"teatime" poems
The teapot is now full.
How long the time has been.
The aroma is so fragrant.
Thoughts and laughs are blending in.
Through the flavor of the leaves,
Hidden contents are revealed.
Though inside the painted glass,
Taste betrays against its will.
Potful after potful,
While the hours sneak away.
Struggles and life’s many woes,
With each sip no longer stay.
Though at first the tea is tasty.
Though it’s easily refilled.
It just can’t last forever.
The pouring soon is stilled.
The last cup is too bitter!
The last word is the same!
The teapot is now empty,
Till teatime comes again.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
You know it's time to talk
when the teapot empties
itself, forgotten steam
whistling in and out
our ears. Tell the truth, it's
all about the mist, crawling
in and out of our heads.
delicately painted china
empty of all but dregs
spilling out patterns
depicting surprises
unreadable to all but the blind
changing the addictions
to colorless schemes
of the bitter sweet taste
lingering on our tongues
uncurling to let out the truth.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Lift me up,
let me drift on a tide of rising air.
I am strung below an ******** rush of burning air,
at the mercy of the pilot,
let me ride the sky before I die,
Sprinkle me with pepper dust,
not to make my eyes sore,
but to make me feel alive.
let me feel the sensation of the zephyr cruising past my face.
Enter my vision stage left,
the scene from above looking downwards,
savanna flowing,
rolling out protected and free,
as free as me,
just plain old me,
the lioness in the basket drifts,
she's watching the lioness snaring today's tea.
and so the delicate zebra falls,
as of today, she can run no more.
The lioness in the basket,she sips her tea from an old plastic mug,drifting onward,
regardless.
(C) Livvi
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:48 PM UTC
At school
Moorcraft said
about joining
the boy scouts with him
(the only scouts
you were interested in
were those who rode
ahead of the cavalry
in western films
and who got themselves
scalped by Injuns)
but he went on
about how they taught you
to tie knots
and light fires
with two sticks
of wood
and how to sing songs
around a camp fire
and be a good kid
and do Bob a Job
for old ladies
and he went on about it
quite a bit
and so you said
ok pick me up later
and so after teatime
of bread and jam
and a mug of tea
and biscuit
you went with Moorcraft
to the church hall
where the scouts met
and this tall scouts master
in short trousers
and hairy legs
and glasses
took you off
to join the rest
and introduced you both
and some kid
showed you how
to tie these knots
and climb ropes
and how to set up
a tent and make camp
and so on
until some kid
pushed you off
the ropes
and you pushed him back
and he punched you
on the shoulder
and you hit him
on the jaw
and then you were both
on the floor
and the good kids
were saying oh and gosh
and crowding round
until the scout master came
and asked what
was going on
and that good scouts
didn’t fight
and threw you out
of the hall
leaving Moorcraft behind
tying knots
and climbing ropes
but you didn’t
give a fig at all
and Moorcraft still in there
not knowing why
and you walked home alone
under an evening sky.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
i touch my finger to my lips,
the cue for Nonnie and me to bow our heads, close our eyes, and hush,
our secret to polished silver and earl grey.
Bless our family, and the needy,
and all the other sheep i count
in grandfather clock rhythm.
Milanos water my mouth from their poise-in crepe cups as
my eyelashes, in squint-scope, filter
antique sunshine flooding the window, pouring all over the tea set,
dusting Nonnie's prayer
to flush the face powder
on her cheeks, once she opens her eyes and smiles,
into a blush.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
The thing is Boy,
Yes, YES! I did need a shower this morning, and ****** lovely it was.
Aye cracking........
Let me tell you three things I got just right with my shower this morning.
First of it was HOT.
Not warm, definitely not lukers, as you said when you where a lad, but ****** lovely and hot.
Like the shower after a shift in The Pit.
Now, notice the capitals there, on The Pit.
Not to make it a loud word, I am simply showing due respect to The Pit.
I spent enough years down that colliery to show it that due respect.
The Pit indeed.
Secondly, there was enough water.
In my shower, not the mine now, pay attention!
It can be hard for folk to hang on to my words, I digress so much, hanging on to my words is like trying to grab a slimy mackerel on a sunny day at Porthcawl Pier.
Now that is a ditry pier, due to littering.
And fishing.
Speaking as a fisherman, with you will notice, a SMALL f, as I do not profess a great degree of skill in that area, but speaking as a fisherman, I will admit that there is an occasional tendency towards the dropping of litter.
On the pier, that is.
Quite likely elsewhere as well, but then I only fish the pier, see.
Anyway, yes, water.
