Long Potato Poems
Long Potato Poems. Below are the most popular long Potato by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Potato poems by poem length and keyword.
I remember when I was a little girl
And the Rag and Bone man came round
On his cart pulled by a horse
All manner of things could be found
A washing machine with a broken ringer
And a bicycle without a wheel
He used to give my grandma two pence
For a bag of meat bones leftover from a meal
The bones were used for knife handles
And the grease extracted used to make soap
We’d give them to him in a potato sack
Tied around the top with a piece of rope
I remember one day the ragman
Knelt down on the ground
Searching between the paving stones
Where horseshoe nails could be found
Over his tired shoulders
He would carry a small bag
It would contain bones and various metals
Plus numerous pieces of coloured rag
One of the ragmen who came to our street
His name was Henry Moon
If we gave him something for his cart
We were rewarded with a goldfish or a balloon
It was a hard life being a ragman
People now wouldn’t see the sense
In working from early morning till night
For the measly sum of six pence
You still see rag and bone men about
No longer with a horse-drawn cart
Driving around in short wheel-base lorries
They have scrap collecting down to a fine art
They still pick up broken washing machines
And bicycles without a wheel
But some people still prefer to fly-tip
Dumping unwanted items in a field
We live in a throwaway society
No longer reliant on Mr Rag and Bone
It’s easy to get rid of scrap items
We just need to pick up the phone
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
aluminum tree gleams,
a cold miracle~
electric blue, then pink,
spun from the future.
flannel pajamas,
stiff with newness,
crackle like wrapping paper
under the tree.
toy guns bark in the den,
plastic rifles with no recoil.
Tiny Tears weeps
her forever-damp dress.
Barbie waits, legs arched
for a life she can’t bend.
Silly Putty lifts
the funnies right off the page.
Mr. Potato Head,
eyeless in the morning light,
grins with his spare parts~
a face we assembled ourselves
using real potatoes.
‘Twas Christmas 1955
I want to look like that potato chip
And be on the front of time magazine
Wear the latest fashions, I'll be so hip
I'll be the best French fry you've ever seen
And be on the front of time magazine
I will be the envy of all my friends
I'll be the best French fry you've ever seen
Keeping up with the latest fashion trends.
I will be the envy of all my friends
Wear the latest fashions, I'll be so hip
Keeping up with the latest fashion trends
I want to look like that potato chip.
(In the uk French fries are called chips and potato chips in the US are called crisps in the UK)
Written 20th July 2021
Picture number 3
For Pantoum Rhyme 1 Poetry Contest
Sponsored By Eve Roper.
I looked like plump Mrs. Potato Head before
Then I started dancing around the room
Then I danced around the large ballroom floor
Discarding my broom, I began to bloom
Then I started dancing around the room
My youthful figure began a sweet bud
Discarding my broom, I began to bloom
No longer was I a rustic fat spud
My youthful figure began a sweet bud
Then I danced around the large ballroom floor
No longer was I a rustic fat spud
I looked like plump Mrs. Potato Head before
Date: 07/27/2021
Photo: #3
I used rhyme zone
Contest: Pantoum Rhyme 1
Sponsor: Eve Roper
1I looked like plump Mrs. Potato Head before 10
2Then I started dancing around the room 10
3Then I danced around the large ballroom floor 10
4Discarding my broom, I began to bloom 10
5
6Then I started dancing around the room 10
7My youthful figure began a sweet bud 10
8Discarding my broom, I began to bloom 10
9No longer was I a rustic fat spud 10
10
11My youthful figure began a sweet bud 10
12Then I danced around the large ballroom floor 10
13No longer was I a rustic fat spud 10
14I looked like plump Mrs. Potato Head before 10
I did check this on syllable counter and this is what I got so that is the reason I did not correct it.
The 60's
The look was penny loafers, bobby socks,
pleated skirts, button up shirts,
bell bottom pants and headbands
Flower children were also the era,
Stood for peace and love also political movement
Listen to the music of the Beatles, Monkeys, Rolling Stones plus many more.
My heart throbbed for John Lennon, so young and in love
In my private time I listen to Liberace on the radio
Danced the Twist, Jerk, Monkey, Mashed potato, and the Watusi
I love to dance at the school Sox Hop dances up on the bleachers
Swinging my long auburn hair to the waist, back and forth
My hips moved to the twist
While everyone else danced on the gym floor
Mom’s favorite hair style, the Beehive
Dad looks so good looking behind the wheel of his 1959 De Soto station wagon
A child’s joy jumping rope, hopscotch, jacks,
Rotating a Hula hoop around my waist
Playing marbles with the boys
My favorite, climbing trees but
It always came with a broken bone
Our 35th president was John F. Kennedy
I was sitting in a swing in the playground
When we all heard he had been fatally shot
I was only 12 then
Tears ran down my face when I heard
People weren’t being treated equal
He stood for Equal Rights
We lost great man was that day
Growing up in the 60s was fun, but also very sad
Contest Name: Decades The 60’s * 2nd Place
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Sensibilities shaped and slapped and stolen. (aha)
I am indeed a borrowed man.
For where amongst my stirrings stand
priori grand?
Mission thwarted by a bell.
Noble tell.
Some soul such as mine
even, ever thus, declined.
Brokered deal appealed
in youthful fancy;
clung as clung today.
A skyward, inward, aching chance.
Once rejoiced.
A face more mine than my own.
All skin each day
the morning shone.
Bark un-burled.
Shadow long uncurled to rust.
Untrusted flag re-furled;
Scattered in what mattered, dust.
Awoke to see the joke.
First impression lasting,
reality unmasking,
I am Thee.
A fraud become.
Mashed potato brained
and stew of everyman.
Another pauper’s heart proffered
for a token:
Stolen, broken, borrowed,
a cobbled, curse of words.
No glory left ingrained
this shallow story
unrefined and rained
upon us all.
Long verse of silence,
then still.
Until more silence comes
from up the hill.
mon u mental moment,
overturned by seed or ant.
can to can’t.
broken dancer’s leg,
blinded painter,
broken banker.
suicide with empty gun.
far worse than hollow
lifetime borrowed,
and chattering to gatherings as though tomorrows come with new surprises
there is only one
surprise.
and here it is.
Gorgeous gobbledygook in a babe’s mouth
— masticates with angelic appetite.
From your mouth to his hearty-grumbling ear,
the stomach of his mind chews up the light,
spits out uncomprehended-oatmeal curd,
but favors the cadence of rolling tongue.
The surge of warmth in the sound of “Ma-ma,”
and often the playful silliness, strung
on a baby’s beads, tickle the tired lead.
Like an emaciated bear, he points
to the people and things he longs to pop
in his potato-famine mouth. His joints
well-oiled, never spoiled - the silver spoons’ croon.
He tastes the bittersweet of maturity.
Hears the crude erupting sounds in their vowels,
ferocious consonants - he chants with glee.
He knows not the shock value but learns quick
by the unhinged jaw drop of his mentor.
Did they think he would not repeat such pluck?
He spits out appleseeds - wormy encore.
7/31/2021
Anything You Want
Sponsor: Chantelle Cooke
*Pluck - guts, nerve, fortitude or persistance (definitions.net)
Couch potatoes never see the light,
Seldom produce real potatoes,
Or much else that is palatable.
They leave switches on 24 seven,
And don't know what is the purpose of an off switch,
Resulting in bed sores,
Though they seldom get as far as the bed.
It is only the sight of grandchildren,
That is likely to shift them,
Into second gear,
And look for a cake of soap,
Along with a clean face cloth,
To wash the sleep out of their eyes,
So they can find their way to the shower.
If all this happens,
They might even dust the cobwebs off the cake mixer,
And produce something resembling a birthday cake.
So, if your parents are couch potatoes,
You know what you have to do,
If you ever want to see a plate of,
Sausages, peas, corn, mashed potatoes,
Lashings of gravy and tomato sauce ever again,
With carrot cake for dessert,
Followed by potato or elderberry wine,
Perhaps.
There is no time to delay,
As you might not get it right the first time,
And couch potatoes are notorious for,
Checking out early.
Now is the time to shut down the computer,
Or gaming console,
And make your partner's
Day or night.
It starts with one box
Full of good potatoes
Judging from inside out
You have good potatoes here
Slime simpering smell
Drifting in from nowhere
Perhaps is just a heat
Supposedly is one of those days
They still look good
Just open the box to catch the air
Before you know it
The dead rat scent is unbearable
Stinking liquid wets the bottom of the box
Almost the whole box is rotten
How could you not see that coming?
Was it your ignorance?
Were you deceived by the lookssss?
What have you done?
There was something about one potato,
That did not look like it would spoil right?
Could be that small dark mark have
Spoiled the whole box?
Was it one of those contagious thing?
Nobody is perfect isn't so?
You are not perfect isn't so?
How to see a serpent covered in Human skin?
The rotten smell attracts fruit flies,
When troubles arise you will see
Promise of peace drifting by
Only to turn to be traitors
Whilst spirit beings perish
In the valleys of ignorance
Like the children of God
Who lack's knowledge.
That could only be a scenario of
One rotten potato!!!
It is six minutes to midnight
I have been drinking Red Bull for three hours.
It usually inspires me.
Nutbush is going around in my head,
but it has been done.
By Tina too.
The deadline my songwriting partner gave me
is one a.m.
She knows that I have an avid belief that
my muse has her best ideas at night.
Especially from midnight to two
I eat a bag of Lay’s
Barbeque Potato Chips,
for ideas.
Crunchy. Scrunchy. Bunchy enter my head.
Too silly, even for me, even for 12:34 which it is now.
I call her and beg her to give me another hour
2 a.m. is what I was aiming for in the first place she says
Knowing me not half as well as my muse,
nonetheless knowing me.
It is now five minutes to 2.
Will she be mad if I call?
Especially if all I have is
Crunchy? as
I already threw out ‘scrunchy’ and ‘bunchy’.
I chuckle at myself, wondering if my muse
is asleep, or merely dead.