"crumpets" poems
En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…
Pipit sate upright in her chair
Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
Lay on the table, with the knitting.
Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
An Invitation to the Dance.
. . . . .
I shall not want Honour in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
And other heroes of that kidney.
I shall not want Capital in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.
I shall not want Society in Heaven,
Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
Than Pipit’s experience could provide.
I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
. . . . .
But where is the penny world I bought
To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;
Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s
10.6k
My Grandmother's Hands
My Grandmother's hands told many tales
Of scrubbing steps and broken nails
Hand-washing clothes in enamel sink
Red football socks turned white towels pink
When not baking cakes at the old gas stove
Rag-rugs with old scraps of material she wove
Pantry shelves filled with powdered egg
Homemade rice pudding sprinkled with nutmeg
Sea-coal burning on an open coal fire
Bread on a toasting fork burning like a pyre
Grandma plumping up pillows from beneath granda’s head
Applying ointment to sores caused by being confined to bed
Hours spent at auctions bidding with her hand
Buying an incomplete bed wasn't what she planned
Back home in time for tea, crumpets and homemade strawberry jam,
I can still recall the smell of it, bubbling in the pan
Switching tv channels with a flick of her wrist
That’s how we did it back then, when remotes did not exist
Working hard all of her life, meeting everyone's demands
Every line and wrinkle told a story
On my Grandmother's hands
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
Remember when, you were a very little boy
and your mom would warm the towels up in the dryer
so when you jumped out of the bathtub shivering you would feel cozy warm?
Remember when, you were a very little girl
and your dad would hold you in his arms
and whirl around in circles until you both fell to the ground laughing?
Remember when, you were a little boy
and you scraped your knee when you fell out of the tree,
and your mom held you close until the tears stopped?
Remember when, you were so sick you stayed home from school,
and your mom made special soup just for you
and cuddled you up and read your favorite story 6 times, just because?
Remember when, your pet hamster, Louie, died,
and you insisted on having an official burial ceremony,
and mom and dad said nice things about Louie before the shoebox was covered up?
Remember when, you were a little girl,
and your grandma gave you your first china tea set
and she had tea and crumpets with you and Bear?
Remember when, you were very young,
and a hug or a kiss or a word would repair
the biggest hurts in the world?
I remember when..............................................................
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 11:52 AM UTC
foreign lands I want to roam
Where Kings and Queens sit upon their throne
And big cats prowl, and wild dogs howl
And there's every kind of fowl
Where mighty elephants trumpet
And with tea they serve crumpets
I want to see the very old creations of man
I know I'd be their biggest fan
To walk the ground that Jesus tread
And feed the masses with seven loaves of bread
I would love to see the foreign sands
To get homesick, then return again to my home land
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 11:32 AM UTC
There’s a favorite culinary dish in town;
it’s known as the synapse shish kebab.
It’s high in protein as well as fat, and it comes
with a garlic-infused broccoli rabe,
available with a choice of couscous or rice.
The palate will most likely be enticed, just like
another common John who swears to us that he
again has done absolutely nothing wrong.
It pairs nicely with an eighties chenin blanc,
gray matter that’s grilled to sheer perfection,
smoked all day, and is guaranteed satisfaction,
seemingly like an old, rambling rolling stone.
The lights are on—but nobody’s buying homes.
An opera singer that is deaf to certain tones,
this is definitely not regal crumpets and tea—
“heart-healthy nutrition,” all our medics agree.
There’s a new critically acclaimed dish around;
it’s the slow-roasted synapse shish kebab,
moderately priced, and portions are family style—
passed-down secret recipes from west of the Nile,
and also numbers that won’t make your wallet sob
like a big, bad, dark, overly loaded cloud.
Give it a try, and then shout it out loud:
synapse shish kebab!
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
On a fine and sunny morn
On the third or fourth of may
A boggart and a bumblebee
Went to town to play
They met up with a mugglewump
But little did he say
So the boggart and the bumblebee
Bowed and went away
They found their friends the Fuglywhits
And asked them out to tea
They bribed them with jam crumpets
But the Fuglywhits weren’t free
Much dejected did they carry on
The boggart and the bee
The fine and sunny morning
Was filled with little glee
And then the boggart came upon
A wondrous revelation
That put their moping frowns
Into quick cessation
They need no other colleagues
To have collaborations
Two could play together
In satisfied elation
And so the fine associates
Proceeded to be gay
On that fine and sunny morn
On the third or fourth of may
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Clementine deleted Joel
from her mind. Joel tried to
forget her; he couldn't, so
he got rid of her too. You
try, I know, to get rid of me. I
try, you know, to pretend that
the world isn't spinning so fast
in the hope
that we will fall of its spinning-top edge
and stumble, clumsily, gracelessly, into
each other. We're spinning so fast with it-
the world- so this is unlikely, so we both
pretend that it's an accident when we fall
into each other,
again and again, as
We play spin the bottle while
The world spins instead.
