Quotes about cobbler, page 4
The wintry alarm echoed
It's a winter morning in Portugal.
The Sun was faintly visible like moon in hibernation.
In the capital Lisbon I was standing in a queue for hours.
A girl with a Red Jacket who came to the halt hurriedly?
We smiled each other like old familiar friends.
I wanted to tell her that I appreciate her visiting.
I was sure that she insisted on my accompanying her.
The Tram came and she got in.
It's not my destination and I remained.
Before she leaves whispered something in Portuguese.
She must have told that I love you.
Later on I inquired the meaning from my cobbler friend who speaks little English?
Her dialect meant I am already married.
I wanted to tell her the other day when I meet her that I am also married.
Matrimony is a strong bond.
Isn't it?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Third Generation
The old man in the square sells trinkets and balloons
when he has got enough money to buy a little dream
and he enters the market town's only saloon.
By the bar thinks of his lemon selling father who had
a mule that had white as a duckling's plume, and
fruit as yellow as only Gunter Grass can paint them.
Remembers his grandfather a cobbler who walked
around town with a sack of promises given to him by
people who were never around on pay day.
Every Christmas he opened the sack and let broken
promises fly up in the air and forever disappear, liars
and cheats should not feel guilty of telling fibs.
Outside the old man's balloons had flown away, free
of strings filled the air with jubilation like errant people
who had once again been let off the catch.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Ode to The Scent Of Cinnamon
The heady scent of cinnamon
Upon the opening of the door
The tugging out of memories
From the mind’s musty store
The warm, soft smell of pie crust
Upon the opening of the oven
The revisiting of the memories
The huggin’ and the lovin’
The aromatic aura of apples
Baked with a crispy honeyed glaze
The remembering of the memories
Kitchen memories, happy days
The Smell of hot peach cobbler,
The tantalizing odor of allspice
The callin’ back of the memories
Kitchen memories, warm and nice
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poem by David Whalen
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My Ancestors
A barefoot boy I went to school
To save a cobbler's fee,
For though the porridge pot was full
A frugal folk were we;
We baked our bannocks, spun our wool,
And counted each bawbee.
We reft our living from the soil,
And I was shieling bred;
My father's hands were warped with toil,
And crooked with grace he said.
My mother made the kettle boil
As spinning wheel she fed.
My granny smoked a pipe of clay,
And yammered of her youth;
The hairs upon her chin were grey,
She had a single tooth;
Her mutch was grimed, I grieve to say,
For I would speak the truth.
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poem by Robert William Service
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A
“Christmas In February”
I know it’s not Christmas time,
But my wish is to now have it anyway.
So I can hear the laughter of my little ones,
Opening their gifts on my February Christmas Day.
Wonderful scents of Christmas ham with gravy and biscuits,
Along with my mother’s spicy peach cobbler recipe.
All this is what I wish to have this February,
I pray for all those most precious of past Christmas’s memories.
Children are now all grown up,
They’ve gone on their ways.
Don’t write or call of visit me much,
I never wanted them to exclude me in such a way.
For my heart still remembers their childhood days,
But now they’re all grown and in their own world it seems.
And left me with just my memories of Christmas past,
And stuck with only my old timer kind of wishful dreams.
poem by Linda Winchell
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Christmas In February
“Christmas In February”
I know it’s not Christmas time,
But my wish is to now have it anyway.
So I can hear the laughter of my little ones,
Opening their gifts on my February Christmas Day.
Wonderful scents of Christmas ham with gravy and biscuits,
Along with my mother’s spicy peach cobbler recipe.
All this is what I wish to have this February,
I pray for all those most precious of past Christmas’s memories.
Children are now all grown up,
They’ve gone on their ways.
Don’t write or call of visit me much,
I never wanted them to exclude me in such a way.
For my heart still remembers their childhood days,
But now they’re all grown and in their own world it seems.
And left me with just my memories of Christmas past,
And stuck with only my old timer kind of wishful dreams.
poem by Linda Winchell
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As Time Goes By
In our town there were many small shops, one selling
buttons the other socks; and a hardware store should
you need a hammer and nails to hang up a picture of
your mother -in- law, in the living room.
There was also a shop selling scarves, another selling
ladies hats, and a third one, quite posh, selling suits and
ties. I mustn’t forget the shoe shop, leather footwear
black or brown and white tennis shoes.
In our street of trade most shops have shut, those still
open are run by the Orientals where you can buy all
you need for a very small price. If your shoes wear out,
no point going to the old cobbler, buy Chinese instead.
Red lanterns sway in the fiscal breeze of decline where
wistfulness has no price tag. But you must remember
this, a shop is just a shop, yet, for us sentimental fools,
are remembered as a sweet memory of times gone by,
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Puritans - (from Hudibras)
Our brethren of New England use
Choice malefactors to excuse,
And hang the guiltless in their stead,
Of whom the churches have less need;
As late it happened in a town
Where lived a cobbler, and but one,
That out of doctrine could cut use,
And mend men's lives as well as shoes.
This precious brother having slain
In times of peace an Indian,
Not out of malice, but mere zeal,
Because he was an infidel;
The mighty Tottipotimoy
Complaining loudly of the breach
Of league held forth by brother Patch,
Against the articles in force
Between both churches, his and ours;
For which he craved the saints to render
Into his hands, or hang the offender.
But they maturely having weighed
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poem by Samuel Butler
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude II.
'I thought before your tale began,'
The Student murmured, 'we should have
Some legend written by Judah Rav
In his Gemara of Babylon;
Or something from the Gulistan,--
The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan,
Or of that King of Khorasan
Who saw in dreams the eyes of one
That had a hundred years been dead
Still moving restless in his head,
Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust
Of power, though all the rest was dust.
'But lo! your glittering caravan
On the road that leadeth to Ispahan
Hath led us farther to the East
Into the regions of Cathay.
Spite of your Kalif and his gold,
Pleasant has been the tale you told,
And full of color; that at least
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Stagnant Sailor Hears The Old Ship's Whistle!
O This Wedlock!
How strong it's like concrete?
I dropped my anchor once
And thought it's a muddy bottom
No it's rocky?
And I cannot heave up the anchor
and sail again.
Wind is so wild and the Ocean's frozen!
If I get a chance soon I reach Portugal
The upper Railway station apartment in Lisbon
Deceased brother & myself we shared a delicious rotten
Tomato soup with a slice of brown bread,
The well learned cobbler Pedro Rodriguez
Who speaks little English like me
We discussed about the fine book of Eca De Queiroz's 'Sin of Father Amaro'
Jade eyed girl in Antwerp who said rain stopped
when I asked the umbrella
and in Cairo the Mummy in a Pyramid
gave me a lovable smile?
That middle aged Gypsy woman Varna in Yugoslavia
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poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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