Best Scone Poems
It’s Jubilee tea at my auntie’s care home
Aunt Phyllis’s hair could do with a comb
But she doesn’t mind and puts on her hat
The queen won’t be there’s no need to flap
The table is laden with all sorts of food
Ada burps loudly she’s so blinking rude
The cucumber sandwich crusts are cut off
My hair won’t stay curly I hear Mable scoff!
Gerald’s secreted cream scones on his lap
I’d not touch them now he’s a dirty old chap
There’s a heated debate is it scone or scon
I do not comment as they have all gone!
Old Edgar demands jelly and ice cream
It’s not on the menu he begins to scream
So he gets everyone to bang their tea cups
They’re acting like kids and not like grown ups
Along comes the matron she says ‘Dearie me,
You are spoiling our Platinum jubilee tea’
Edgar gives her some lip - he’s adept at verbals
He shout’s ‘Matron you just remind me of Goebbels’
Matron is livid, she turns puce in the face
Edgar’s sent to his room, as he’s in disgrace
He is reprimanded for causing such a scene
At the jubilee party for our wonderful Queen.
06/02/22
Merlin's wand brushes the sky,
As the sun rises with a groan.
The caw of crows are harbingers
Of brightening days tomorrow.
Full rightly is the special one
Seated upon the Stone of Scone.
Prayers bring full circle ancestors,
Whose Book of Charms they borrow.
In four more days is Christmas Tide.
Here Nature waits.
The tree alive.
These words are shunned
By Rome's contrive.
This good day gives each a gift
To the person by his side.
Sealed now with song of return,
May Earth, in wealth, be well-supplied.
In four more days is Christmas Tide.
Relaxing in my garden chair blessedly alone,
with my cup of soothing chai and Scottish scone.
No TV, computer, iPod, kith or kin,
my crossword puzzle I shall now begin.
So, an eight-word name for a Mayan sink?
A quika--I didn't even have to think!
As the sun clears the rolling hills afar
I'm done, a crossword superstar!
My Corgi Hal licks my face in congratulations,
as the sun-lit moor beckons her invitation.
Such a simple, sweet, tranquil pleasure,
Sunday morning crosswords, my priceless treasure.
2/14/23
Candles in the wind
Time blows within our hearts
when young ones leave our nest
we love the memories, but feel a little less
life is not a dream, it's a test
Waking, to the calls of morn
alone, a coffee and with buttered scone
on the windowsill I sit
observing the empty nest
they've flown away, is natures way
my heart yearns for time to never stray
I wish the phone would ring, does anyone care
if only there would be someone calling
whose caress would say "I'm there"
When love is all you ever knew
being alone tears and burns all through
My candle flickers, it's wick softly glows
while i watch them fly to where the current blows
be safe little mourning doves, I wait for you at home
No one is more famous than Allo Wishis
Who, with his bat, broke all 108 stitches
Exposing a yarn ball, the leather fell fast
Causing the fans, to rise, with a gasp
Back in a corner lot, below Hamby Square
Was a sixteen year old pitcher, Billy Baer
Had a bad habit, of breaking wind
Because of the force, he’d put on his spin
He’d raise his knee, to meet his chest
Then split the distance, with leg abreast
Stepping off, to shoot the curve,
as the ball would fire, from Billy’s nerve
Up then down, he’d send them all back
To the dugout they flew, every inning in fact
Till at last as the sky, turned dark royal blue
From out of the dugout, he came, tapping his shoe
Score was tied, with one more strike to throw
It was Allo Wishis, who succeeded a blow
Breaking the pitch, and ball with ease
Bringing the pitcher, right down to his knees
Up on the shoulders, of everyone there
Rode Allo Wishis, and Billy Baer
Three hours after, everyone had gone home
They received a call, that the ball, was a scone
Seems that the bakers son, went home to eat
Taking his ball, and leaving the treat
But that didn’t matter, a ball or a tart
They play again tomorrow, well, at least until dark
Well here we are in Bonnie Scotland
the new year celebrations are past
winter is increasingly showing it's bite
these cold winds really carry a fierce blast
Being up in the highlands for a break
but walking down town snow begins to fall
looks so lovely all over with fields so white
the beauty of winter surrounds us all
Then the snow begins to fall really heavy
the umbrella is up along with a heavy coat
trying to be warm find a nice cafe for a coffee
along with nice fruit scone and jam its so remote
This country can really be so barren
especially in the countryside, hills so tall
the winds are sore across one's face
wish to pass hoping spring over the wall
It's cold! it's snow! it's winter!
so darkening moods within one's head
please spring hurry up and come
it's so tempting to stay in one's bed
(I spent a few days at Crieff in the Scottish Highlands a couple of weeks ago. )
Your pen is poised, eager to create
The paper lays ready, it can’t wait
Searching your mind for inspiration
Emotion soars with anticipation…
Looking around, you search for a spark
You hear the sweet singing of a lark
Out your window, squirrels are playing
And leaves flutter on branches swaying…
The smell of coffee, a breakfast scone
An urge to write like you’ve never known
As you sit quietly in your soft chair
There must be inspiration somewhere…
Coffees gone, and no more muffin
Alas, I’ll admit… “I got nothin’”
Come and climb these
Broad bony branches and
Have tea on this tree
with me,
Let's talk our hearts out
Into the poems unsung.
Sleep silently singing in my sizzly eyes,
Sleep might snap with some pumpkin chai,
The sun is seeping in my sulky bones,
Soon the milky moon will mysteriously be alone,
Here, have some squishy scone
While the sun is setting sleekly,
I reckon we should have tea weekly.
Sandalwoody sultry summer,
Hyacinth, hibiscus and hummers,
Poppies, primroses and periwinkles,
The night in esoteric eyes twinkle,
Starling singing on a starless night,
No gloom, a moon , no light,
In this sordid slumber silence,
I can hear your eyes speak.
Let's tell each other
All our hearts hanker
To say,
Drink tea and recite
The poems and make
No delay,
I'll have chamomile tea,
I'm not Mrs. Bennet
But it'll calm my nerves,
You like your tea with herbs,
Spearmint, rosemary and thyme,
And make sure the poem rhymes.
I never round-or-flatly disagreed
with Johnny Appleseed,
so red, so crisp, so...quite.
Never in the dawning, evening dawn
did I fly up or s*it upon...John James Audobon
in the evening, morning night.
Ah, I'd never be rude or eat the food
of the pulchritudinous Johnny B Goode.
How could I?
And why would I harm
odorless, flightless John Barleycorn
or give him Spanish flea?
I'd sail the vast untarted sea,
or play drums obstreperously,
with that flapjack, John Paul Jones,
but what kind of pancake would I be
if I revealed I was bigger than, by three,
that wunderkind, John Holmes?
Would I ask Johnny on the Spot
for a rag to wipe my snot?
Unindubitably!
Would I surprise him with mascara,
or do the backstroke in marinara
like a mushroom in a noodly sea?
I'd be on time for Johnny Come Lately,
and eat bon bons till I sat, oblately,
under the midday moon.
I'd tell Johnny Carson, "That's a wrap"
and neatly wrap my dog's crap
up with cellophoone.
What about John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,
that diaphanous, novelty hit?
Would I blast him with the guns of Navarone
under a sky that sticks like the glue
of a colorless, humid, hue?
Would I deny him a raisin scone?
No!
When Johnny Comes Marching In gets home,
I'd serve him grits and iridescent cornpone,
and sit him on my knee.
Then I give him a lavender shout,
and set up an appointment for my gout,
superciliously.
Would I ask John the Baptist to convert?
No, I'd offer him some camembert
and crackers!
And the sprightly John the Apostle?
I'd offer him a waffle.
and crackers
(for dessert).
Oh John Keats, dear clapboard poet - you left too soon,
before I could offer you a macaroon,
or anything that leaves a crumb.
There's a reason I asked you for tea.
Give me a sign. Tell me honestly,
do you think I'm a doofus - dopey, dippy, daft and dumb?
Would I pull the leg or make fun...or steal a tart, chocolate eclair, pineapple upside down cake or cinnamon bun
from the beetle, John Winston Lennon?
Nope, I imagine I wouldn't, in truth,
but I'd surely pull the tooth
of the weevil John Wilkes Booth
under the midnight sun.
My wife has left me for an adverb.
I don't know which one it is!
Is it slowly,quickly, nearly?
Life should not be like a quiz.
She told me that she "nearly" loved me,
When "dearly" was what I had hoped.
Life is full of lost illusions...
How do we 'reaved lovers cope
I think I should have kept it secret,
For now I sit and sadly grieve.
Do you think my wife is cruel?
What a strange excuse to leave!
Would she leave me for a pronoun?
Would she leave for a full stop?
Would I leave you for a quote mark?
Would I fall down in a black dot?
Come back,darling for I love you.
I have learned I must take care.
I will go for grammar lessons.
I am sure I can learn flair!
We can write a poem together,
You can choose the topic,dear.
I will hold my pen and write for
They say true love drives out fear.
Did I fear her? Did I love her?
Was she worthy of my heart?
Did she dislike my hairy nostrils?
Was that why we had to part?
Come back Mary,come back Mavis.
Come back Sunny, come back Sue
Without my wife I feel so lonely.
What is a left man to do?
Shall I vote for love or money?
Shall I throw my self away?
Shall I get a new agenda?
Will a new life start today?
Come back Miriam,come back Sarah!
Where have all the women gone?
Come back Rivka with your grammar.
I can feed you a cheese scone.
I work hard and I can cook.
I put fresh linen on the bed.
I can pay my bills in full.
But without my Love,my heart is dead
Jam roly poly, treacle sponge
And sticky toffee pudding head the top of my list
But apple pie, rhubarb crumble
Or a decent cheesecake are hard to resist
Banana splits, eclairs or brownies
Dumplings, nougat, cheese board or mousse
Crème brûlée. Fruit cocktail. Yoghurt
Serve it up and set me loose!
Rice pudding, Christmas pudding
Let me say it loud and clear
Summer pudding, Eve's pudding
Figgy pudding - bring it here
Cottage pudding, Diplomat pudding
Pancakes served throughout the year
Plum pudding, mango pudding
Put it on a plate and cheer
Hasty pudding, Saxon pudding
Vanilla pudding, chocolate pud
Yorkshire pudding filled with treacle
Make winter evenings warm and good
Sussex Pond pudding, sweet biscotti
Semolina (if that counts?!)
Panna cotta, profiteroles
Gâteaux. Meringues in any amount
I guess spotted dick is a bit of a worry
But to bread and butter pudding, I say "bring it on!"
I could plan on a flan, or a lardy cake
Or butter with glee my scone or scon'
Mince pies, cobblers, baklavas, strudels
Loaves and pastries - all tell a story
Even blancmange has a heritage
To match or beat our knickerbocker glory
There's fruit tarts, jam tarts, custard tarts, egg tarts
Milk tarts, cheese tarts, butter tarts too
Tarts from Manchester, Liverpool and Bakewell
French tarts, Jamaican tarts - to name but a few
Buns from Chelsea, cakes from Eccles
Wafers and muffins from all over the place
Doughnuts filled with jam or chocolate
Made to squirt on your shoulder or face
Strawberries & Cream, Eton Mess
Artic rolls and brandy snaps
Trifles should always be trifled with
If laced with sherry - it's a perfect nightcap
Sorbets leave the palate tingling
Fritters fritter your cares away
Waffles and crêpes warm the spirit
And sundaes are perfect for every day
So, whatever we may call them -
Be it puddings, sweets, desserts or afters
They taste best when shared with company
Served with a spoon, a smile and laughter
Sunrise aglow, she plucks a flower from his garden,
in a stealth hush, she sees him serene this warden.
Meanders even closer upon a sequestered creek
She imagines a brush of his lips against her cheek.
When a curious corgi barks and ignites a blush
Her stroll again will end, amongst the grass so plush,
verdant with an aura a somber amber green,
‘tis the first time this intruder has ever been seen.
Relaxing in my garden chair blessedly alone,
with my cup of soothing chai and Scottish scone.
No TV, computer, iPod, kith or kin,
my crossword puzzle I shall now begin.
So, an eight-word name for a Mayan sink?
A quika—I didn't even have to think!
As the sun clears the rolling hills afar
I'm done, a crossword superstar!
My Corgi Hal licks my face in congratulations,
as the sun-lit moor beckons her invitation.
Such a simple, sweet, tranquil pleasure,
Sunday morning crosswords, my priceless treasure.
He was out of Woodie Wonder by the stallion Sunset Hue,
A freak thought breeding purists, who would surely end up glue.
For greys were so unfashionable he'd never get a start,
But this colt was a fighter with a truly valiant heart.
His origins were New South Wales, but sold up Queensland way,
'Twas Pippos, Coorey, Bishop and McMicking bought the grey.
A Goondiwindi syndicate, who gave the colt his name;
Gunsynd ... the punter's darling ... who raced his way to fame.
He'd never be a Peter Pan, a Carbine or Phar Lap,
No Tullock or a Galilee, but still a gallant chap.
Bill Whelow was his trainer and John Edmonds rode The Grey,
Till finally at Eagle Farm this colt was on his way.
It was the Hopeful Stakes that day in nineteen sixty-nine,
Young Gunsynd flashed from thirteenth place to cross the winner's line.
His trademark was his courage, his will to want to win
And how he made the crowds all stand to cheer the grey horse in.
They loved The Grey's performances; a showman through and through
And though he never always won they saw him as true blue.
Before and after races, he would play the press and crowd
By standing to attention while they clapped and cheered aloud.
With twelve wins to his credit Tommy Smith was now the chap,
Who trained Gunsynd while Langby won the Epsom Handicap.
He was the punter's darling, for he never squibbed a race,
That's why the folk all loved him, for he never did lose face.
The white and purple colours were well known at ev'ry track,
Australia's best known jockeys sat astride old Gunsynd's back.
The likes of Olsen, Higgins and young Langby rode The Grey
And flashed to blist'ring finishes, he raced no other way.
In over fifty starts Gunsynd had twenty-nine great wins;
Some eight point five times second placed, but took it on the chin.
Six thirds and unplaced in ten starts throughout those grand five years,
His name was up there with the best who'd raced to great careers.
Though sold to stud in New South Wales, Kia Ora down near Scone,
Queenslanders all adopted him and saw him as their own.
He'd put old Gundy on the map and right down to this day
Gunsynd is still remembered as The Goondiwindi Grey.
All day long I dreamed of you
Lying there so temptingly
I couldn’t wait to hold you
Just the thought of you filled me with desire
I wanted you oh so badly…
And then I opened that door
The door that separated me from you
To my horror I found you had gone
You had simply vanished into thin air
Lying there in your place was a note
I slowly scanned the lilac paper
It read …
I’m sorry mum I couldn’t resist that last cream scone…
I slammed the fridge door shut so hard it nearly fell off its hinges!
06~09~15
Submitted to Mystery Contest Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron
I made some scones – the best you’ve ever seen
Make dough - perfect to keep your fingernails clean!!!
Note to hubby - I used a nailbrush BEFORE I baked yesterday lol
Contest:- Epigram
Sponsor:- Silent One
22nd November 2015