"bakery" poems
When the bakery was bought,
For the sake of novelty, uniqueness, etc,
Called it ‘bitter’
Laddu was bitter
Jalebi ws bitter
Cherry was bitter
Bitter, bitter
What bitterness, said people
The servant got bitter
Sir,
There are no bill collectors to turn away
Flies mock
She at home
Serves bitterness
While sharing the alienation
Which novelty and uniqueness supplied,
With eatables,
Biscuit said
Let’s add the salt of tears,
Eatables will not sell
If bitter
‘Please give me something old”
When the sound of a beggar
Intervened
Myself, who stood for novelty and uniqueness
Told him ‘ you can have this bakery’
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
Beards
Life is a bakery ;
And men are the cakes in that bakery.
In that same bakery,
beards are frosting.
You know what cakes without icing are called in the
bakery of life?
Boring.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
Come and Look, Come and See,
What is at the Bakery!
Dazzling, Lovely, Amazing too,
Something Special Just for You.
Delicious Cookies, Cakes, and Pies,
Tons of Delicacies Before Your Eyes.
The Scent of Sugar All Around,
Goodies, Donuts, and Breads Abound.
Sweet Tooth Calling, "Give Me More,"
Starts in When You Hit the Door.
Cravings Growing for the Treats,
Have to Have a Load of Sweets.
Absolute Bliss as You Give in,
To that Tempting Sugar Sweet Sin.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
I never really wanted to have an agent
Just one day I met this lady and she starting arranging my gigs and stuff
She gave me this kelly green handkerchief and told me to wear it in my left back pocket at all times
I have followed her orders religiously and now own more laser discs than all my friends combined
Do you know where the Trinidadian bakery is?
I'm supposed to meet the paperboy there and give him this pencil case
May the black cats of January be afraid to cross your path
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:11 AM UTC
Ignore the itch you can't scratch deep in the palm of your hand.
Ignore the morning alarms, just sleep right through them.
Ignore the sound of the coffee bubbling over, let it spill.
Ignore the toothpaste stain on your new shirt.
Ignore the voicemail notification, who listens to them anyway?
Ignore the mailman at the mailbox, he didn't really say hello.
Ignore the stare of the drunk man in your lobby.
Ignore the morning brigade of children running behind you.
Ignore the damage your heels are doing to your feet.
Ignore the whistle from the man half your height.
Ignore the traffic light, the cars are going the other way.
Ignore the loud honk from the trucker as he speeds off.
Ignore the liquor store, and the desire to take a shot.
Ignore the "Baby let me talk to you," from the **** wannabe.
Ignore the text message, don't let them know you have a phone number.
Ignore the cigarette smoke invading your lungs.
Ignore the baby boy getting slapped by his mother.
Ignore the bakery with the tres leches cake you like.
Ignore the bank, you're probably broke.
Ignore the homeless woman, she just wants to buy drugs.
Ignore the Facebook notification, just another ALS challenge.
Ignore the time, you're at work early.
Ignore the habits, listen to your conscience and speak loudly and clearly.
You are so much more than ignorant.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
Ladies on Water Street,
with coffee grounds
under your fingernails,
You are the reason
that I leave my bed before Ten
In the morning.
Some days I want to ask
if you’ve ever read Marquez
but I am far too shy and
you are far too
beautiful and
I think too much and
you are probably
Too Straight.
But while you are pouring that espresso:
Allow me (just this once)
To wade only ankle- deep.
Allow me (forgive me),
I know its marginalization;
You are a human and a person,
But I must give way to temptation:
let me engage in some
Innocent objectification
(an oxymoron, I'm aware),
as I sip an Americano
through dumb lips
and watch the little
movements of your hips.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
last spring,
in firenze,
i met a girl -
we'll call her julia
(because that's her name) -
this one strange night
behind a secret bakery
that's open at midnight.
i was standing
on a small street
in italy
surrounded
by drunken chaos,
the smell of pastries,
and beauty.
how will i ever
forget her?
why would i ever
even try?
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
Progress is wasted here
the high street draped in uniform glass fronts
why shouldn't we play our bugle
to rebuke this shard ?
yet in a corner there's still a market street
refusing the final nail,
there's a shoe, bakery, cycle and jewellery shop,
in our hearts we will
wear pride to headline the clarion call
and shed anger at being accused of,
carrying congress with the past
at our coffee stall.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
A delicious little bakery
is only down our street
the smell of baking bread
well.. it really is a treat
It is run by Mrs ******
she is just so very charming
but she is a little clumsy
it's really quite alarming
You see,
she does her best to make the cakes
and bake such tasty bread
but the currants just go everywhere
and in the pies instead
And in the Cornish pasties
there is very often nuts
and in the fruit pie filling
bacon and beef cuts
But she seems to be quite fancy
well there has been many rumours
of her and the deliveryman
well... she flashes him her bloomers
But she really is so charming
poor soul.. she has the worst mishaps
like when she inadvertently
displayed her finest baps
And no one will forget
when in came a group of nuns
all asking some tea cakes
but out popped her Chelsea buns
But she really is a riot
you can't help but love her so
she give you all you ask for
in a bargain box 'to go'
And she takes care of her customers
and gives out treats to sample
you'll never go home hungry
you'll end up with quite a armful
So if you get a moment
take a stroll just down our street
to Mrs Dingle's bakery
she really is a treat.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
It follows my movements
behind a seashell,
every few steps
it drops the cup
over it's shoulder
prolifically it shifts
positions, so do I,
as slight of hand.
If the secret of love
is buried in his armpit,
and it is, maniacally.
Tho' not the kind
you buy at the movies,
of optimist derringers,
smoking guns.
Still,
flight begins when
the sun goes down
it shifts euphemistic trees
like shadow puppets
into walls of passion,
makes bulimia dreams
of doughnut holes,
something sweet
craving bakery counters
and bagels take up
the lonesome place
still ringing in our ears,
my ears,
placards hanging lobes
of the emotionally distressed,
handicapped dangle
I can't move my tongue
...again.
But, they still hear love
whisper their name
just before
the dawn becomes.
Sunny rising sonic
boom that scatters the birds
all into synchronized
sign language.
We strain,
to hear them sing anthems
over the roof tops,
it makes us happy to hear
every time,
just one more time.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
my cousin liked to have breakfast
at an open air café, with his fiancée, on Fridays
the owner knew she loved French breads, having
been schooled at the Sorbonne
the bakery made them at his behest
he would tell his staff to keep one for her
and to bring a bag when served;
she always saved half for later
rush hour was madder than usual
that night, until the bombs blasted
and brought the synovial silence that comes
in the wake of wondering, what
has happened?
the sirens screamed soon enough
and my cousin smelled the smoke
cordite, yes, but burnt baklava,
Maamoul as well
his fiancée came to him that night
watched and waited to hear if anyone they knew
was lost, their hands clasped tight, breaths shallow,
in the languid hush after the city slowed
to its mournful rest
the sun rose, the skies clear, crisp, to their surprise,
and they went to the café, where the owner apologized
for the wicked, wicked world, and for not having baguettes
after the bakery died
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
When the baker bakes the baked bakery bakes,
Do they also bake the recipe required?
What's the recipe for a poem?
Does the poet pen the poetical poem poetically to pen their pretty poems?
What temperature do you bake ink-
To make it a bestseller?
How much baking powder do you bake into a page
To perfect its pagey turny pageiness?
What kinda poem crust does a poem become encrusted in?
Should it crumble?
Should it rhyme?
Should it cry a melodrama so dramatic that drama llamas like “that too much drama!”?
Wait,
Where did drama llama come into this?
Who else is in the kitchen cooking this poem pie?
Is the poem pie perfectly pied in its drama crust?
WAIT-
we forgot about the filling…
What do you put in a poetical poem pie?
Should I peach the pied poem?
The peaches plumpy peachy smile?
(i’m not sure how the drama llama feels about that)
Should I fill the peachy pied poem with orange and lemon citrus ?
A little bit of snazz to the snazzy apple pie.
Crap, I forgot the apples as well.
Well now my peachy pied lemony apple-orange poem is too long!
And i still don’t know what temperature to torch these thoughts at!
Well the pied piper pipes in that maybe my peachy pied poem needs some pepper
To pipe the spice to pied poem levels!
But lemony apple-orange peachy pied poems with pepper seems a touch peppery for simple pied poems to be.
But who ever said a poem pied can’t have spice and everything nice WITH lemon and apple and orange and peachy fuzzy smiles?
So,
My peachy peppered pied lemony appley orangy poemy is piping hot to boot.
Now i just need to figure out whos gonna eat the **** thing.
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 3:27 PM UTC
# *Twin glasses of orange juice, froth quietly fizzling out
A plate of turkey bacon piled overzealously high*
I would cook you French toast every day, if you'd let me.
*Fresh croissants from a bakery down the street
Halved strawberries drizzled with honey*
I'll sprinkle cinnamon in our coffee, just like my grandmother used to.
I don't know much of love, but I know this:
When the sun breaks through my kitchen window,
I hope you'll be sitting at the table. #
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 4:14 PM UTC
I've seen you in striped white,
I've seen you in black wrap-around tops,
I've seen you in stilettos,
I've seen you in Fitflops.
I've seen you in the bluest of days,
I've seen you in the rainiest of nights,
I've seen you in the face of the sun,
I've seen you in the wind-full of kites.
I've seen you in the trajectory of life,
I've seen you stare at me with care,
I've seen you in the droplets of water,
I've seen you in every castle in the air.
I've seen you dreaming,
I've seen you back in reality,
I've seen you physically Earthy,
I've seen you emotionally Mars-y,
I've seen you sad and jubilant,
I've seen you troubled, but kept a smile,
I've seen you doubled - in poker,
I've seen you gone crazily wild.
I've seen you in green-blinking nails,
I've seen you return my stutters,
I've seen you stand tall - confident,
I've seen you slouch - don't matter.
I've seen you looking into empty spaces,
I've seen you looking into a tasty plate,
I've seen you doubt yourself,
I've seen you believing in fate.
I've seen you in the bakery,
I've seen you in a factory,
I've seen you in your beauty,
I've seen you in your most ball-sy.
I've seen you in the bus,
I've seen you read,
I've seen you pick up a microphone,
I've seen you speaking with speed.
I've seen you with a newspaper,
I've seen you with an iPad,
I've seen you with a t-shirt,
I've seen you stylishly clad.
I've seen you work hard,
I've seen you studied irresponsibly,
I've seen you proud,
I've seen you flicker embarrassingly.
I've seen you here,
I've seen you there,
I've seen you near,
I've seen you everywhere.
I've seen enough,
I've seen you in extremes,
I've seen you thorough,
I've seen you in teams.
I've seen you verily,
I've seen you truly,
I've seen so much inspiration,
I've seen you guilty.
I've seen "I've seen" 58 times,
I've seen you more than that few.
But I would've seen nothing more,
If I've seen none of you.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
I grew up with the silly idea
That boys would write poetry
For the girl in the back of the coffeeshop.
It’s far from romantic
The countless times I’ve walked that road,
Entered that C- bakery,
And rested my elbows on a wobbly table.
Once, I twisted my ankle,
Caked my jeans in mud and embarrassment.
Another time, I fell in a puddle.
Nobody helped me up or dried me off.
Hundreds of dollars wasted on cheap coffee
That only kept me up long enough
To realise how low I was.
I wrote poems for boys in the coffeeshop,
Adam and all the rest.
They didn’t write any for me.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
the rook mocks all in its path
as metaphor, worthless
symbols symbols too many damn symbols
they out number most folks reality
the angels on high
slug them when you see them
from eternity comes the haymaker
play the zero sum game
kick below the belt
cook a rook
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
You shouldn't kiss guardrails
Because they have chapped lips
And the jagged edges
Will slice your tongue
Whenever you touch them
You shouldn't kiss guardrails
Because metal on metal
Isn't a forgiving sound
But you already know that
From when you had your first kiss
And you were each wearing braces
You shouldn't kiss telephone poles
Because they are sensitive
And will bite your lip with an electric current
But not in the way that you were hoping
And rear view mirrors aren't for decoration
But you never bothered to look at them
When you were desperately switching lanes
And speedometers aren't for your entertainment
But you always enjoyed watching the needle fluctuate
As though your life depended on it
(It did)
And the high beams of oncoming cars
Aren't Christmas lights in restaurant windows
And crashing through the windshields
Won't bring you any closer
To the apple pie the bakery down the street made
That always reminded you of home
And even though you no longer recognize
The town you grew up in
Or the boy you fell in love with
You shouldn't kiss guardrails
Because they might kiss you back
But not in the way that you were hoping.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
When I enter a bakery,
I gaze at the variety ,
Of fresh baked cake,
And cookie dough ,
Ready to bake,
I smell the tempting flavors of donuts,
And the wide range of cookies with nut,
I glance at the crossiant,
Something I gravely want,
I order a coffee,
And a crossiant,
To satisfy me,
I taste the luscious buttery bread,
And relish the spread,
Enjoying without worry,
Well this is the,
Adventure of a bakery
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:26 AM UTC
This bakery sounds like couples cooing at each other from opposite ends of the booth
Giggling like no one else sees they're playing footsies under the table
And coffee they've let go cold because no one orders hot, black coffee at five pm in this Arizona heat.
It sounds like cookies taunting the diabetic who really did come in for the salads
And the free wifi, of course.
It sounds disgustingly like the same song I've played on repeat for the past three hours
Contemplating what I want to write about tonight.
But not really contemplating
More like wishing that on the walk to this bakery that's stuck on the corner of a straight road
I'd thrown you to the ground and punched you in the face
For all the wrongs you've done and all the wrongs you're going to do.
But your apathy threw me off, and I kept walking in silence.
Wishing I could have the beach's sands, the mountain's bending rivers,
And that I could run away from here.
This bakery sounds like noise, and sometimes noise is tolerable.
At least noise is better than apathy.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
Islamist Extremists. Boat Capsized.
Obama and Nelson Mandela. Celebrity Lies.
Plane Crash. Forest Fires.
Missing Girl. Handgun-buyers.
Amazon Lawsuit. ANT-MAN. Low Supplies!
Walmart Empty Shelves. Chinese Food Scandal.
Microsoft Layoffs. Heat and Gasoline. Oil.
Mad Max! Comic Book Convention Drama.
Breast Lumps and Swelling.
Television. Veteran's Hospitals.
Israel and Gaza Fight On.
Beachgoers Hit by Lightning.
Baseball Drinking Songs.
Sci-fi, Wi-fi, Ebola, and Libya.
Ukraine. Venezuela. Marriage. Liver failure.
Allen Webster. USA. RACE CARS.
Global Catastrophe Down to Warming of the Earth.
Dinosaurs Had Feathers. MH17. Profits.
Desert Bakery. Syria. We Must be Mad.
Philippines: 100 Million People on an Island.
Salmonella Lawsuit. Cheeseburger Diet.
Twinkies Never Going Bad.
Putin, Palin, and the Tour de France.
Fracking. Cats and Dogs.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
Sitting at the bakery
Getting a cup of of coffee
With a wonderful taste
Ingesting the smell
Letting it tickle my senses
All types of people around
Getting some breakfast
Sitting in the bakery
People watching
Lots of baked goods all around
A feel of Europe
In the heart of the city
Sitting in the bakery
Watching all the sites
Listening to different languages
Seeing people going hither and yon
Getting their goods
Starting their day
Sitting in the bakery
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 5:46 AM UTC
She was born unaware of what life was or what life held,
You see her father taught her a lot when she was younger,
He used to hold her hand and walk her to the bakery.
Sometimes when they’d go he’d make her wait outside,
Or sometimes he’d walk into the bakery with her following right behind him in his footsteps.
Only the bakery wasn’t a place that made bread,
It was a place that used baking soda as they’re well known recipe.
This special bakery that the customers came in to every day,
Itching for this special recipe ripping themselves apart slowly and surely to get it.
