Long Potato chip Poems
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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.
Through the eyes of real
selfish ideas wreaked havoc on many
whose hopes and dreams were snuffed out—
like the flame of a candle in a winter-wind storm....
Not just metaphorically... but literally
generations suffered the hellish terror— of stolen rights and identity...
lineage obliterated—
roots chopped like mulch and scattered in the wind like dry leaves of Autumn
with no regard— making it impossible to know—
from which tree we came—which yard?...
Through the eyes of real what are our real names?
Sad to say—"we don't know"— over 200 years ago— and still today
and we should pay for DNA?!...
Not!!!
Through the eyes of real
greed and laziness were the beginning motives that soon evolved into FEAR!
couldn't fathom the strength possessed to not succumb to infinite stress...
Through the eyes of real ...
friend of a friend ...
a peoples strife—deep within
the trail of rage
singing from the cage
turnin' the page
wiping away tears
crushing through fears
came the blood-bank
the multiplex telegraph
the potato chip—
the carbon filament lightbulb
and the list goes on...
ya see?
such treasures of a people contributions
were kept hidden from our educational institutions
Let’s keep it real... that agenda is alive today still...
the game to end black history conversation
is also an attempt to squash owed reparations
Through the eyes of real
visible restraints no longer seen
however... systemically present still
a people hard-timed...red lined...by design
hidden in plain sight
the continued violation of basic human rights
Potato chip, I love you up,
my darling little buttercup.
A cup! A Reese’s chocolate one
with peanut butter. Oh, what fun!
What fun is time with nacho chips;
delightful cheese to tease my lips.
My lips around a hamburger,
with onion rings my heart to stir.
Stir the chili in the pot.
Add Tabasco; cook it hot.
Hot, that snack I love so well,
is buttered popcorn that I smell.
Smell the pasta fantasy-
sauce and parmesan for me.
Me and cheesecake, cherries atop.
Once I start, I cannot stop.
Stop for ice cream; what I wish-
a sundae sitting in a dish.
Dish me up some southern fried
with mashed potatoes on the side.
A side of bacon, crispy fat.
I see nothing wrong in that!
That’s a spicy hot tamale.
Enchiladas make me jolly.
Jolly Christmas; candies sweet,
turkey, ham; so much to eat.
Eat a pizza. It’s the best.
Now I’ve gotta take a rest.
(An oldie of mine where I tried to make each new couplet start with the word at the end of previous couplet)
For Juliet Ligon's 'Most Original' Poetry Contest
She wanted to be an exotic dancer, but she was a receptionist.
Other receptionists wanted to be an admin assistant.
She was not one of those; she wanted a stripper pole.
She was envisioning herself in a sparkly tutu, sans ruffle.
Her boss had apparently asked her something a couple of times.
She looked at her prissy face wearing its prissy clothes.
This office was ugly; she fit in well. She was ridiculously demanding
Sure, she agreed. She always agreed. She needed this ugly job.
If exotic dancing did not work out, she would be a gypsy wagon designer.
She loved them, and she had the wardrobe for it at her house.
Not here where she had to wear a confining jail sentence of a suit.
And heels which she despised. But it brought in the potato chip money.
The boss was calling her again. Did she expect her to go in there?
She sighed.
Same old routine.
Call and I come.
Today is National Pretzel Day…the day to give our hats a tip
to the long-suffering cousin of the more popular potato chip.
I’m not sure how it happened…why or where or when
but in a list of the most popular snacks...pretzels aren’t in the top 10?
How can they lose out to Cheetos...sure they may be a little bit duller
but Cheetos leave your fingers orange...and is that even a real color?
If you think that doesn’t bother the pretzel…bother them a lot.
I imagine that’s the real reason they’re all tied up knots.
So today lets glorify the pretzel and spread good pretzel thoughts across the land
Did you know they were originally shaped to resemble praying hands?
And here’s an interesting little tidbit, an often forgotten stat
the marriage term ‘tie the knot....we have the pretzel to thank for that.
Pretzels once were a part of weddings, held by the couple for everyone to see
to be broken and eaten together as a symbol of unity.
The pretzel signifies good luck…in Germany children believe it brings good cheer.
That’s why they tie one around their neck at the beginning of each year.
Pretzels once adorned Christmas trees…Hey! this is a snack with legs...
At one time they were even hidden...on Easter Sunday…with the eggs.
A long time ago pretzels were a common way to help the poor get fed.
They were often thought so highly of...they were buried with the dead!
I could go on and on but I think I’ve made my case…
When it comes to every other snack…you’re all vying for 2nd place.
So move over cookies, candy, crackers, Cheeto’s and potato chips…
you’ve all had your fun.
It’s time for the pretzel to take its rightful place as the snack world’s number 1.
The hollow sounds of fog return this time of year.
Loud echoes of potato chip crunching tires on frozen snow.
Disappearing into the city night as stars emerge from hiding
in a black-blanketed sky. We move toward the cusp of country,
body twitching with remembrances of anticipation.
That first dark nighttime sky away from city lights,
glimpsing the Milky Way Orchestra tuning
its sound to the touch of our senses. Oh yes, there is a tingle
in the air. The first tiny ting of triangle leading to such a
crescendo of silence so loud you cannot hear with common ear.
You hear it with your soul. You may see a frozen deer along
the tree line staring or a fox half-halting with its searching ears;
miniature gramophones scooping giant swathes of air for sound
and hearing none. It is a silent swift of fog between the moon and earth
that lends its leverage to the Universe. One verse for us all tonight.
Food issues bring odd stealth
(not obsessed with broccoli
inexplicable phobia of brussel sprouts)
It's potato chip indulgence
pandemic binge eating
supersedes duty to diet
Label my needs selfish
(after all, self control isn't freedom!)
Existential angst
Potholes of dire health
Craving: Sea salt potato chips
- a tide leaving stretch mark traces
My shadow now Alfred Hitchcock bloated
(abandoning hope of waist line laudable)
Companionship ceded to bulging bags of potato chips
finger tips that weep salt
(I try to brush it off, but succumb:
'JUST LICK IT')
till crumpled bags curl in sighs
Facebook support groups sought ('who else shares my
salted existence?') More sublime than on-line
naughtiness
Conspiracy Theory: junk food sellers wilfully target my email!
You Tube influencers influence, NO - inflame
cravings that boast an 'R' rating
Self Discovery: I can jog and eat salted chips at the same time
Sweat pants absolve my sins, perfect deception
and are dazzlingly stylish
Post pandemic goal: re-locate to the garden
grab an apple
juicy bites
eat indecently
and ignore the snake.
Poem composed: March 6, 2021 (revised May24/21)
Contest entry: Salt
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
The plaid couch was well-built in 1972.
We purchased it brand new from a ritzy furniture store.
I was not fond of the plaid, but it was fairly inexpensive.
Little Plaid could tell stories about my potato chip binges.
Many of them ended up in bits under her cushions.
Her Scotch guard was remarkable.
She is fifty-one years old now.
Sitting in my granddaughter’s sorority house.
They needed a couch.
It’s so comfy, we fight over it, she told me.
They had dolled it up with pillows and artwork.
It looks better there than it ever looked in my house.
Fifty-one and you have never aged, I tell her.
Plaid never looked so welcoming!
We have too little time not to use it wisely
I was enjoying lunch
a sandwich with some potato chip crunch
when it hit me like a rush
- I’m in a cult!
The girls at my table
Emma, Léah and Chloé,
my solid, study group three
all dress alike, more or less
we're all doing the same things
we study, laugh too loudly at nothing,
we romanticize burnout as a sort of chic
we compare our grades like horoscopes,
and we're all somewhere on the caffeine curve
To join our little group
you must know what an osmole is
and you must be slightly behind
but never admit how far
Like all cults there are rules,
we must pretend it’s all manageable,
and insist, to everyone, that “I’m fine.”
Emma says she dreams of Anki now.
Léah hasn’t texted her mother back in three weeks.
Chloé swears she’ll quit after this year,
which we all accept as part of the liturgy
because she's not even trying to leave.
As we eat, we scroll, and diagnose each other casually,
triaging the stages and conditions of early 20s life
“Did that guy ever call?”
It's hard to find a guy who understands
why you'd cancel plans to memorize something
We say, “it’s probably nothing”
with the authority of girls who know it's probably everything.
Anyway, my sandwich is gone, the chips too
someone mentions exams
(We’ve 13 days until first year final exams)
and we all stand up at once,
like we’ve heard a bell.
.
.
Songs for this:
BIRDS OF A FEATHER by Billie Eilish
WHERE IS MY HUSBAND! by RAYE
Fortnight (feat. Post Malone) by Taylor Swift
.
Anki - a flashcard app for spaced-repetition memorization
if the world was running out of salt
I would be hoarding it for sure
But would I be the last to know? Asked Walt.
And would the salt I find be pure?
If they announced it on the news it would be too late.
The stores salt shelves would be empty, wouldn’t that be great?
Even the small towns in Idaho, Indiana, Illinois and Ioway
Would have barren places where the salt boxes used to stay.
It would be too late for me to find salt anywhere I bet.
Never would I ever want salt more in my life, I said to my pet.
Could I order bags and melt down each potato chip?
My dog got up and wandered off, arthritis in his hip.
If the world was running out of salt, whatever would I do?
My dishes would be less wonderful, they would not have a clue.
Meats and chili would be dull, unless I added jalapenos to perk them up.
If the world runs out of salt, I would be a criminal, stealing salt by the cup.