Suddenly.
Now that that same world has stilled itself for
us: we don't know what to do without its
rotationary madness angling us
towards old age and crumpets (together?). That
same world has stilled itself until
tomorrow when that same world will spill
itself out from day to night to day again
as we take our respective first drafts
of our poems written about each other
and
Edit.
out that same mad spin
that made us
us
just like
Joel and Clementine forgot-
on purpose. We forget, on purpose
with purpose
but,
we'll still meet each other in Montauk where
that same world will still itself
as we wrap our fingers around each other's
fingers
in the cold
where you might finally reciprocate
my lacklustre
confessions.
You too,
right?
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
winter has crept from it's cathedral with it's blue loom of white sod
against black crows and over-coats. we awaken in our separate pause
and modify our crumpets with thin icing,
drizzled over moon faced scones -
as golden as your marmoset of port wine
and wrinkled wheels of cheese...
at a moment's notice.
you float through the open window where crescendo the crisp winds and the bacon fats
rendering in the musk of firewood, oaking the nose of the decanted day
the early hearth of heaven, now powder blushed and rustle thrum
with skylarks larking in the luminous icebox
of barely sunrise.
your eyes sparkle and my antlers score the aspen bark
on a lost acre of our thickening plot.
we love a lot.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
Forgive me for the ink that strains your innocent purity with words I don't even understand.
Pick up your rubber and erase my right hand with swift flick of the wrist
and a gentle caress for you cannot forgive me for what I have done,
but I can.
Stone me. Cut off my hand and stone me.
Let the blood drip like my wasted children that come and go with each
waning moon,
as the only thing that grows within me is love.
Open up the gates of hell and toss me like Mary Madeline tossed him,
and let me burn; but God, you play with fire
as I will only burn for her so nail me to the cross with my convent robe
and watch her kiss my feet and continue up to the heavens.
You can forgive me for opening my legs but you cannot nail them
shut, and you cannot cleanse my **** with salt from your narcissistic
***** that seeps between thighs in an unconsented **** of fertility.
Eve may have eaten the fruit of they womb but you cannot throw me out
the garden of Eden and you cannot tell me not to love when my heart
smells her sweet flower.
Nor can you curse our open mouths for taking a taste.
Forgive me Lord,
for I do not know what I am saying, and only say the words and I shall be
healed.
Malevolent God, this finger is for you.
But benevolent God, you gave me hands so I can make her tea
when she is dreaming,
and you gave me a heart that will not stop beating at the sight of her
sneakers on the floor.
Her eyes are like crumpets, God.
They make my mouth wet and my lips moist
and cover me in cotton blankets, just like 1993 when icicles clung to the
rooftops like I cling to her waist when she is sighing.
You made the ocean just so I can see her in a bikini.
It does't matter if she covers the curves of her thighs in shorts,
or her soft ******* in a shirt.
The point is you tried, and my God did you craft something magnificent.
Forgive me God, as I did not believe you existed till the day she said
I love you.
I smiled like second grade when I found a muffin in my lunchbox
and I ate it like my life depended on it, as if I don't have her
I fear I might explode.
But unlike 2nd grade each day I open my lunchbox and I find her
next to my sandwiches.
You made us like peanut butter and jelly.
So forgive me Lord, but I refuse to believe that you
condemn
something so perfect
as this love.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC
To foreign lands I want to roam
Where Kings and Queens sit upon their throne
And big cats prowl, and wild dogs howl
And there's every kind of fowl
Where mighty elephants trumpet
And with tea they serve crumpets
I want to see the very old creations of man
I know I'd be their biggest fan
To walk the ground that Jesus tread
And feed the masses with seven loaves of bread
I would love to see the foreign sands
To get homesick and return to my home land
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
Axel, who never had a rocking horse, once rode a bright blue tricycle. He called it his ‘Athenian Rhapsody’. He loved to play the tuba in bed, and when he was feeling particularly happy, would sit on the loo in the outside shed, pants around his ankles oompa-pa’ing till the cows came home.
That was quite a while ago; the tuba and the tricycle have gone, yet he can still hear the triangle sound the bell made on his tricycle, and still remembers the scraping of the old keys on the ancient tuba.
