Altho' I'm a common or garden potato
a lighter shade of brown
and you're a turnip who
just my luck fell off the truck
on the ride from the other side of town
I only have eyes for you
but when the chips are down
a brussel sprout I can do without
as for lettuce you may forget us
onion always makes me cry
“Goodbye radish” or so say I
garlic is all very well but not the smell
to the pepper bell a fond farewell
yet the root of the problem
is indeed you see
while I think you're the top of the crop
you don't care a swede for me
Just the hamburger no more French fries
meatloaf good but mash potatoes deny
Pot roast delicious roasted potatoes no
just don't want to eat anymore potatoes
Potato chips ate a billion or more
now chips my taste buds deplore
Potato bread what's the use
not eating much bread my excuse
Just load up the ribs and steak
give me chicken any way they make
Beef and lamb fowl or pork
meat is my diet got knife and fork
Hash browns or skillet potatoes fried
are still okay I realize
I guess if you add cheese
even potatoes can still please
So maybe I eat them once in awhile
just ate them every meal as a child
Potatoes are fine when I dine
just don't want to eat them all the time.
Sweet potato pie
I am married to the soul
I live in sweet sin
Sweet potato vines spill variegated purple where morning winds unwind,
their tendrils wander where the daylight strays.
They meander softly, following their mind;
Sweet potato vines spill variegated purple where morning winds unwind.
In every curl, a quiet grace I find~
a green desire to reach, to slip away.
Sweet potato vines spill variegated purple where morning winds unwind,
their tendrils wander where the daylight strays.
Lord, tell me it isn't so.
Today's the day I've been laid low -
dreaming I was a potato.
I found out it was real,
when a man like me said, "time to peel".
The potato, to the egg, he cooed,
"You are by far my favorite food",
and he continued as he said,
"Might you and I soon be wed?"
The egg, to the potato, spoke,
"My, but you're a handsome bloke.
Our shapes are very much the same,
and I, with love, will take your name."
To seal the deal, they sweetly kissed,
and drew up an invitation list
(so their best friends would not be missed).
Little envelopes were addressed to these:
peppers, mushrooms, onions, cheese.
A happier occasion was never known,
how beautiful was egg in her silken gown,
the proud potato fried golden brown,
a party well-remembered, though
it was washed down with my morning joe.
A yam or a potato
has no way to know
that it will be his fate
to end up on your plate,
but I would make a bet,
he will not forget.
When a potato cries,
do you see the teardrops in his eyes -
as he's fried, boiled, steamed,
or otherwise, demeaned?
Do, his pardon, you humbly beg
when you serve him with an egg?
He was a dog without a bone,
a nightingale in monotone,
a cat that was canary-less -
a man who lived with less.
One day, he took to the road,
the holes in his coat, they showed,
but he carried in his pocket,
a little silver locket,
with a picture of his mother.
One way or another,
he'd find a way to make her proud,
and he'd lose that ol' black cloud.
But the only thing he found
was a wee thing in the ground,
which gave his heart a tug.
He eyed it with a shrug.
'Twas only a potato bug.
Do you exist just to survive
or would you like to make decisions
to help your body thrive
Five years of endurance from the age of ten
nightly menu of mashed potato, cold roast meat
no greens no fruit,nothing else, if you didn't like the food it was hunger
There was not another thing to eat
Daily morning breakfast, nutritionally no better
a bowl of corn flakes and a cup of tea
Consumed in a household of two smokers
good health could never hope to be
Many coughs, colds, tired
and aching in the ears
Life a daily challenge
full of many fears
Boils upon the legs the head
often near the nose
Fatigue, fall asleep in class
a life of daily woes
Adversity has a purpose
it makes us stronger or we fall
Decisions to be made
when our backs are to the wall
And the decision that was made fifty years ago
turned his life around
Modified his eating patterns
the old days had now run aground
In his house there are no smokers
a large variety of orqanic greens, nuts and fruits
His exceptional state of well being reflects
the selection of his culinary pursuits
Puffed with warmth for my birthday dinner treat
0n the plate of a pure veg restaurant
Tempting entree ignites the classy taste,
A delight, each bite, spread with tamarind chutney,
Together with kindred sharing stories
Of flavour, care and chefs` talents.
Savoury paneer masala
And dal makhani* served with mutter pulao
Make the main course, added with garlic nan,
Oozing with taste, a real relish,
Side-lined with pickled onions and rice kheer as desert,
A feast for the senses, a love we all share.
*Slow-cooked black lentils
"Why do you tell me to pound sand,
and say, 'A potato by another name is just as bland'?
If you will never take my hand,
would you, at least, eat me as we'd planned?"
"Do you take me for a peasant?
For me, potatoes are not pleasant,
and I must tell you that, at present,
I much prefer to dine on pheasant."
Einstein was right
time is like a relative
you don’t like.
I planted a potato
certain it’s tree
would shade me eventually
I chained myself
to the opinion of others
then misplaced the key
I armored myself
to avoid love’s pain
and rusted in solitude
.
.
A song for this:
Sacrifice by The Weeknd
French Navy by Camera Obscura
tastiest starches
sour cream friendly
buttered and salty
twice baked with sweet cheese
nudged next to steak
dug with a hoe
straight from the ground
peeled and sliced
potato soup
mashed and smashed
with gravy
potato
French fries
tater
spud
The soft sweet potato.
Is known, like me.
I like to be a published author sometimes.
The soft sweet potato.
A pie, so nice.
If I were mashed up and sugar was added.
Then more sugar was added because the recipe was wrong…
I would burst out of the pie a published author.
Ta da!
Sometimes, I have a book.
Or not.
The soft sweet potato sounds.
Pillowly, yet crusty on the outside.
Steam trapped like me.
I can be an author sometimes.
Or growing from the ground.
A pie is so nice like me.
But a sweet potato doesn’t know how to sprout arms, just tangled leaves.
But I do.
Write and act published.
Like the best known recipe in the world.
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