Best Spud Poems
Marry Your Best Friend To Get the Best of Both Worlds
Not many can claim they met their spouse in a battle of wits
much less the fabled (don't believe a word of it!) Internet.
But my uncle, he's not many. And my new aunt? Well she's a keeper.
And it wasn't love like a summer fling --- but it goes much deeper.
The rumors you heard - it's all too true - they met on Online Scrabble:
sesquipedalians by heart, but in the strictest sense, true Word Warriors.
Her last turn was an "I Do"... and when it came, he knew that he was done for:
pussyfooting through the back door, the tenacious Triple Word Score.
The date was planned - his bachelorhood canned. Compensated on Christmas day,
a wifie from Wales to tie the knot with my uncle the Stud from the Spud State.
The Red Dragon Damsel flew in (too strong to be distressed) into my uncle's country life.
(I still remember his clenched fists pouring buckets at the altar ... his first love)
And she brought her little Dragoness, too --- a fiery spark named Emily.
My job was to walk my new British cousin down the aisle,
as she whispered to me, "Should we link arms?"
And though I should have said, "What's the harm?"
instead of a rather robotic canter --- it now brings a smile.
My lovely Aunt Laura wore an eggplant dress, as if too challenge the mountain majesty
that peaked through the church window of that fine Idahoan morn.
Her glorious entry introduced by a Celtic song that would have made Enya weep,
as the vertigo of vows came to a close like a caged bird being released.
Mariah Carey's famous Christmas hit took to life --- All I Want Is You, rang true,
as they took each other's arms to dance celebrating an unlikely circumstance.
Crossing oceans to become One: she from Barry, and he from Boise.
The After Party --- filled with giggles, tears and rip-roaring stories from every point of view.
The wedding cake (believe it or not) was a Scrabble board:
one slice was Congratulations - and though a bit silly, to me it was poetry.
And my uncle - you could tell - was simply dumbfounded
as she took the words right out of his mouth
... with a crumb-filled smooch.
Written February 27th, 2016.
For the My Wedding Day Is Special Because... hosted by Olive Eloisa Guillermo
NOTE: I've never been married before, so I hope writing about my uncle's wedding instead is acceptable.
Categories:
spud, adventure, beauty, blessing, devotion,
Form:
Narrative
Franky was seven and having a party
He told all his school-mates, except for Spud Carty
And once they had heard that Spud wasn't invited
All of them said they were really excited
And then at the party the kids all had fun
Which might have continued if Spud hadn't come
Spud didn't play games, he was not in the mood
He’d much rather stuff himself full of free food
He grabbed all the biscuits and scoffed the whole lot
And all the Bombay mix although it was hot
He snaffled the sarnies and some went down whole
Then grabbed the spaghetti piled up in a bowl
He gobbled so much that he struggled to chew
Then Franky cried out, that's not only for you
Spud simply laughed spitting food as he said
We all gotta eat... or else we'd be dead
And that was when poor Franky found himself wishing
His dad had stayed home and had not gone off fishing
Spud sucked spaghetti like slithering snakes
And said when I'm done, gonna find me some cakes
But Franky looked sick and he started to squirm
That sgetti looks just like a wriggly worm
And Spud got annoyed when he heard someone giggle
Don't be so stoopid, spaghetti can't wriggle
Spud swallowed more, that spaghetti was yummy
He said with a grin as he patted his tummy
You lot he shouted must really be thick
To get the food first you'd have to be quick
The front door swung open, there stood Franky's dad
He looked a bit angry, in fact he looked mad
I’m meant to be fishing but I'm running late
I got to the lake but forgot all my bait
I've checked out the shed and I've looked all around
Wherever I look there's no bait to be found
Was it indoors his son Franky enquired
So it would be handy when it was required
Right there on the table his father confirms
An old plastic dish, full of wriggly worms
And that was when Spud's belly started to grumble
And everyone heard his guts starting to rumble
Spud almost flew to the lavatory
What happened next was a horror story
And when throwing up seemed much less of a danger
He left with kids calling out, Don't be a stranger!
Categories:
spud, bullying, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
A SONG THAT WILL ONLY MAKE SENSE
TO EAST COASTERS! (CANADA)
A heritage that we all share, our blood is maritime.
We thrill to see the Bluenose, her picture on a dime.
Emotion for an ocean, gray Atlantic ever by,
Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, PEI.
We’ve been to L’Anse Meadows, explored the Labrador.
Cruised the Ponds in Gros Morne Park, fished Caplin from the shore.
Raised a glass at Crow’s Nest, saw the sunrise Cape Spear beach.
Sang along with Great Big Sea, kissed the Cod and drank the Screech.
We’ve inner tubed the Nashwaak, fly fished the Miramichi.
Been to Historic Village in the heart of Acadie.
Climbed the Big Bald mountain, walked on Fundy’s floor.
Coasted up Magnetic Hill, scoffed at the Tidal Bore!
A heritage that we all share, our blood is maritime.
We thrill to see the Bluenose, her picture on a dime.
Emotion for an ocean, gray Atlantic ever by,
Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, PEI.
Sang “Farewell to Nova Scotia|”, drank Rita’s tea as well.
Danced all night at Ceilidhs, been to the Citadel.
Strolled the shore of Baddeck Bay, where the Silver Dart took flight.
Walked the wharf called Fisherman’s, the rocks at Peggy’s Light.
Sang “Bud the Spud!” with Stompin’ Tom, watched splinters fly away.
Ate lobster at church suppers, could hardly walk away.
Picked potatoes for the farmers, back in our childhood years.
Crossed Confederation Bridge, eight miles long me dears!
A heritage that we all share, our blood is maritime.
We thrill to see the Bluenose, her picture on a dime.
Emotion for an ocean, gray Atlantic ever by,
Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, PEI.
A heritage that we all share, our blood is maritime.
We thrill to see the Bluenose, her picture on a dime.
Emotion for an ocean, gray Atlantic ever by,
Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, PEI.
Ellis Pringle Craig, 2024.
Categories:
spud, funny, humorous, ocean, song,
Form:
Rhyme
Crazy Mick the Irishman, with trademark bike and overcoat,
wheeling his way back into town, classed as a tarnished silly goat.
His hair was long and curly; spoken words barely understood.
His manner gave impression he's up to no flamin’ good.
Shopkeepers grew an extra eye toward their advertised outside,
watching Mick out on the street as up and down he'd ride.
This man was on outcast; different to the folks they know,
a little dirty; is a vagrant, and he acts a little slow.
Mick’s first stop the butchers shop; bargained for a ‘snag’ or two.
The butcher he felt pity, so threw in an extra few.
This pleased Mick no end as he left the butchers door.
His feast was quick and final; ate the meat been given raw.
The pub through past experience had little time for Mick,
for beer became his nemesis; urged forward his fighting trick.
Too many times Mick’s antics had forced him to the street,
with bloodied nose, blackened eye; always getting beat.
Compromising was the bottle sale - take half a dozen and then go.
Sit over by the railway line and then drink them nice and slow.
Young kids without feelings teased Mick in his toxic state,
laughing as he chased them, for he'd stagger and gyrate.
When Mick disappeared, our town wondered where he went.
Had he found a home! Had he died! Where has his time been spent!
It seems in potato season when the pickers were required,
Mick was slogging in the paddocks where potato tops had died.
The 'swampy' people honoured Mick, for he had no fear of sweat.
He'd bend his back the furthest; earnt the spud farmer’s respect.
They saw a different person than the townie’s man un-trusted.
Hard working in the hot sun; not the drunk so often busted.
Mick perished one cold winter, alone inside a pickers shack.
Long after picking season ended, so what had brought him back?
He must have known his life was ebbing; left for where he felt no shame.
Spud farmers heads bowed 'round his grave - but not one townie came.
Categories:
spud, discrimination,
Form:
Rhyme
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
Categories:
spud, feelings, food,
Form:
Rhyme
A tribute to Poetry Soup's Emilia James
I don't like to be namin' names,
but check out Emilia James.
You'll find your poetic reward
in the tale of an ant and his sword.
She mixes words into cookie dough
until she's got it, well...just so.
Then, for her next funny feature,
we can enjoy another creature.
Her characters made me laugh
so hard I almost split in half.
I hope she makes up some other guys,
specializing in the smaller size.
From Washington to the Kremlin,
they're talkin' 'bout her tooth gremlin.
If all these cute guys aren't enough,
She writes about serious stuff.
You'll hear of Mother Nature's wrath,
and unsafe landmines in your path,
When you think, "it can't get better", bud,
There's Mr. Potato. Call him Spud.
Categories:
spud, tribute,
Form:
Rhyme
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.
Categories:
spud, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
In the Forest, I stood straight and tall;
King of all I did survey;
Achoring soil;cleansing air;giving shade;
And doing other good works every day.
Ho! Yonder comes the Woodworker!
Now He has selected me!
When He grabbed His mighty saw and brought me down,
I wondered what I could be!
Ouch! There goes a huge limb;
Another; then one more.
Things I had grown attached to
Lay on the Forest floor.
Next came the peeling spud,
To trim off all my bark,
With it's pitfalls and imperfections.
They piled it high, and burned it starting with a single spark.
So now I'm standing naked;
As open as I can be!
When the Woodcarver looks me over,
What does He really see?
Now the work begins in ernest,
With saw, and chisel and rasp,
To make me as smooth as possible.
T'is not an easy task!
With His pencil and His ruler,
He lays out His grand design.
Soon the chips begin a'flying
But He stays within the lines.
First, chisel, rasp,sand,then file.
Then repeat the routine once more
But I'm being molded all the while,
As the shavings pile up on the workroom floor.
With tender patience, He continues at His task.
His tools get ever finer, as He works along.
People often stare at me and ask,
"Oh my, what will this become?"
Fiinally, one day He lays down His tools
And stands back,with a smile and a tear.
No, His labor wasn't easy.
He had toiled for many years.
Now He's taking me upstairs-
To be a permanent fixture in His home.
At last, the project is completed.
I hear you ask,"What is this now , that all the work is done?"
He tenderly replies," An image of My Son"
Charlie Pelota HSLP Dec 1, 2001
Categories:
spud, introspectionme, work, me, work,
Form:
It’s time!
Spud,
You’re unearthed,
Exposed,
Don’t go all mushy,
I love your style,
Thinking about you,
Taste buds dance,
My little French fry,
Attractively dishy,
You’re quite a meal,
Deep-fried and hot,
To think dear,
Once just a potato,
Now far from your roots,
Everyone,
Wants part of you,
Quickly!
Let me reach,
I’m thinking!
Tomato sauce,
Hmm!!!!!
04/03/2017
Wendy Jae
Categories:
spud, poetry,
Form:
Personification
tank filled with green crud
on the bottom like a spud…
goldfish was a dud
Categories:
spud, animals, death, pets
Form:
Haiku
Back in the day when kids could just play
Without the fear of being stolen away,
We would be out at almost first light
Only in for our meals until it were night.
Football and cricket both in their season,
Just to be out was a good enough reason.
You could run down the entry trying to hide,
It weren't full of junk, people then had pride.
Our Mum's donkey stoned steps, straight as a die,
If you stood on 'em wet, a clip made you cry.
Even the binmen were all trained in their skill,
A brush and shovel was there to pick up the spill.
All the tradesmen knew to deliver proper, no lip,
If they were cheeky or late,no Christmas tip.
At Kitties Greengrocer us lads would be keen,
To be picked on a Saturday to keep the place clean.
Down in the cellar we'd go and boxes we'd stack,
If it wasn't done right you didn't come back.
Those picked for the shop sometimes came a cropper,
The hardest job there was filling that huge spud hopper.
We got maybe a tanner or bob if the job was well done,
Bellies were full and we got stuff to take home to Mum.
Not many toys,but with a bat n ball we had fun all day,
Back in the day when kids could just play.
© Dave Timperley 3 October 2016
Categories:
spud, childhood, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
Nancy and Lyle are friends of mine. They had both been widowed. When they married it was very obvious that they were meant to be together. They had a mashed potato bar at their reception. I thought that it was a fun idea.
I went to a party the other night and it was quite nice and well above par,
And my favorite thing for the guests to enjoy was a mashed potato bar.
Into a champagne glass a generous scoop of mashed potatoes was placed,
Then I could add any topping to it that I wanted and season it to my taste.
So I took some green onions and some bacon bits and then just to please,
I added a dollop of sour cream and a scoop of melted nacho cheese.
To tell you how great it tasted would be to put the horse behind the cart,
I have to explain that my mashed potato creation was truly a work of art.
Those who were seated by me were nearly overcome by their temptation,
When I ate my mashed spud Mona Lisa the taste filled me with elation.
I went to get a second helping and duplicate the flavor and the joy,
But when I got to the serving table what I saw only served to annoy.
The ingredients that were set out had been completely changed,
Now I had to deal with the fact that everything had been rearranged.
And so to this mashed masterpiece I added pork that was wrapped in salty bacon,
I covered the whole thing in savory gravy it was another masterpiece in the makin’.
It seems I’ve threaded the needle and the odds for a second time I’ve topped,
The shifting choices of life have slowed me down but have not left me stopped.
Can you imagine the luck that I must have, to find something that was so nice,
Only to have my life get rearranged but then to find something that nice twice?
So raise a champagne tater glass to Nancy and Lyle and wish for them the best,
And hope that the gravy of their lives remains lump free for they are truly blest.
Categories:
spud, food, funny, wedding, me,
Form:
Light Verse
A young potato put his jacket on,
Going out for some dance and song,
All the girls hearts skipped a beat
Upon seeing Spud and his dancing feet,
He got mashed when he danced too long.
Categories:
spud, funny,
Form:
Limerick
To Sparky, With Love
Sparky, you died of a heart attack today,
You died in my arms, on the way to the vet.
I tried to save you, but it was all in vain,
You need to know, you’re the most loving dog I ever met.
As I sit here with pen in hand,
Tears are streaming down my face.
The hurt is so real, I want you to know,
That no other doggie can ever take your place.
I dug your grave with so much sorrow,
I buried you out in my back yard.
So I can go out and talk with you,
Knowing each day it will be so hard.
Sparky, you will never be forgotten at our home,
We will remember the good times we shared.
We ran and played ball with Penny and Spud,
But with these two, you’ll never be compared.
Sparky, I know you’ve gone to doggie heaven,
The only place you could ever be.
I know you’re in good hands now,
And your doggie soul has been set free.
©2013 Lynn B Glover
Categories:
spud, dog,
Form:
Rhyme
Tim went to the Bovington Tank Festival...
baking in hot sun
spud boy wargasms like blitzkrieg
contemplating tanks
injustice of war ice cream
chocolate shrapnel sprinkled
Categories:
spud, education, food, humorous, military,
Form:
Tanka