Axel listens to old sounds very well (all the time): he loves Bach, Mendelssohn and Donovan. He loves to eat crumpets with honey and drink a large white mug of milky tea; it reminds him of summer fishing trips to Lake Eucumbine, mushrooms and gnats in the full-sun morning air, (he loves to talk fishing when he’s playing chess with Carl the orderly, often quoting from his favourite magazine, ‘Modern Fly Fishing’).
Axel was once an expert at fly fishing; tying the ‘super moonshadow’ to perfection (he named the fly after what he thought was a Donovan song, written by Cat Stevens).
When the hospital staff remember to buy him a new box, Axel loves to drink Lady Grey tea made from tea bags, he prefers tea bags, he feels that somehow they bring clearer definition to tea making.
Axel thinks a lot about definition, noting how the edges of his bed are very clearly defined by the clean-blue hospital blankets that drop suddenly to the ocean of the grey linoleum floor. He likes the smell of cleanblue, it’s somehow a new sea to sail and sometimes the feel of his favourite jumper when he was a boy: a definite edge of beginning and end. He knows that soon he’ll cross the floor-grey ocean, sailing under a white sheet. But this is not a thing Axel dwells on for very long, he prefers to think of such things as his next chess move and flirting with Miriam the night nurse.
—
Axel has just beaten Carl in a game of chess. He’s said goodnight to Miriam, a long quiet goodnight, a good long, good night. He won’t wake again, he senses this – and is peaceful.
When his last breath comes he hears; a faint scraping sound and a single precious note from a triangle bell on a bright blue tricycle.
They’re good sounds.
They are old sounds.
They bring him…
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
A weaver loves weaving silky blankets.
A spider's home a web is stitched by threads
With many rooms; in them are tiny heads.
Their bodies preserved eaten like crumpets.
The weaver weaves it's net from yarns of steel,
So testify the insects, the flies and bees;
It laid like a trap spun from trees to trees;
Whosoever passes suffers you feel.
There lives in darkest dreary room so dour
With hairy legs alert on each it's thread
Awaits; sometimes a windy storm would roar,
When webs like battered sails are torned to shred.
But back it comes to weave within the hour
A place to ply for preys flying ahead.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
I walk a tight rope through life
As I seek to find my true self
But I am sure this was not the plan
As I am far to frightened to look down
Although I really need to find my feet
Insecure legs are shaking
Jelly knees are wobbling
Pterodactlys, flying reptiles
Many headed monsters
circle the sky's above
As I fight with the world's
media and societies influences
So I close my eyes
Turn TVs off and
Throw my papers away
As I seek the center of me
The outside frizzles
While my soul sizzles
With a silent voice it speaks
As the worlds forces crumble
Butter on hot crumpets
My heart starts melting
As the physical is dissolving
And I stand still just balancing
Untouched by the world
As I find a harmony
In a sweet simplicity
As I fall within the bounds
Of a renewed innocence
I feel myself shinning
In a white heat
I find myself connecting
And on the tight rope
To true self
I see a future
Far and wide stretching
In a heart that is vibrating
In the realms of true self
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
German rye bread & Chinese green tea
each turn of the knife
each touch of the kettle
& you send signs to the neighbors
the heavens above
a tapestry of eyes
salt water & tears
& your knees shaking
in little earthquakes
Fly the flag higher
Britishness is an art
in Earl Grey & crumpets
& mad hatter days
boasting of kisses
in mad houses
kisses you've never had
or else someone you shagged
but once
senseless & beaming
letters to Keats
& always, always
maps of the Empire
some builder nostalgic
for old might & power
& ships on the Thames
like in the old paintings.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
crumpets and tea,
taken with grinning powdered wigs
go scrumptiously well with a Mozart piece played in the tired drawing room;
Tchaikovsky's Fifth
would have the subject alone
in the vestibule,
ear against the ballroom double doors of ornate mahogany,
muffled and muted and just being;
Philip Glass
Is
The oppressed past lit --
A futuristic glance
over one's shoulder
Regifting an overrated present
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
speaking of drugs and soul mates,
somehow his dangly fingers found the inner stitches
of my pinkplated skinny jeans.
we fell into backseats and booths at bars that held
sushi and white powder lining caked sinks.
we giggled at how he said tomato, and i dissolved into
the sixth beer, the seventh, the eighth,
the lines between her lipstick.
we danced and screamed among stained floors, holding each other,
waiting until the moon lifted us.
he and i held hands as i ran between poles, pretending
i was the goddess of love, of lust, of night.
we made out and my head cracked upon glass,
his glasses slid upon pavement. he was nervous, i was laughing.
an american girl, his first time.
his fingers traced, cream upon coffee.
in the morning i found bruises upon my lips,
marks of eagerness, of mistakes.
we walked again, not hand in hand,
dreary and rainy, perfect London weather.
and i wondered if having tea
and crumpets would have
helped.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Sitting here, chortling, do not grouse,
If you abuse crumpets, men,
You undermine your own best interests, do you ken?
Then you don't get crumpet, men,
Or is men a rude word,
You're reaping what you earn,
You want a cup of tea from me?
Chortle, the magic word is please!
You would not believe this ham,
Feeding the world this spam,
You want fresh vegetables?
Frozen food, not dementiable,
You can get another better than me,
So what's wrong with you, prithee?
Yes, the catering staff is on a sitdown strike,
You'd best find yourself a loving wife,
Chortle, shut up snivelling, you grouse,
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
Life belongs to Monday morning.
Still, I'm haunted by Sunday teatime.
Scones in the parlour at the back of the house.
With mamma and poppa and sweet baby Jayne.
Toasted crumpets together,and drank hot cups of tea.
The crumpets were toasted upon a huge open fire.
Jayne had been sleeping in the cot by the door.
Too young to eat crumpets and scones, she's not allowed tea.
The baby still sleeping remains in the parlour.
It's warmer in there.
And so to the drawing room with round rosewood table.
Nature of the cloth thereupon changed.
It's marked with the symbols of a, b and c.
A painted on canvass that ends with a zee.
It's crimson, edged with gold.
In the centre a YES and a NO.
Centrally placed a wine glass.
Knock knock on the door.
Now there are five.
Tonight the table may come alive.
They're hoping.
A standard lamp, rather dated stood in the corner.
Had a scarlet shade with golden tassels.
They sit round the table.
It's just what they did.
Fingers on glass.
They're calling out.
"Is anybody there?"
The room becomes chilled.
Atmosphere stifling.
Glass moves around the circle.
A...R...I....E.....L.....spellbinding.
'Twas the spirit of the dark poet,Plath.
Darkness from sorrow, no more tomorrow.
Another spirit in attendance.
Takes Sylvia by the hand.
Into the light, escorted by guide.
Goodbye sorrowed poet.
Walked into the light.
Goodnight.
Sleep tight.
(c) Livvi MMCV
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
*Gasoline and matches
Combust to sudden ashes
The life flutters still
Parachute men fly away
Away to a place of yesterday
The still flutters as life, yeah
Yeah, the still flutters, yeah
Ghosts of magic
Tame their lovers
Lovers begin to disappear
Saturn savvy
Construct crafty
Happy Happy
Who is to know
Sharp eyes of moonlight
Evoke to wakeness
Preceding a restless dream
Deranged puppets
No longer puppets
The life flutters calm
Enveloped crumpets
Sent me as thanks
Of a cloud
From a crowd
Whose thoughts frigid weak
I come for thee
A Magical Ghost
Mind a'so bleak
Dry from Sahara
Ghost cry Clara
I cry Clara*
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
When the day is finally done,
I jump into my bed.
I lay against my pillow
And pull the covers over head.
Soon enough I fall into
A deep unmoving sleep.
Now all I need to start to dream
Is one more giant leap.
Finally my mind decides
That it is time to wander,
Into the land where anything
Can happen over yonder.
I dream of drinking tea
And eating crumpets with the queen.
I dream of climbing up a stock
Grown from a jelly bean.
I dream of jumping right into
The board game Candyland.
I dream of eating endless sweets
While listening to a band.
I dream of riding all through space
Upon a shooting star.
I dream of sliding down a rainbow,
No need for a car.
I dream of always succeeding
In every single plan.
I dream of living every day
The very best I can.
I dream
I dream
I dream some more,
But suddenly,
A knock on my door.
It jolts me awake,
My head starts to ache,
And I realize
It was all just a dream.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
I got lost
For a while
I might still actually be
Lately the blues look like greens
And the greens look like blue
Though, All my dreams still contain fragmented images of you
Have I been here for days?
Or just a few grains of sand?
The flowers spoke
But I responded kindly with a strike from the sword in my hand.
How did it get there?
How did what get where?
Oh yes, the flowers, I suppose they know the Hatter and the Hare
But its not about the tea pots or crumpets
but about the four ace soldiers with trumpets
The Queen will arrive any minute
With the clubs and the spades all the same
In their white and their black suits.