Enough of it.
Not a ****** half-hearted trickle, an apologetic drip, but a deluge!
Fair flooded me out, it did.
****** marvellous.
Smashing.
Now, there was a third good thing.....
Ahh. THAT was it..
Someone to scrub my back.
Very important indeed.
You see, in The Pit, or at least, in the colliery shower, after a shift, we had good showers.
Hot, they were. Hot and wet, and we would stand there, warming ourselves under the water.
By Christ, my arms were sore after a day on my side with a pick.
And the soap was hard too, like a ruddy brick.
But the water helped see, took the pain away, it did.
Aye, and all the Boys, we would wash each others backs.
That was the way then.
In the showers.
Aye.
I new my mate's backs better than my missus'
Thirty years scrubbing them.
"Whiter than white" I would say.
When they asked me.
"How is my back Bryn?"
"Whiter than white".
Aye
Good days.
Now this shower.
A ****** good one too, It was today.
The Girl who comes in got it just right.
Halfway between five and five and a quarter.
Bang on.
And she washed my back.
Not as hard as the boys would have done,
but good enough for a youngster.
Not bad at all.
All in all, a good shower.
And that means a good day.
I can wheel my chair to look out the front later.
You'll pardon me for going now,
but I have to go to the bathroom see.
A big ****** task for me now.
Still, no-one in till teatime, and I can manage,
if I take it slow.
And thursday I get another shower.
And I will tell you about the days in The Pit again.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
Tick-tock tick-tock goes the clock tick tock tick tock what the ****
Tick tock tick tock goes the clock I'm going to trip I'm going to fall down the staircase to wonderland.
Tick-tock tick-tock that clock just won't ******* stop
Tick tock tick tock, knock, knock, hatter hatter open up it's me.
Tick-tock tick-tock the times a ticking, knock knock knock Hatter please the walls are going to get me.
He hee hee they wanna play he hee hee I think they're coming to get me.
Queen, the queen she screams he hee hee she still laughing at me.
Tick-tock tick-tock Hadder please I need to speak with you about the teatime tray please let us not play this little game,
Hatter, password what's the password tick-tock tick-tock hatter Please the clocks ticking.
The walls the walls are breathing again tick-tock tick-tock hatter I need you now I'm begging you,
the queen, the queen she's going to get me.
Tick tock tick-tock hatter ******* free me, I can't take anymore this tick-tock tick-tock ********
the mouse, the mouse is running up the clock tick tock tick tock the clock struck one. Hickory dickory dock let me out of this ******* clock
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
Another numbered summer, over
plans packed away
watches wound
boots back on pavements
lawns forgotten
And the sun apologises
as it rises too late
and the cackling wind
reclaims his domain with a flourish.
Have a good day, boys -
see you at teatime.
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC
Next week, I’ll be 61 years
working the same 93 acres.
The furthest field back
and the 2 joining Peter Burke’s
always been meadows.
Since before my time —
today it takes just 4 hours
to cut, bale and wrap.
Dad and the men wouldn’t’ve
half the first headland cut in that length.
I’d go back with Mom,
with tea and sandwiches;
brown bread and something sweet.
No more higher than the handle of the scythe —
I would try to swing.
Nearly took my leg off the first time.
When it was done, all saved
that was my favourite bit.
There’d be a gathering in the house.
Food, porter … the craic.
Someone would pull out a fiddle
or a tin whistle, the women would dance
it was beautiful — meaningful.
Friends, neighbours. Thankful.
The closest thing to expressing our feelings.
And us kids allowed to stay up late,
what a treat; a very rich treat.
I never did grow tall enough
to wield the scythe.
When it was my turn,
machines had been invented.
Lucky I was told I was.
They lightened the work
and lessened the men.
Horse followed horsepower.
Bigger, heavier.
But there was time for tea,
there’s always time for tea.
The scythes rotted;
the horses rotted;
kids flown into the city;
neighbours dead, don’t care or are foreign.
It’s just one man now doing all the work.
One man called John Deere
who has no time for tea.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
I felt like smooth sweet tea
poured into brittle porcelain
it was a sense of, I would say
a guilty, blue satisfaction-
of being consumed by others
I'll be gone, as the empty cup
hits the table, 'ting!' as the
sound strikes the white noise
the windows to the noisy world
all gone, shut again, no more
to my eyes, to my ears, no more
I have become the bitter stain
left on white beautiful porcelain
easy to spot, and wipe the last of me
as I sink into the terrible drain
I shall never be seen again
this time, this is the last change
life is lost to peace, that ends pain
-Kaya
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Treading on toothpicks
thinking about tomorrow
time teases
tired tadpoles
trying to transform
trains transporting
transparent travellers
to tall tin trees
typed at Teatime
ty Tismee T
Tetit?
Time: To-o-to TM
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
If you go down to the
Woods today the bears
Will eat
Your
Insides
They'll start at your foot
Slap you with a left
Knock you out with a right hook,
Then they'll snack on you for
Breakfast
Lunch
&
Then
Teatime
The cubs will eat your lunch from you insides.
Then slurp your intestines
As if they were spaghetti stung outside,
The flies will lay eggs
In your mouldy insides,
Then maggots will feast on your
Cold dead eyes,
They will feast on you carcass,
Will devour you
From what's left, that nature hasn't
Nibbled
Bitten
Dragged
Off, then you'll just be a
Skelton
With
A boot on,
No flesh or insides
You'll be bleached by the
Sun,
Earth,
&
Sky
And buried in the long grass,
All for wanting to be with nature
"Beware its dangerous out there"
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Teatime done with
I went with Helen
across the bomb site
off Meadow Row
and crossed
the New Kent Road
to the ABC cinema
and along side
the dark alleys
dim lights
damp stink
she just behind me
clutching her doll
Battered Betty
by one arm
was that a rat?
she half said
and screamed
could be
I said
you see
them at night
down here
she clutched my arm
with her free hand
Battered Betty
swaying behind her
what we looking for?
she asked
cigarette ends
I said
why?
What do you
want them for?
she asked
make up a smoke
with Rizla *** papers
I said
you smoke
old tobacco?
she said
put it
in your mouth?
If I get
enough tobacco
sure
I said
looking around
the ground
yuk
she said
sometimes
I find dropped coins
I found a cuff link once
silver it was
but one
ain't much good
unless you're
a one armed man
I said
does your mum know
you smoke?
God no
I said
she has enough
to worry about
without me
adding to it
she frowned
clutched my arm tighter
well you shouldn't smoke
she said
you're only 9 like me
and I would never smoke
and our children
when we have them
won't smoke either
she said
she looked
at Battered Betty steely
I pushed her words
and images
out of my mind
for the moment
I saw a semi-smoked
Senior Service
on the ground
by the wall
and stooped
to pick it up
it's got lipstick on it
Helen said distastefully
it's has a woman's
spittle inside
I looked at her
disapproving gaze
and threw it away
yes you're right
I said
men's spittle's best
she frowned darkly
ok
I said
not really
I just jest
another time maybe
I thought
taking her deeper
into the dark
and rats
and damp stink
of drains
remembering it all
it sinking
into my
9 year brain.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
*It happens with old men
Have seen it times umpteen
I’m a boy again
You too sweet sixteen!
You sit with folded knees
Pulling down your skirt
Lest in naughty breeze
Thereto my eyes dart!
As long as it’s your face
Things are hunky dory
Tales of such retrace
Tell you as teatime story!
But often it happens
As the dreams unfurl
I can’t make its sense
Appears another girl!
She may be the one I know
Or a face I have never seen
Crafted in moon’s glow
Carved from days of teen!
Such dreams they quickly abort
When her I embrace
Make with her a rapport
On her neck comes back your face!
Next morn I feel glum
Hide behind newspaper
Teatime I sit mum
Without a story for her!*
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 7:04 AM 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
Sauntering casually,
jostled by shoppers,
teatime bargain hunters;
curses of common folk
ringing in my ears,
out of tune with
the cries of the traders.
Two for one here!
I say, two for one here!
Embattled in the
throng of a slow
moving crowd, shoulders
heaving, swaying to an
inaudible beat. Tired
faces marking time,
quelling inner frustration.
Get a move on!
Please, just get a move on.
Now it’s raining,
incessant needles
prickle my face.
Suspended water droplets
dangle from striped
awnings, reflecting
trapped, busy, images.
Caught in a moment.
Spattered, in a moment.
Then I see her,
the fruit-stall girl,
her words and gestures
touch me like music
rippling over my skin.
Secret caressing fingers,
bringing me to life.
She doesn’t see me.
No: she doesn’t ever see me.
I’m almost mesmerised,
by the light catching
the white curve of
her neck. Her hair,
like spun gold, dancing
on her ruffled collar as
she serves with a smile.
Your change sir.
Don’t forget your change sir!
I turned for home,
head bowed, shoulders
stooped; no crowded bus
for me with standing
room only. A slow
solitary walk, past
dark, dripping gardens.
Her face for company, how
strange: her face, for company.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
In effect
I am the pause, clause three four D
you'll find me sandwiched silently below clause E,above clause C,because freedom does not have a say in what we do or where it stays and this was written,though later stricken,in clause three of what the hell's this all about,you can't write life upon a page and expect to garner love or rage from simple words,
nor can you type disease and pain in Indian ink and think that some would understand the hand of God,the mind of man.
In effect what we get is what we feel and freedom deals the occupants of third class carriages with champagne and deals some the cards that look the same but are tied in milestones marking out the years of pain,
it's a lottery but chance will play no part in where we're born or from whence we start and the clause quite clearly states,
that freedom dissipates the longer that one lives.
Which gives no room in which to lodge complaints,that room was taken by the homeless man maneuvering as best he can through the formal infrastructure of the plan that was placed in place for him.
In effect, the plan was ******* before the ink was dry upon the lips that measured out the sentences and the thought that anything could come from adding numbers to the sum of each or any of a thousand to the power of ten
would have them adding up again the do's and did not's,the dotted i's,
and all of this
when teatime lies around the corner of the clock.
I stand mute.
I am the shock wave that planned and failed,I now blow wind into the others sails and take applause.
I am the clause
Three
Four
D.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
don't forget to stir
otherwise it all goes down bitter
and the very last
bit
is almost too sweet
to swallow
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
Mona stands outside
the back door of the
cottage and stares up
at the morning sky.
Monday, school soon.
It seems a lifetime ago
since Friday. She and Lisa
had, the previous day,
burned into each other
a different relationship.
She can still sense each
touch, each hold and kiss.
The rainfall had soaked
them like a holy baptism,
a fresh start, a new beginning.
She breathes in the morning air.
Fresh in the lungs. Cows
moo in a far field. A crow
calls. She closes her eyes
and smells the farm across
the fields. Each part of her
seems touched. Each inch
of flesh seems hotly kissed.
The bedroom had been their
sanctuary, a place of rebirth.
The parents had not heard
or known or suspected a thing.
Teatime had been so innocent
after. Acting as normal, as if
the moments before they had
not made love, had not been
naked in each others arms
flesh to flesh, body against body.
Just tea and sandwiches and
cakes and the usual talk of
farm and land and weather.
She opens her eyes and
watches the clouds drift.
More cows moo. Birds
fly overhead. There is
a new life within, a new love
inside her heart and head.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
the bookies of High Street North will give you odds,
1000 to 1, our paths will never cross, a simple notion,
we’ll never meet, it’s a sucker’s bet they’re happy to take,
despite, shhhhh, not that hard, truth be told, airplane,
Terminal5, Heathrow Express, Paddington Bear Station
and yet, there are oceans to fly over, viruses in
every nook and cranny, and the biggest risk, those
what ifs...and the worries viral multiply as imagining
grows more spectacular than wild flowers on the
heath, bogs conjuring up Holmesian fluorescent hounds
she’ll know for whom this poem tolls, but
will never understand that my envision of her world,
through her eyes, unfamiliar words mellifluous,
for me, they, a nectar, the special Ritz teatime,
but don’t be mistaking me for an Anglophile
no, this Yank plainly loves her garden of nature,
and her own nature, beloved as well, floral blooming,
how it grasps his heart with her two hand’s nouns,
seizing and ceasing its beating, nicks it, his rhythm for
poetic composition, so little more to add, other than
writing this made both a young boy glad, an old man sad...
postscript
someday she’ll crook her finger, like the crook
of her hair, and this Tom, will no longer be waiting
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 7:29 AM UTC
All shrubbery around is shaken by the wind
As smoking grey clouds threaten rain.
But I sit snugly in my lounge
Idly contemplating a chicken-breast tea.
The long heatwave is over
For now.
Atlantic air has swept the mugginess
Aside.
Thermometers have settled down
While cooler moisture sooths our very souls.
This lounge of mine presents a landscape too:
Of settee, armchairs and table
Along with dining chairs and TV:
Mountains over carpet savannas.
But the kitchen calls me from next door
So no matter how lazy I feel
I really have to eat now.
This interlude must end
So very soon.
Paul Butters
© PB 29/7/2018.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
When the world is weary
Your problems have converted
Into a silver gold chorus
Of pots and pans
When your arms are tired
Because of the wooden
Hard grained electricity
They carry
Drop yourself
Into an armchair
Of silken iron and platinum
And drink the splendors
Of the barrier reef
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 7:47 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
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
from the teapot, blue
pours a dark rendolent brew
full of tall stories
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC