Quotes about loaf, page 2
Fellow
since you are selfish
not wanting to share
your fish
your loaf
your coffee
i decided to imagine that
you do not exist
not even air
which still occupies
space
& weight a matter of my discretion
that is
all too personal
from now on i decided to rely upon
my fish
my own loaf of bread
my own coffee
my own jumping heart in that
Mount of Olives
from now on i go my way
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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But One Loaf
When the disciples crossed the lake
With but one loaf on board;
How strangely did their hearts mistake
The caution of their Lord.
The leaven of the Pharisees
Beware, the Saviour said;
They thought, it is because he sees
We have forgotten bread.
It seems they had forgotten too,
What their own eyes had viewed;
How with what scarce sufficed for few,
He fed a multitude.
If five small loaves, by his command,
Could many thousands serve;
Might they not trust his gracious hand,
That they should never starve?
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poem by John Newton
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Oblivion
thunder and lightning, gunfire,
the stench of death...
we race towards oblivion,
cant feel, cant get our breath!
drum beat and shadows,
lost in the blinding heat.
dead poets and childrens' bodies,
rubble beneath our feet.
smoke fills the air-
trees fall, rivers run dry.
fighting over a loaf of bread,
and the last bowl of rice.
ghoulish gasoline prophets
ring the bell, count the cost...
old people put out on the streets,
now all is over, all is lost.
forgotten faces lost in the roar,
demons dance on unmarked graves.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Thinking of Holiday - Wishing our lives away
I’m on holiday – Time to play
Cannot believe it’s time
To relax and unwind
Never thought this amount of free time I will find
‘tis your turn my Manager said
Thanks for all your hard work
You deserve your break
Ensure you make the best thereof
Now I wish for time to stand still
These two weeks will be lived at a very slow pace
Cannot afford for the time to be wasted
We all work hard for our breaks
There’s work to be done at my house
What will I do – work, play or loaf
Loaf – I think is the best answer
Is this not why I’m on leave?
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poem by Michael Knight
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A Lesson In Drawing
My son places his paint box in front of me
and asks me to draw a bird for him.
Into the color gray I dip the brush
and draw a square with locks and bars.
Astonishment fills his eyes:
'… But this is a prison, Father,
Don't you know, how to draw a bird?'
And I tell him: 'Son, forgive me.
I've forgotten the shapes of birds.'
My son puts the drawing book in front of me
and asks me to draw a wheatstalk.
I hold the pen
and draw a gun.
My son mocks my ignorance,
demanding,
'Don't you know, Father, the difference between a
wheatstalk and a gun?'
I tell him, 'Son,
once I used to know the shapes of wheatstalks
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poem by Nizar Qabbani
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The Town Between the Hills
The further the little girl leaped and ran,
The further she longed to be;
The white, white fields of jonquil flowers
Danced up as high as her knee
And flashed and sparkled before her eyes
Until she could hardly see.
So into the wood went she.
It was quiet in the wood,
It was solemn and grave;
A sound like a wave
Sighed in the tree-tops
And then sighed no more.
But she was brave,
And the sky showed through
A bird's-egg blue,
And she saw
A tiny path that was running away
Over the hills to--who can say?
She ran, too.
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poem by Katherine Mansfield
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In the spirit of Rumi: 74: Bliss
and they asked him, master,
tell us about bliss…
and he smiled as if
within himself, he heard the
angels laughing at the blameless
comedy of human life
bliss, he said, is where you find it…
as, when one day, you’re so hungry
that a meal fit for gods and kings
is a loaf of warm, fresh-baked bread;
a jug of wine that doesn't ask a label;
maybe a piece of local cheese, why not,
the meal which in olden times,
was called ‘short commons’ in some tongues,
that every innkeeper would offer free
to the weary, dust-stained traveller
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sacrifice for a loaf of bread..... (...for all those who lost their life starving for food....)
My mom used to have me close and tight over her waist
and for the whole day we used to be under sun's face
I don't know why mom keep on knocking at car door's on the road
besides most of the people from inside stare at her and scold
few threw one or two small round shaped metals (coins) on the road
with a sign of relief mom grabs it without getting bored
Often she kisses me and wipes my sweat using her torn cloth
but she never care's for her sweat though she was burning hot
whenever someone grabs mom's hand with a cruel smile
I don know why she scold's them back and runs with tear filled eyes
she feeds me with a loaf of bread thinking am hungry whenever i cry
but in real I cry for her.. cos she always just drinks water and letting herself dry
At night I sleep with tears rolling down..thinking why she cares me much
for which her heart breathe says I am the only one she got this close and tight
when her fingers run on my back I can feel day by day its getting rough
her tenderness had gone cos of house works
making me stand before a broken mirror she used to say I am cute
when she hugs me I can feel she has gone too skinny and my heart goes to mute
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poem by Sebastine Humaemo
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The Disillusioned Fuse
Beneath a lamp in Spring-street, on a recent calm spring night,
I came unwittingly upon a most pathetic sight;
A sorry spectacle of woe - a limp, despondent Bloke
Who leaned against a post and sobbed and said his heart was broke!
'I've lorst me trust in 'uman men; I've done me dash ter-day;
Fer my own cobber's done me in, and guv me game away!'
'Nay, nay,' said I, 'cheer up, good Bloke. The prospect may look blue;
But Fate is wont to deal hard knocks to folk like me and you.
Remember, men have fought and won an uphill fight before,
Pray, tell me what's befallen you that you should grieve so sore.
Say, has your wife deserted you, or have you lost your tin?'
But still the Bloke said bitterly: 'Me cobber's done me in!'
'Me moniker's Deakook,' he said, 'but blokes calls me 'The Fuse.'
(Oh, 'struth! I nearly dropped me bundle when I 'eard the noos!)
I gets a job o' work to do - a real soft cop it wus,
With no foreman over me ter see 'ow much I does,
Excep' some coves they calls the Press - a noisy sorter crew
Thet allus nags an' growls at yer no matter watcher do.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Hobbie Noble
Foul fa' the breast first treason bred in!
That Liddesdale may safely say:
For in it there was baith meat and drink,
And corn unto our geldings gay.
We were stout-hearted men and true,
As England it did often say;
But now we may turn our backs and fly,
Since brave Noble is seld away.
Now Hobie he was an English man,
And born into Bewcastle dale;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
They banish'd him to Liddisdale.
At Kershope foot the tryst was set,
Kershope of the lilye lee;
And there was traitour Sim o' the Mains,
With him a private companie.
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poem by Andrew Lang
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