Best Bread Poems
Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Bread
( First of Three Poem Trilogy )
I
I've no problem with bardolatry fans
their barmecide and oft humorous rants.
Give me golden words not found in empty cans,
not bawbee's from those with sad, empty pants.
Truly I enjoy, bright golden attic wit,
creators of canorous verse that soars.
Those I may share bumbo and be a big hit
not with callithumpians that so sorely bores.
Nor do I fancy to become a bichon frise,
beholding to those with comminatory ways.
Finding some will cut you off at the knees
as a criticaster dariole for fugacious pay.
Floccinaucinihilipilification,
judged by Flews that chatter in morbid tune.
Give me saudade and a sandy beach vacation
with very little scrippage in the month of June.
Aye, no snollygoster soucouyant will do,
for my heart and soul begs sun-grazing songs.
Not a superbious umbriferous critic or two,
with the poet's soul this body truly belongs.
Seeking no uroboros legacy my ink doth stain
as a soulcatcher with a selkie as a muse.
Alone, in this rawky terrain my life will remain
for solitude and honor my poet's heart doth choose.
I've no problem with bardolatry fans
their barmecide and oft humorous rants.
Give me golden words not found in empty cans,
not bawbee's from those with sad, empty pants.
Truly I enjoy, bright golden attic wit,
creators of canorous verse that soars.
Those I may share bumbo and be a big hit,
not with callithumpians that so sorely bores.
Robert J. Lindley, 3-21-2018
Rhyme
Note:
Make of this what you will,
I give thus and surely shall send no bill
Yet in my poet's heart my soul oft grieves
for the Autumn colors not the decaying leaves
For the heart that yearns to write and truly give
and the mortal soul that writes to live
With inked symbols and a mind tired of toil
wading through worlds filled with pride and hidden turmoil
I write with purpose to give to others, not to take
tho' oft my poet's heart over burning coals some gladly rake.
Dear poet friends departed, as I ponder
the things I learned about you and the way
our time together made my heart grow fonder,
there seems so very little I can say.
As poets sometimes do, I’ll use a metaphor.
Your friendship was a lovely kind of bread -
a sprouted whole grain I like even more
when it’s toasted warm and then with butter spread.
Notes to each other warmed the bread! I got to know
the person underneath the poetry.
Your poems were splendid, but our special glow
of friendship was the butter spread deliciously.
Every kind of bread has its own flavor.
The taste of joy you brought me can’t be measured.
Each friendship is unique, and I’ll always savor
memories of you with all my others treasured.
Dedicated to Dave Austin and to other poet friends I met along the way who since have passed away.
Sept. 3, 2017
French Bread
Your index finger
draws figure-eights
in the dusting of flour
on the counter top
where you lean
quite casually,
watching as I make
a loaf of French bread.
Then, laughing a bit,
you insert your powdery finger
into my right ear.
I’m startled...
I was so very focused
on assembling ingredients
that I wasn’t aware
of my surroundings,
at least not enough to see
your finger inching its way
toward me. I laugh too,
realizing the intimacy
of your floured finger.
Somehow,
I don’t believe
your interest is in my baking,
but I proceed on to
proofing the yeast
in warm water,
watching carefully
for the always-shocking
bloom’s suggestion
of the possible,
our palates fine-tuned
to the perfume
of earth and damp places.
Thus begins the slow tango
of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salt-taste,
elements bound together
by the slippery
until there is inseparable oneness,
deep warmth in the joining,
the inevitable rising,
swelling seeking relief.
But not yet, oh no...
First there must be a pause,
a relaxation of the engorged,
consummation delayed,
then the pressure of my hands,
pressing-on,
pressing and shaping and pressing.
We sip our wine,
talk quietly, anticipating
the inevitable increase,
saying between us,
“We’re ready for the final phase:
the heat that binds,
coalesces the disparate ingredients,
yielding at last to the
inevitable delectable finish.”
Later, cooling as it always must,
we can’t resist
nibbling still-warm bits
dipped in melted butter,
feeding them to each other,
transcending words,
finding new ways of seeing
one another.
Written November 23, 2013
for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
Joe Lunchbucket stands on the bread line
The plant closure left him not one dime
So handouts he seeks
Like dogs beg for treats
As senators toast to the good times
Entry for Deborah Guzzi's limerick contest
My Mothers home made white bread
warm from the oven
thickly sliced and smothered with
rich, creamy butter!
Baking scents the air
Comfort food
Bliss!
For contest 'Eat Me'
8th place
My mother starts moaning, with another one due.
She won't live to see, as she struggles to wheeze.
I never knew famine would produce skies so blue.
But no need for toilets, I forget how to squeeze.
Searing sun inflates skulls into baroque balloons.
One whining dog, dying , from a surfeit of fleas.
I squint as my sister beats a roach with a spoon.
She's holding out hope, with a morsel to tease.
My eyes can still water from the feces and trash,
tossed up by vultures to release fresh disease.
I dig up what moist dirt I can pound into mash.
An old man collapses, not a single one grieves.
What passes for corpses- baking black as they pop.
Now the flies feel the heat and retreat to the trees.
My brother keeps wailing and I wish he would stop.
My breathing grows shallow in the oven fed breeze.
If it helps each of you,
I am down on my knees.
I beg you.
Hand me one piece of bread.
Would you, please?
These are my bread crumbs,
scattered on the brumous trail
should I ever turn around
to view the path I've traveled
and see only a myriad of trees.
These are my bread crumbs.
I drop them knowing full well they may be
eaten by ravenous rodents and raccoons
who perceive the value of bread crumbs
differently than I do.
These are my bread crumbs -
carefully marking the whens
and wheres of my life,
though I know your path will be elsewhere
and you will mark it as you see fit.
These poems are my bread crumbs.
written 9 June 2016
I liked the soft songs sung by Bread,
a group whose lyrics filled my head,
for each day from my radio
I’d hear their music sweetly flow.
At night, relaxing on my bed,
I liked the soft songs sung by Bread.
I’d sing along while listening to
songs like “If” and “Make It With You.”
To “Baby I’m a Want You” I
would think of one I loved and sigh.
When by romance my heart was led,
I liked the soft songs sung by Bread.
Who wrote those lovely lyrics sung?
I didn’t care, for I was young
with many years before me spread.
I liked the soft songs sung by Bread!
Inspired by Michael J. Falotico's Contest:
What Songwriter or writers Inspire you????
*David Gates is the songwriter and the originator
of the group called Bread, most famous for its soft
romantic songs of the early 70's. To know more about
him, please click on "About Poem."
like snow from heaven
god’s sweetest
manna-festation
Oct. 10, 2018 for Maureen McGreavy's Baker's Dozen Poetry Contest
No Bread. Why?
By Dane Smith-Johnsen
Big round dark eyes staring at forgetfulness.
Eating nothingness, feeling helplessness.
Scavenging the streets for morsels finding hopelessness.
Foraging to fill a swollen abdomen full of emptiness.
Holding death securely within mothers’ bleakness.
Too hungry to show love and too hungry to cry-
But not too hungry to die-
Why?
Mankind’s blindness and heaped up forgetfulness, sighs.
Iam Hungry...Thirst is uncontrollable
It nearly kills me,Cries a poor one..
A dirty wasteland that is his home
but its a heaven for him,His mom
sick in the bed,He is handicapped.
Worms are eating his skinny body,NOBODY to help him!
He is helpless...he want to live
But waiting for death,Help him god i pray to you....
Anything but bread
I bumped into a man named Fred
And listened to each word he said
A story I was soon to dread
For all he talked about was bread
In detail he spoke every slice
Some made of wheat and some of rice
There’s cinnamon and sugar spice
And sourdough he mentioned twice
Banana nut he found so sweet
The perfect early morning treat
With coffee as you take a seat
To bake it though, a major feat
He chronicled each rim of crust
A lighter tan or darker rust
Or sprinkled with a pepper dust
I guess somehow he thought he must
When then he changed and featured toast
I think it’s what he liked the most
I can’t believe how he could boast
He’d tell his tale from coast to coast
I told him I was running late
I had a very special date
A meeting and it couldn’t wait
I headed out beyond the gate
I started walking down the trail
He didn’t stop, I heard him wail
“Be careful of the loaves on sale,
you’ll usually find that they are stale”
Into a café I then fled
And thought about that man named Fred
When asked to order, this I pled
“Just bring me anything but bread”
Inspired by Maureen McGreavy’s Baker’s Dozen poetry contest
That’ll teach me to read the rules first. : )
Funny the things that stick with you
like gum beneath the table
as the years go by.
My brains goes as far back as three solar circuits;
big bro put the Wonder bread in the microwave
(package and all) --- sparks went a'flying.
And poor Mother, what would she say,
when the whole house burnt away?
(corner time for sure)
And back then, turning the big "one oh"
was a big deal --- it's all the kids talked about.
Mother would make me PB&Js
(crust ON --- she weren't no fool)
And that little pat on the head used to make me giddy:
a reward for my maturity,
eating all the greens --- every bit.
But by thirteen I was quite done with it.
I'll make my own lunch, thank you very much
(sure you know that's a lie,
teens are notorious for their laziness)
But putting Dijon and turkey
between two slices of Dave's Killer Good Seed,
you think you got it made
with all of life figured out.
And speaking of "seed" ... what the hell?
Shouldn't I have my own runts by now,
running baby cheetah-like between my legs,
with a wifie to burn the toast on my way to work
(or is that just stereotypical nonsense?)
Perhaps by the time I'm thirty
being a spiritual loner like Paul won't be so bad;
spreading the good news when I can,
but I lack the humility:
a wheat by words,
a tare by actions.
And maybe I won't make it to my winter years.
But if that happens I won't waste one slice of forever
moping about time lost.
Rather I'll indulge in the True Wonder Bread
with the Man Upstairs -
without the fluff - but add the glow
and guaranteed to last eternity.
Literally.
PS: Not actually a new one, but something I wrote six-ish years ago.
slicing melodies,
guitar man
butters up a song
--
10-6-18
Freshly baked every morning,
Even at noon and in the evening,
In different shapes and colors-
Some dense, some light
Some like desert manna
Some flat, some leavened
Some long and whole
Or sliced in small pieces
Some cooled, some hot
So soft and then some hard
With such Heavenly aromas
Served at the Master's Table
Of chairs, booths, benches
And cushions for tired knees,
Healing is the children's bread.
They hunger no more for worldy feasts.
Even their dogs eat the fallen crumbs,
Sometimes portions from their hands;
As the children drink Living Water,
They thirst no more for bitter fountains
And sources of a soul's diseases.
On earth the Master tabernacles
With us for many days of Heaven.
Within without we are healed
And given our daily bread.