I hear a motor
In my head,
Cranking, moaning,
Turning, turning...
Nearly dead.

I have an onion
In my head;
Has it a seed
I can embed.
So I keep
Peeling, peeling...

I have a pencil
In my head,
An HB2
With blunted lead,
Scratching on
A blank cortex,
Itching to put
Thought to text.
Scratching, scratching...

I have dough
Inside my head,
Needing kneading
Just like bread.
When it's baked
Sliced and spread,
I'll serve it up
Outside my head.

Mama baked me French bread
while my Daddy beat my ***.
My buttocks throbbed red
and the tears were a river
flooding as if I was Noah,
an ark of my pain never floating.

I savored that French bread
and the crunch of the crust
that crumbled tiny bits to the carpet.
It made my tummy full and rumbling with gurgles
as if it taught me to use a bow and arrow
to shoot my Daddy right in the forehead.

Someday I'll move to France, maybe England.
I'll learn the way of living there
so that I'll let go of the pain marked on my ***
and to fed on homemade French bread
for my Mama's dead and my satisfaction hungry
and Daddy shoots me down with ******* and a gun.

I see the city lights all around me
Everyone's obscure
Ten million people each with their problems
Why should anyone care

And in Your eyes I can see
I am not just a man, vastly lost in this world
Lost in a Sea of Faces
Your body's the bread, Your blood is the wine
Because you traded Your life for mine

Sometimes my life it feels so trivial
Immersed in the greatness of space
Yet somehow you still find the time for me
It's then You show me Your love

And In Your eyes I can see
And in Your arms I will be
I am not just a man, vastly lost in this world
Lost in a Sea of Faces
Your body's the bread, Your blood is the wine
Because you traded Your life for mine

If only my one heart
Was all you'd gain from all it cost
Well I know you would have still been a man
With a reason
To willingly offer your life

I am not just a man, vastly lost in this world
Lost in a Sea of Faces
Your body's the bread, Your blood is the wine
Because you traded Your life for mine

Just one in a million faces

If there are words to be heard in this thumping
As the black turns to grey through the lighting,
If dew is drowned and white walls are tainted
As the oldest colours have all faded,
If the morning songs of the birds
Are only in our hearts to be heard,
Then teach, me morning the peace you bring!
If the beady eyed flow stream of pilgrims
If the slippers splinter and splash the water film
And brazen lights splatter the black recipient
With a hissing, oh so inconvenient,
If the keeper’s morning cigarette
And the perfume of the fresh baguette
Enlace as lovers within my nose.
If the bananas seem strangely lit,
Under the glow of white tungsten hilt
And the craving of a lazy sleep
Has laid the newspapers in such a heep.
And if radios blare the sad morning news
I do not look for the blessings of a muse,
I have found in my morning bread run.

Freshly baked
  Italian bread aroma
    permeated Sunday mornings
      in my old familiar neighborhood
      we'd inhale the heavenly scent
    drawing in deeply as we briskly
  entered the shop to buy
      a steaming hot loaf




© Carmela M. Patterson, All rights reserved.

His fingers brushed the path of her arm
From wrist to elbow to shoulder
Gradually resting at the nape of her neck

Her head lolled back
Resting its weight in his offered cupped palm
Her breath reduced to a sigh

She briefly closed her eyes
Before pulling away from his touch
And hurriedly walked off in her own direction

No words were said, no declaration,
but his outstretched hand
Spoke volumes

Well, it is the 15th of October
It is raining hard
Skies cry for us
Skies feel the same way as us

Hopefully, tears of joy

We had a fair share of
Smooth and rough
Thick and thin
Smiles and frowns

You'll be my milk
For my food
For every time I eat bread
And keep calm
If you spill yourself
I'll be there
Giving you
Harsh truths in life

Life's hard
Love's fun
Enjoy Life

Take care, Lem
Happy Birthday to you!
Love you gal!

So many years,
These hands, now old,
Have worked at the table,
kneading and rolling dough,
Testing texture,
Adding raisins,
Walnuts,
Sugar,
Sprinkling cinnamon.

Warming the oven,
Waiting for the dough
To rise,
Sliding trays onto hot racks,
Marking time....

She sits on her walker's chair
Looks up into the camera
"Oh, don't take my picture!"
But how can we not?
Adding these images
To the memories,
To the moment.

The scent of baking bread,
Cinnamon,
Raisins,
Fills the room,
With 40 years' remembering...
Time stops,
Time reverses.

The ones who stopped in...
Dad,
Brother,
Sister,
Gram,
Hired Men,
Grandchildren,
Neighbors passing by...
Some now long gone...
After all, they were
Only stopping in...

"To grab a bite"
On their way to the barn,
On their way by the farm,
On their way to fields,
On their way to the phone,
On their way to town...,
But really to stop
For cinnamon, raisins, walnuts
Twisted into fresh, hot bread,
And a cool glass of milk.