Life is like a cup of tea
We take it as we like it.
Some people drink it plain and weak,
Some make it sour with lemon.
I like my tea dark and fresh
With just a little sugar,
Rather as I like to live,
Strong but with some pleasure
tea
Making Tea
Making tea is not the easy task it may seem.
To make it alone is simple,
it’s a matter of getting up steam
and not stewing the brew
but keeping it fresh and delightful.
I keep a few blends by to heal me
and stave off the winter colds
(or so we are told)
but orange pekoe is best,
or simple assam, bright and dark,
they outstrip the rest.
I have loved them for years
since I was just a young spark.
Lapsang souchong may be more hip,
it’s aroma may be more inspiring
but i gave up after one sip.
We all have our preference
and that’s where the problem comes in
Must every choice be political
or a statement of ethical pride?
What pleasure does that enhance?
My cupboard has a full range
in case a friend should come round
and inspect my tea making stance
and state their own, to impress.
There’s also the sweetening question;
none, sugar or honey.
Such noble-hearted obsessions
backed with the full force of money
request what I cannot afford.
Be assured, I would if i could.
It was quite a relief
when my latest guest came
and asked for a cup of hot water.
I think she won the great game.
Chatanooga Choo Choo (written in a 1940’s themed cafe)
Churchill yells from the wall, ”Let’s go forward together!”
I look across the table. The Victoria Sponge is behind us. On closer inspection it’s dry and too heavy, rather like the days that are memorised here, in glamourised nostalgia.
I was born a little after the war and all I recall is the sweets still rationed and the bombsites; the sad, damp wall-paper flapping from shattered bedroom walls in the wind.
My newsfeed bleeps from my phone. Missiles aimed at Syria.
Back then Pearl Harbour was bombed.
The Chattanooga Choo Choo just keeps choo-chooing on.
Let’s stay at the tea table and just keep moving around. I’ll be the Hatter. You pour the tea. Be ‘mother’.
People have got to stop killing each other.
We’ll meet again.
Don’t know where.
Don’t know when.
Collaborators
On Day 12 of NapoWriMo (for which I am writing a poem a day throughout April) I was sitting in a 1940’s themed cafe called Fourteas in Stratford-upon-Avon. Two of us come from the UK and two from Australia. We have known each other online (as avatars only) for quite a long time but had met face to face for the first time only 2 days before.
The Day 12 poetry prompt for of the day was to write a Haibun about your surroundings. I wrote The Rain it Raineth Every Day (my post for April 12th) but suggested we all do one while sitting in the 1940’s cafe.
This is the result ~
from Keith ~
I’m sitting here out of the wind and rain
with the water running down the drain.
Oh, how I wish I was home, in the warmth of the sunshine.
Oh, happy days, happy days
I’m drinking tea
instead of coffee
Oh, happy days, happy days
We’re soon to leave these lovely people
to make a twenty-hour flight.
That will give us a fright.
Oh, happy days, happy days
We are going on a cruise and that’ll be swell
so hopefully all will be well.
Oh, happy days, happy days
We’re still sitting here with sandwiches and tea
and hope to be reunited with thee and thee
Oh, happy days, happy days
From Cath
Rain-soaked streets and drab shops
Bring back dog-eared layers of memory
Dragging dreary days filed in melancholy feeling.
Make do and Mend. Waste Not Want Not.
I remember factory girls clattering past,
Cloths tied around their heads,
Brushing by laughing and gossiping.
It was austere, all right.
They never had brie. Or grapes. Back then.
Only bomb-sites. And empty buildings.
Slipping realities. Sitting in a 1940s café with
A good friend I’ve only just met.
Are pixels more real than flesh?
Or prims less fake than war-time décor?
And what about that waitress with a German accent?
In the street, we dance Swan Lake in boots and coats,
With a real swan.
Who hisses. Pissed off.
It still rains.
from Barbara
Four fabulous friends, who met on the internet, find each other in real life, laughing and having a fun and living the moment, enjoying each others company and hoping the day will never end. Amid spiced tea and sandwiches, precious memories are made, never to be forgotten.
Passing food amongst us all
Amid many smiles
Happiness is tangible
and from me
Churchill yells from the wall, ”Let’s go forward together!”
I look across the table. The Victoria Sponge is behind us. On closer inspection it’s dry and too heavy, rather like the days that are memorised here, in glamourised nostalgia.
I was born a little after the war and all I recall is the sweets still rationed and the bombsites; the sad, damp wall-paper flapping from shattered bedroom walls in the wind.
My newsfeed bleeps from my phone. Missiles aimed at Syria.
Back then Pearl Harbour was bombed.
The Chattanooga Choo Choo just keeps choo-chooing on.
Let’s stay at the tea table and just keep moving around. I’ll be the Hatter. You pour the tea. Be ‘mother’.
People have got to stop killing each other.
We’ll meet again.
Don’t know where.
Don’t know when.
Footnote: The word ‘prim’ is an abbreviation of ‘primative‘ – a word to denote a building block in alternative reality
The Opinion of the Dormouse
This interminable tea party is terribly boring.
We’ve moved round this table for years.
I’m not asleep, I’m listening and snoring.
I have excellent ears.
The Hatter was always so gloomy before.
Since Alice came here he isn’t the same
He seems to like chatting very much more
I’ve heard him whisper her name.
He still goes on drinking
Cups of cold tea
But I know what he’s thinking.
It’s not about me.
He’s never asked me which cake I prefer.
We have all her favourites each day.
He even taught her how to quadrille.
He summoned musicians to play.
Banana cake’s banned.
Alice dislikes it.
The birds eat cake from her hand.
She passed me a nice bit today.
They all love sweet Alice,
Even silly March Hare.
There are threats everyday from the palace
But Hatter and Hare, being mad, never care.
I know Hatter’s thinking she’s young and naïve,
But I think he’ll have a surprise.
All will be well if she doesn’t leave.
Alice is curiously wise.
Renewing Alice
An ageing Alice sits in her room
Leading a simple life.
Her big adventures are done.
An ageing Alice sits in her room,
Her once pretty face losing its’ bloom.
This is the nature of time.
An ageing Alice sits in her room
Remembering, quietly smiling,
Making a note in her diary ~~~
”The Mad Hatter sees to the deeply crazed core,
The central heart of the matter.
When he dropped in today, escaping the rain,
I was thrilled and delighted to see him again
When you look at the world in a different way
There is wonder, adventure, in each new born day.
Mad, a bit sad, never bad,
He’s the dearest friend I ever had.
Next time it rains I hope he comes back.
He reminds me so much of something I lack.
It’s always good to have a long natter.
There is wisdom aplenty in tea time chatter.”
The Dreaming Path 