Following her father in and out of bakery’s,
Seeing firsthand what makes these bakery’s so special.
The recipes from these bakery’s were all the same,
But little did she known the recipe was crack *******
She got a little older when she started seeing her father on the weekends,
She was about five when her father stopped holding her hand to walk to these bakery’s.
But now her father was the baker and the house she stayed at was the bakery.
All the new people she met,
All coming and leaving with the same thing that they all craved.
Her cousin started staying over every once and awhile with her,
This started to get fun with all the excited people around.
Her father’s mother knew a lot about baking,
Because she was a loyal customer for years.
Customers started coming over more and more.
She wasn’t even six years old when the man approached her,
Moving slowly towards her untouched body.
She felt his fingers move in places nobody has touched before,
She tried to move him away and cover the revealing places his hands were at.
He wouldn’t stop no matter what she tried,
The one thing they never told you,
Was that the addicts daughter was molested that day,
At the unaware and now ashamed age of five.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
Big Four Railroad
In the past a little one had an interest in this story and one of the racers and the longest freight train
The race team was in the living room and their story was being read from the paper mother clueless
We laughed and snickered about our secret that old engineer was proud of us we were not vain
Down the hill we sped past Bino’s station across Jackson the B&O; he was high balling we had to pour it
On between the two tracks he was closing the gap he had nothing to lose but his pride for us it was
Curtains the long black limo a one way ride we streaked the line fifteen feet to spare we just stopped
And turned what a salutation from the engineer half hanging out the widow of that great engine his
Balled fist a shaking you sons with the deafening roar of that train so close we didn’t get to hear the rest
And the train carried him on down the track so Jerry and Larry and the other guy continued on to the
Swimming pool pleased with our speed we forgot about it until on the front of the paper in the bottom
corner it read three Pana youths out run train I guess the old engineer cooled off as he sailed on down
The track we didn’t know he talked to the tower as he passed so we didn’t get first prize or a blue
Ribbon but in a small way we entered into the great and wonderful tales of train lore along with Jessie
and Frank I told you when in trouble I had three actions fight talk or run that day the running won the
Day for these three amigos this memory was triggered by that same old paper this time it was talking
About the Amtrak detour I remember those passengers all those years ago setting there in their seats
flying through our town and the hook and the mail sack from the tower where that old bakery could be
smelled all night all the way out at the park as we watched tables for old F.S. Refinery I’m glad we didn’t
race a passenger train or this would be a hamburger story enjoy G.H.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
strangers.
thats all we were.
destined strangers.
destined to meet.
destined to laugh.
destined to touch.
destined to love.
destined to hurt.
destined to love again.
this was our destiny.
but the funny thing is,
destiny tested us from day one.
the cafe you sit at everyday
is the same cafe i drive by,
everyday.
the 20 story building you walk into everyday
is where i park my car,
everyday.
the days you visit the bookstore,
are the days i'm out for a run.
the days i visit the same bookstore,
are the days you walk your dog.
at 1:45 pm, you come into my bakery everyday.
from 1-2 in the afternoon is my lunch break,
everyday.
on the saturday you went to pick up a tux,
i was in the dressing room,
picking a dress.
friday, 3rd one of june,
was the day
you finally walked my way
and i walked yours.
you dressed in a smooth straight black suit.
and i dressed in lace, ribbon and chiffon.
all in white.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?"
i turned your way
and for the first time,
i met your eyes.
your eyes of caribbean blue.
"Yes, it is."
your smile
so warm and charming.
"i'd better get to my altar,
and i guess you better get to yours",
was the last thing
you ever said to me.
you walked away from my direction,
and i walked away from yours.
that day,
i said "I do",
and so did you.
but not to each other.
45 years past.
2 children.
3 grand children.
3 dogs.
1 divorce.
0 marriages afterwards.
all because of someone.
a man from 45 years ago.
he was my destiny
and i hope he knew too.
strangers are who we were.
strangers are who we are.
strangers are who we will always be.
destined strangers;
who will never see.
destined strangers;
you will just be you.
and i will just be me.
you and i will never
be the destined 'we'.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC