Best Potato Poems
It's love when you enter a room and give me these butterflies.
No reason to try and hide keeping these emotions inside.
You have me intoxicated from those sensations that you provide.
Woman you remind me of Sweet Potato Pie.
It's love when the phone rings and I rush to answer, praying it's you.
She's a part of my goals now and all the things I want to do.
Everyday is an adventure and always something new.
Together we've healed old wounds, despite the pain both of us have gone through.
A serene feeling of comfort when looking into your beautiful eyes.
You're warm like Sweet Potato Pie.
It's love when I purpose to her on Valentine's day.
A life of bliss sealed with a kiss was my determined way.
To make her mine for all time.
My partner in crime.
Like Bonnie and Clyde.
She still gives me butterflies.
I'll always have a sweet tooth for her like Sweet Potato Pie!
Dear Lordy, what have you done
this loony spouse given me…
he rants and TV- clicks all night
much like a freakish banshee!
Obsessed with horror movies
remote control is life's drug:
This model needs rebooting,
It's time for urgent de-bug.
11/11/2017
Written for Kevin Shaw's Surreal and Daft
Couch Potato
You are sitting on my couch, now.
You are watching TV with my kid.
Yes, she is old enough to sit there.
She is technically, All Grown Up!
That is not the issue.
Be careful,
You are ever being…
watched.
For what?
The way you are;
What you do,
What you see,
What you think,
How you act,
How you react,
How I can best dispose of the body.
October is the best of months.
So much happens.
Harvest.
The bringing in of the crops,
leaves the soil… disturbed.
It also makes it easy to dig.
Gardening is a lot of fun.
When I walked through to the kitchen,
passing you, pawing my little girl like a wolf,
on my sofa…
you did not flinch, or use proper respect.
Some have done this before.
You are not the first.
You, lol…
Yes, I love to garden.
Packed with starch, protein
Provided for many
People called 'earth apple'
Placed at gold value once
Potassium rich veg
Peruvian produce
Peel, slice, fry and enjoy
I sit and I sit and I sit again,
Wondering why my neck hurts
And my body is losing her elasticity.
Eating brownies for fuel, knowing I am killing myself
Softly, and in a luxuriously relaxing way.
The brownies are gone, but I am not satisfied,
So I reach for the potato chips.
They are salty and crunchy
And help me swallow the
Sweet of the brownies.
I am in one of those hey, let’s not
Do-anything-today-days.
I would go to the store and
Get more chips, but I am
Out of steam,
Sitting
Just
Sitting
Hurting
No one
But
Me
The grandfather on my mother's side was a cheapskate.
A real cheapskate.
One Christmas, he gave me a used paperback book.
Something like “Jimmy Plays Baseball.”
It was written for a 7 year old child, and I was considerably older than that.
Still had “5 cents” written in pencil on the first page.
No foolin'.
Asked he, “You ever read that one?”
Replied I, “No granddad. Can’t say I have. Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I hated going to visit them.
In the row house in Baltimore city, where my mother grew up.
(‘Balmer.’ ‘Balmer, Merilan.' “How you doin’ hon?”)
Me and my sister sitting on the wood floor in the living room.
Positioned dead eyed to the manger on the mantle.
Given board games to occupy our time.
My father loved talking to him, Leo, Leo Groeninger.
Because he was brilliant.
And he knew everything about everything.
A sedentary encyclopedia on the spectrum.
His second wife sitting dutifully next to him on the couch.
My mother sitting in a chair, the only one left in the living room.
“Maybe you kids would like to play checkers, or Parcheesi.”
But he had one saving grace:
His German potato salad.
The real thing.
Made with ham fat.
Five pounds of ham fat.
Or bacon, if you didn't have any ham fat.
Damn that stuff was good!
There was a new potato that had just been harvest born
On opening his eyes a rooster crowed its horn.
He had grown rather quickly and grown rather strong
But that's when his feelings started to feel wrong.
Mr Potato had noticed he was feeling very sad
Sometimes it felt like, he was going slowly mad.
He was feeling confused and didn't understand why
Deep down he felt rotten, he just wanted to cry.
He discovered a big chip on his little shoulder
That grew too heavy to carry as he got older.
Then there was the urge to pound and to mash
That got quiet messy but made a tasty hash.
He gave a brill roasting when he felt mad
That was either good or extremely bad.
On the days he was fine he felt chirpy and crisp
Those were the days he fancied going for a dip.
When it was too hot he felt rather boiled
And when it was cooler he liked to feel the cold.
His skin went more brown when he got baked
His spud-kini gave him wedges - for goodness sake!
Mother Nature felt sorrow for this confused spud
So she sent a gentle breeze that felt like a hug.
It was important he knew, he is valued so much
He smiled and listened when he felt her soft touch.
"These feelings that you feel are normal you see,
For you are a potato these feelings come naturally.
Your loved by so many and desired too
Your the stable in diets and great in a stew".
"Your the star at every vegan, society social bash
In soups an as a bread, your the main in creamy mash.
Your the star on the topping of a shepherds pie
Your famous world over, a very popular guy."
"You feed so many people, the rich and the poor
Your popular and wanted, it's you they adore.
You come from a large family of sisters and brothers
You have royal connections you will discover."
"The farmers will feed you and keep you warm
Your important to millions you have texture and great form.
King Edward and Charlotte, Maris Piper, Desiree
These are just a few from your large family tree."
He felt happy to know that he had a purpose
And easy to grow and there was even some surplus.
Feeding so many, especially the poor
He was now ready, to go through the kitchen door.
08.09.23
Sitting on the sofa
Munching on some chips
Not a care in the world
Of calories on the hips.
Slouched down on the cushion
The tv glued to his face
You ask him a question
But he's out in outer space.
You call him to the table
He won't leave his favorite chair
The sports are on the screen
He must eat his dinner there.
The man is getting fatter
Nothing you do will get him out
You turn the tube off
And all he does is shout.
This couch potato man
No further does he get
His life is all downhill
Cause he's caught within a net.
The tv screen has got him
It's made him very lame
He won't go out the door
This man has earned his name.
sweet potato pie
my grandmother used to make
i will always miss....
Big Potato..for limerick contest
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
Old Joe the potato grower
Was beside himself in sorrow
For down at his boots
Was a hole so darn deep
His potato’s now resided in China
POTATO PEELER
I want to peel potatoes all day long.
I love peeling potatoes because of their lovely round shape
and their lovely little nodules. I like to feel the earthy texture
of their skin and I love to take a potato peeler to them.
Just to feel the knife bite through their skin and to reveal
the white flesh underneath.
There is such joy to behold in taking a bite
of an unpeeled potato. The feel of the earthy skin
on your tongue and those acidic juices running down your chin.
Such is heaven in my warped little head.
'Twas a horrible thing called the blight,
diseased potatoes a depressing sight,
starvation begone,
crossed over the pond,
arrived Ellis Island future looks bright.
3-13-17
The eyes fit into little holes;
The nose, ears, mouth do, too.
Of course, you have some choices
But not more than just a few.
The parts are made of plastic
Though way back in my own youth,
The body was a real potato -
That's the doggone truth.
The toy came with accoutrements -
Each pointed, like a stud,
Which you stuck with wild abandon
Into any uncooked spud.
I told this to my grandkids' mom
Who, when her own mom spoke
Of using a potato, she
Assumed it was a joke.
But creativity was once
So simple, we've forgotten.
The only drawback was
Our masterpiece, at times, went rotten.
Sweet potatoes, special cuts,
Grandma's spices, nuts,
Raisins cooked in every bite.
Flaky crust baked light,
Cool whip heaped up high.
Thanksgiving –
Pie!
In Indian cuisine, potato is favourite.
People make variety of dishes and they eat.
Boiled, fried or in dosa.
Love too, filled in samosa.
On day of fast, consume one kg. at least.
Indians like potato, fries and finger chips.
In many other vegetables, they do mix.
No worry, if takes;
body, potato shape.
They are brave not afraid even of diabetes.
(C) S. D. Tiwari
dosa, samosa = names of Indian dishes