and birds fly down
from the pepper tree
to peck up the seed
that I had put out for them.
There’s a melody in your voice
while you give some toast with Marmite
to the dogs that gather
with twisting tails
to get their treat
and the morning is sweet
and our house is a moated fort,
a treasured place
where only we are locked in.
poem by Gert Strydom
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She Is In Love
she is in love, how can i not notice it?
she wakes up early, goes into her garden
and sings a beautiful song, very early this morning.
she waters her roses, and feeds the chickens.
she cooks breakfast. The eggs are fresh.
The meat well cooked and so tasty.
The coffee smells the aroma of coffee.
What else?
The room is clean, the kitchen so well kept.
My polo shirt is ready, my socks, handkerchief,
my underwear, my shoes, my tie, they're all
placed on bed for me to wear today.
The room smells with perfume
Her favorite, Victoria's secret.
She kisses me twice now, and another one
before i leave.
Life is beautiful, she repeats it again and again.
She stays in the house now. No travels this time.
No loafing with friends.
Tell me that i am conceited.
She is still in love with me. Now on our 12th year of marriage.
I look again at our wedding ring. The tiny diamond there still glitters.
Against the sunlight. Against all the odds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Your pocket
Keep your pocket untouched
As the Wiseman said
You are the only one to touch
To earn and maintain your bread
You cannot leave it untouched
Since though bread rhymes with bed
You can have it attached
And even your back pocket occasionally
Many times by a credit card penetrated
And as bread once had raisins for poor children to smile, bread and cards and pockets are also nowanights,
pleasure and delight.
Men are most fortified
When approximately forty-five
Children smile, today, through pockets children cry
poem by Chrysostomos Tsiailis
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Coffee
Coffee is
Secrat of
Every day
For morning
Eneargy...
To day id'not
Take cofee
Come with haadache...
And sleep;
My body also lazy..
The coffee making
Somthig
For me...
I want to avoid
Coffee
You also try
To avoid coffee
For your feautere
Health...
Take black tea
Is better with good....! ! !
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Somebody
At a diner down on Broadway they make small talk
When she brings his eggs and fills his coffee cup
He jokes about his love life
And tells her he's about ready to give up
That's when she says "I've been there before
But keep on lookin'
Cause maybe who you're lookin' for is
Somebody in the next car
Somebody on the mornin' train
Somebody in the coffee shop
That you walk right by everyday
Somebody that you look at but never really see
Somewhere out there is somebody"
Across town in a crowded elevator
He can't forget the things that waitress said
He usually reads the paper
But today he reads a strangers face instead
It's that blue eyed girl
From two floors up
Maybe she's the one
Maybe he could fall in love with
Somebody in the next car
Somebody on the mornin' train
Somebody in the coffee shop
That you walk right by everyday
Somebody that you look at but never really see
Somewhere out there is somebody
Now they laugh about the moment that it happened
A moment they both missed until that day
When he saw his future in her eyes
Instead of just another friendly face
And he wonders why he searched so long
When she was always there
At that diner waitin' on
Somebody in the next car
Somebody on the mornin' train
Somebody in the coffee shop
That you walk right by everyday
Somebody that you look at
But never really see
Somewhere out there
Oh, somewhere out there
Is somebody
song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rush Hour Blues
He gets up early about seven oclock,
The alarm goes off and then the house starts to rock.
In and out of the bathroom by seven-o-three,
By seven-ten hes downstairs drinking his tea.
So put a shine on your shoes,
Put on your pin-striped suit.
Cant lose those early-morning-cant-stop-yawning,
Push and shoving rush hour blues.
Wife:
Darling are you ready?
Youll be late for the bus!
Star:
Dont rush me baby
While Im using my brush.
Wife:
Get a move on darling
Youre cutting it fine.
Star:
Cool it baby
Ive got plenty of time.
So put a shine on your shoes
Put on your pin-striped suit.
Cant lose those early-morning-cant-stop-yawning
Push and shoving rush hour blues.
Soon Ill be just one of the commuters
Waiting for the subway train.
Ill be rushing up the stairs
And in the elevator.
By the time that I get there
Im gonna feel like a mole in the ground
Ill be caught in the crush
Ill be pushed and be shoved,
And Ill be trying to get the subway train.
Ill be fighting with my brief case
And my umbrella,
Every morning and every night.
Some people do it every day of their lives.
Wife:
Read the paper later
Youll be caught in the queues.
Star:
Dont rush me baby
While Im reading the news.
Wife:
Darling get a move on
Youre cutting it fine.
Star:
Cool it baby
Ive got plenty of time.
A quick cup of coffee and a slice of
Toast and the star (or should we say,
Norman? ) is off to do battle with the
Rush hour queues and traffic jams.
In the rush hour queues
No one gives a damn.
No one knows where Im going to
No one knows who I am.
Im sitting in my office
In the metropolis
Im just part of the scenery,
Im just part of the machinery.
Chained to my desk on the 22nd floor,
I cant break out through the automatic door,
Id jump out the window but I cant face the drop
Im sitting in a cage with an eye on the clock.
Im ready to start paying my dues,
Ive got to lose those early-morning-cant-stop-yawning,
Push and shoving, rush hour blues.
Well Im ready to start paying my dues,
Ive got to lose those early-morning cant-stop-yawning,
Push and shoving rush hour blues.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Thrill Of Hope
you love and fail
and you want to die
the heart that loves and fails
shirks and shrinks like a drying grape to the desert sun
raisin, look at you, you have become a raisin
wrinkled fruit,
shrinked to the size minimal to the existence
desired, you dry some more, taking away all the life
possible in your skin and bone
the desert sun is cruellest
in you
so unforgiving so determined to shrink you
more than a raisin
this cruelty can turn you into a stone
the night has come
this thrill of hope comes like a comforting friend
to tell you raisin,
keep the sweetness still
for tomorrow's bitterest spill
the cruelest sun
the deadliest ever
on this desert sun the hottest sands
and you will not surrender
the hope is still there
the dream is this oasis somewhere
the bedouin and his coming camel
who knows? and when?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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