I’ve never learned the art of a reliable recipe,
only the art of guessing who might eat it.
I will learn what you love,
the way you take your coffee,
that you’d rather have mustard on your sandwich,
that you prefer your toothpaste tastes like fruit instead of mint.
You see, I try too hard.
My food can’t be one flavor—
that would be boring.
I stir,
and stir,
and stir,
adding more until the dish is heavy, uneven.
And when you eat it,
you’ll taste the coffee grounds,
the mustard,
the toothpaste.
It’s not because I think it belongs—
I couldn't stop myself
kept reaching for anything with your name on it,
hoping the thought of the meal would soften the sour taste.
I serve the same dish to everyone,
each batch a strange new mix
of flavors I don’t even like—
and I wonder what keeps them here:
do they hunger for filling,
or for something truly mine?
I’m not sure I’ll ever know.
So I will watch you chew,
watch the fork sink to the side of your plate,
waiting for the scrape of truth—
for you to push the dish away.
I’ve left the recipe wrong on purpose,
hoping you’ll taste the absence,
and ask what I might make
if I cooked with my own hands.
Creativity comes and goes.
That’s what she believes, she named Cho.
Cho happens to be a potato.
Creativity comes and goes because Cho just knows.
When Cho the potato gets creative,
She eases in with simple watercolor.
Creativity starts to be invasive
as her mind races for more, oh brother.
Oils, dance, pottery, and art,
She gains quite the speed.
Cho doesn’t see art out of her league.
Creativity makes into her potato heart.
Literature, theater, architecture, film,
Drawing, music, sculpting, craft.
Cho the potato starts looking grim
As she spirals down and asks,
“Is all of this creativity making me dread?
I might just stay on the couch instead.”
Mr. Potato
a.k.a., Spud Murphy
'I'll have another cigarette,'
as John Lennon (1940 – 1980) writ,
'And curse Sir Walter Raleigh (1552 – 1618)
he was such a stupid git.'
However,
(altho' to his cost)
it may have
gone to his head
(which, unluckily, later he lost),
Raleigh introduced
the noble potato
(the blight of Ireland)
into Britain — ca. 1586,
and what's more
tobacco it did eclipse,
so yes indeed, his is the face
that launched a thousand chips.
hiku van Gogh 2
borinage b r e a t h e s on
pot
a
t
O
eat
Ers
LIVE
here
paint
ed
~ E T E R N A L ~
Loaded Potato
I’m not talking about food
Just people in general
No accountability
No responsibilities
Actions that affect others around you
Poor choices
Always excuses
Putting the blame on someone else
Like a loaded potato
Two many toppings
Always lying
Always running away
Always arguing
They want their independence
With no life experiences
Always rebellious
I have no sympathy for them
They all need bootcamp
All disrespectful
What comes around goes around
Nobody owes you
Your like a loaded baked potato
So full of yourself
Always digging yourself in a whole
You’re just bloated with stubbornness
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
The old ‘Pass-Punt-Kick’ contest
misappropriated by politicos
You’re familiar with the stereotype
the kind who check which way the wind blows
Like a hot potato they pass the buck
If asked a tough question, they punt
And when a financial decision looms, they
kick the can years down the road
So, fans, it seems we have a winner
535 Congressmen, each and every one a sinner
Potato latkes, fried in oil
Are eaten every year
When calendars remind us
That our holiday is here.
To keep up the tradition,
There are choices we must make –
Buy them frozen in the market,
Use a mix (that’s a mistake!)
Find them in a local diner
Or, if you have time and space,
Gather all of the ingredients
And your cookware in one place.
Then you peel and grate potatoes
With an onion, egg and salt,
Plus you have to squeeze it dry;
(To leave some liquid is a fault).
Add in matzoh meal to thicken
While your oil heats in a pan;
Next, you fry them ‘til they’re golden
Or the closest that you can.
If you’re lucky, all your efforts
(For it is a lot of work)
Will be worth the energy you spent
(With compliments a perk).
Just as long as you eat latkes,
Get them any way you’ve chosen.
Since I spent all morning grating,
Come next year, I’ll go with frozen.
Children would almost live in peace
how grass, how glass, how the something
OK how the adolescent is bold and curious and sometimes like cat and thought of some diseases?.
Did we now see the window so opened?,
like the flower is already adorning the world tomorrow
I think if the world is a horse we ought to be careful
or we ought to find out whether it is a concept
or strange place
I real corruption must show like a helter-skelter pollution
or yak
yes, how can we guarantee love tomorrow and forever?.
A ghost-flitted out of the refrigerator today.
He smelled like potato salad.
Had he been eating it?
Or was he born in it?
The ghost looked right at me.
Gave me a diabolical smile.
For the first time ever.
I was terrified by the smell of potato salad.
i have a craving today
my tongue salivates
a crinkling yellow bag
i tear it open
salty and sour
potato
chips
The savings could social work buy
Yet Defund Police we won't try
That plan seemed too rash
But Trump’s agent Kash
Would trash and defund FBI
Daddy potato head was using his hoe in a wicked way
Chopping up parsley and rhubarb, throwing it past Monday
Tuesday did not like it, it is shriveled and dried up he said.
Daddy Potato head did not realize he was making them dead.
I have a skin, brown tan melolin
Inside of me is water, energy
I have nodes from which buds are formed
I am shapeN like a football, a peanut, a fat lumpy carrot
I may develop sprouting, buds, green spots
I may be spoilage, not cause my parents giving me everything I ask
Interspersed in a tubular, vallecular
If for I am green growing out my sprouts
I am better off tossed out
Thrown away
What, Who am I
The one with many eyes, but no hands
Whom, am eye with eyes and spots
Inside me is water, starch and energy
Inside me ivory tan inside me
I am russet Burbank Shepody, Umatilla
What nation to I come from
What nationally am I
You see I am not human
But I human-to-see
I have many so love
the growing points so are potato tubers,
each with a little stem bud
the Red, White, Russet Oh’ how we love
begin to sprout, the growths those roots,
eyes, and bumps have a high
concentration of compounds see
I’m not human
I am a potato
Laying on the couch long enough your bottom side looks like a prune
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