I ran through the roses as fast as I could
but the raven was wearing me boots.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
As it sit, here on peninsulas
extensions into oceans,
tides that drag, pixelating
parameters opening
to peering places,
my eyes squint
at blurred horizons;
everywhere horizoning,
circumferencing me
in swirls of cataleptic cinnamon
(you know, that pop cultured
coalescence of sensation)
And while I swim
through these streams and unconscious rivers,
on peninsulas (of dust)
placidly pouring soft summer rain
onto concrete souls like treacle on crumpets,
it occurs to me that
we are just madness becoming
into something astonishing
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
The spooky, eerie feeling grips me,
As I watch Grandpa swinging from a tree.
His body is lifeless, limp and pale,
His hands are fragile and frail.
“Grandpa”, I shriek, “I thought you were dead,
For your funeral mass the first reading I read”.
“Shut up kid”, he says with a frown,
“Do you know how bad it is there down?”
“Down?” I gasp,”So you made it to hell?”
“Believe me girl heaven ain’t that swell.”
“Is it hot down there? Do you loathe the heat?”
“Down there kid, I hate the food I eat”.
“Food?”, I exclaim ,”do you still need that?”
“Of course we do you blithering brat”.
“But aren’t ghosts the gliding type all slim and light?”
“Yes kid, but we need energy to scare Earthly folks at night”.
I gently ask, “What is it you miss most from up here?”
“Is it the TV set, liqueur bottle or fishing gear?”
“Honestly kid, I miss the food your Grandma would make,
Those sinful crumpets and cookies she’d bake,
those meat pies and curries with assorted spices,
Oh that food would distract me for an hour and half from my Earthly vices.”
“But you never liked her cooking and always criticized this and that”.
“Yes m’dear but I’d still gulp it down and get all chubby and fat,
So pay heed young girl, don’t fuss over your looks and weight,
We men love that initially but later grow to hate,
It’s the food a woman cooks that we remember even when dead,
So ensure you keep your husband always well fed.”
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
you’ll cross the bridge near the center of town,
from the constable’s door just a few paces down;
at the bend near the corner of Ash and Vine,
Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe of Verses and Rhymes.
its here you will find it, my favorite store,
its soft warmth beckons through a leaded-glass door;
your arrival here announced with a chime,
at a desk near the fire lays a writing slate.
here, a tall, frail poet sits in his chair
his sweet bonny lass stands beside him in wait,
both greet each guest with deliberate care.
a sign at the door tells of an experience rare,
“pairings of sweets for tooth and ear”;
be it chocolate and wine, for a rendezvous fine,
or crumpets and tea, for a moment of ecstasy,
each tasty treat shared with verse and rhyme
each custom creation, an encounter sublime.
the ambiance... flawless, the company... sweet,
the perfect encounter, is the word on the street.
the shelves here are filled with tastes overflowing
candles are trimmed, the fireplace is glowing
sheets full of verse, of sonnet and psalm
sales may run short, but the hours last long
yet, each customer’s entrance is met with delight
giving no mind for any work through the night
for payment in full is made with their eyes
the giggles, the dances... the satisfied sighs.
for what would you give to know you’re the one
to restore another’s hope, the place life’s begun
and what would you sacrifice just so you’d hear
each delightful cry, see each joy-filled tear
knowing so many go hungry, and never will know
the comfort that’s brought from a heart that’s restored,
for hope is alive, and its hope that is shared
in each word that is writ, in each line that is paired
to each one who finds their way to this couch
whether man, woman, child, need little or much
a custom concoction to each one unique
for this singular purpose, its a poem they seek
whether free verse or rhyme, a chorus, a song
for a mother, a brother, or a loved one gone on
for some it's a present to a lover or spouse
for others the poem is a gift to themselves
yet, whatever the reason, the purpose propelling
each word is revealing, some even foretelling
for with insight and honesty, and peace of mind,
great comfort and solace they find in each line
there near the corner of Ash and Vine
at Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe of Verses and Rhymes.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
winter has crept from it's cathedral with it's blue loom of white sod
against black crows and over-coats. we awaken in our separate pause
and modify our crumpets with thin icing,
drizzled over moon faced scones -
as golden as your marmoset of port wine
and wrinkled wheels of cheese...
at a moment's notice.
you float through the open window where crescendo the crisp winds and the bacon fats
rendering in the musk of firewood, oaking the nose of the decanted day
the early hearth of heaven, now powder blushed and rustle thrum
with skylarks larking in the luminous icebox
of barely sunrise.
your eyes sparkle and my antlers score the aspen bark
on a lost acre of our thickening plot.
we love a lot.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC