The Loss
Dream time, lazy and long, is over
It lasted a generation
But real life
Came and stole the colors
Home-baked bread, no more
Everything is easy, shop-bought
and taste of the average.
I know of a woman who stole
Flowers for her son’s coffin
It stood there in the snow
Grave diggers on strike.
But a bouquet doesn’t
Mind, know why they are needed
Rootless and decaying anyway
So let the mother be, she didn’t
Do anything wrong, just rearranged
Flowers bought in a shop for a grave
They had too many for her son’s
Whose no flora in the world could hide
Hide a mother’s grief
"A King deserves His full name~Christmas. Xmas is not good enough." By Poet
I love smelling the home-baked cookies,
and eating all the wonderful goodies.
The tree is decorated with balls and lights,
beneath the nativity makes one look twice.
The word "Xmas" makes me see red,
it should be dead.
The word is "Christmas" to be spread,
do not be misled.
To the king,
gifts you can bring.
BETWEEN INNINGS
Tomato and cucumber
Teatime sandwiches,
Salted Smith's potato crisps
And hot steaming tea-
With fresh home baked bread
Chocolate
Spread !
three thirty, exact
the bell
jangled
gathered my coat
foregoing
the afterschool
match
tuesday
my weekly treat
awaited on gran's
baking tray
I opened
the back door
a spicy aroma
fiiled the air
there
it was freshly baked
my
weekly share
pipng hot
drizzled with honey
moreish&
yummy
a moist
mouthwatering
confection
succulent
sultana delectation
home -baked
by she
especially
for
me
"A King deserves His full name~Christmas. Xmas is not good enough." By Poet
Can you smell the home-baked cookies,
all the wonderful goodies.
The tree is all decorated,
beneath the nativity scene has been created.
A beautiful word like Christmas,
has been cut down for business.
Xmas will never do,
the word makes me feel blue.
three thirty, exact
foregoing
the afterschool
match
tuesday
my weekly treat
awaits on gran's
baking tray
arriving there
a spicy aroma
fiiled the air
it was freshly baked
my
weekly share
bread pudding
pipng hot
drizzled with honey
moreish&
yummy
a moist
mouth watering
confection
this
sultana delectation
home -baked
in her pinny
especially& just
for
me
three thirty, exact
the bell
jangled
gathered my coat
foregoing
the afterschool
match
tuesday
my weekly treat
awaited on gran's
baking tray
I opened
the back door
a spicy aroma
fiiled the air
there
it was freshly baked
my
weekly share
pipng hot
drizzled with honey
moreish&
yummy
a moist
mouthwatering
confection
succulent
sultana delectation
home -baked
by she
especially
for
me
The chicken soup and matzoh balls
Are ready for the pot.
The hard-boiled eggs are in the fridge.
(We never eat them hot.)
The items for the Seder plate
All wait for their debut,
With my homemade charoses.
(Google if you have no clue.)
The chicken cutlets, farfel-topped
And stuffing made from same
Will share the table with some veggies,
Sautéed to acclaim.
Of course, there’ll be gefilte fish
With horseradish (so hot!)
And grape juice or sweet Kosher wine,
Which really hits the spot.
With home-baked brownies and
Some cookies vying for dessert
Along with lotsa matzoh,
There’s an “Oy, I’m stuffed!” alert.
But all the food is not, to me,
The most important part -
It’s sharing these traditions with
Those closest to my heart.
It flows like a candy in the mouth
It strikes like lightning through the night
It strives like hunger
It matures like a red wine
It is not a hobby nor a chore
A necessity it is
It is not acquired nor accessible
A blessing it is
It is rough like a wave in the sea
It is smooth like a running water
It is uplifting like a home baked bread
It is adorable like yourself
It erases the pain
Like a fairy tale story
It opens the inner self
Like an opportunity rushing in
The delicious odor of home-baked bread
instantly takes me to mum's kitchen door,
I'm in heaven, though not a word is said.
Kneading the dough, she'd punch it down once more,
calling for three risings, she'd give it four.
I can never resist that fresh-baked smell,
just one whiff and once more, I'm a small boy,
there's no smell like it; I could always tell.
It's forever linked to a time of joy,
a nostalgic quirk, memories employ.
The instant its unique aromas waft
up my nostrils, with that heavenly scent,
I envision my mum's hugs, firm yet soft.
Going to the bakery's an event
that brings back flashes of mom's French accent.
(English- Quintain)
2/18/2018
Yes, I’ll admit I am that crazy cat lady,
mother of my beautiful Persian Sadie.
She’s sassy and brassy and full of spice,
naughty in the morn, but at night she's nice.
When I leave her alone I must think twice!
I dress her up in fine linens during cold days,
take professional photos on special holidays.
She purrs and I stop what I am doing instantly,
probably why my mind is filled with insanity.
I gently rub her pretty paws constantly.
I style her silver fur the way she likes it,
and she never listens when I ask her to sit.
Home baked kitty treats are made with love,
she’s rough like a lion, then gentle as a dove.
Definitely sent from Heaven up above.
Yes, I’ll admit I am that crazy cat lady,
guess that’s just the way God has made me.
I spoil her most when she feels the worst,
always putting her pretty lil’ kitty face first.
Can’t tell if I’m blessed or if I’m cursed!
Crazy Cat Lady: Rhyme Poetry Contest
Line Gauthier
January 3rd, 2018
The metro man is out! Smooth skin,
They say, is now no longer in.
The sexy man has facial hair,
Some stubble, or a beard. His flair
Is outdoor rugged, manly charm.
He wears tattoos on hairy arm.
He loves his plaid, wears flannel shirt
And jeans, and sturdy boots with dirt.
Instead of going to the gym
He gives his apple tree a trim.
He loves environment and Earth,
Drinks fair trade coffee, finds it worth
To make organic, home baked goods,
Envisions living in the woods.
If he has nothing else to do
He goes out for a microbrew,
Opens the beer can with his knife
And dreams of self-sufficient life.
7/10/2017
I mailed out home-baked cookies;
The recipients got crumbs.
Though really, when you bite a cookie,
That’s what it becomes.
It wasn’t my intention,
(I knew not what I was doing
When I wrapped and packed the cookies)
But I saved them all some chewing.
Now of course, the thought’s what matters
And the taste, I think, was yummy.
Still, despite all of my efforts,
I sent gifts considered crummy.
You say you got the blues
well I've got them too,
so lets go down to
the Blues Diner
where everyone wears
blue suede shoes,
their decor is shaded
all kinds of colors,
from turquoise to
indigo sky blue,
they even got the
Blues Brothers or someones
Mother or Pastor to wait on you,
their menu is full of
nothing but blue
plate specials,
which are all comfort foods,
from Moms home baked
apple pie to her chicken soup,
you let out a comforting sigh
and you get a comforting look,
feels like you are back at home
while you sit in your comfortable booth,
and as you are dining,
you hear Kenny G's
saxophone whining,
which enters your ears
and fills the the blues atmosphere
with tissues everywhere
in case you feel like crying,
so if you feel down and out,
you've got nothing to lose,
come down to the Blues Diner one day,
if you so choose.
Home Baked Bread
The aroma of manna’s heavenly scent.
By: Emile Pinet
Related Poems