Spud Poems

from the news

from the news


A tomato met a non-tuber plant 
sweet music
a birth to what is known
as potatoes, these days also called fries
Just think if the tomato had not 
been so unfaithful trying it on with
any passing plant
What would  our diet be like 
without the beloved spud 
I read this in a paper that extols the free press
With the mild hand of exceptions 
These days, the paper has fallen on hard times
and had sold out to real estate
not the two-up and one bathroom 
houses in the millionaire class, after all
One has to show class
This morning, an article about jellyfish, that
In my youth, there were plentiful along the coast
of Norway, some of them stung
Now we have to go to the Outer Hebrides to
Find one in shallow pools
What I took away from the morning paper
was of potatoes, tomatoes, and the selling
of posh  houses

Mr Potato

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.

Crayon Box Dreams

My crayon box dreams, I've held in my heart
From when I was young to now when I'm old 
The ones I recall all do hold their part 
Memories of life begin to unfold 

Hopscotch in colors of chalk on pavements 
Back when I played with the kids on my square
Making hand faces at night in our tents 
To play late out at night without any care 

One, two, three spud- is a game that we played 
And so was hide-n-seek, and playing ball 
And there were games that my friends and I made 
Those were the games that I loved most of all 

So long I've lived and so hard it all seems
I've held in my heart...my crayon box dreams

Ode to Zilch

Oh, Nothing! You sly, elusive spud,  
You’re the star of this poem (though technically dud).  
You haunt empty fridges, blank quizzes, and minds,  
The gap where my keys hide and my weekend plans wind.  

You’re the punchline of vacuums, the muse of bare shelves,  
The reason I’m talking to lamps by myself.  
You’re the “E” in my bank account, crisp and austere,  
The punch I forgot in my joke over here.  

Some say you’re profound—philosophers swoon,  
But let’s be real: you’re a nap’s favorite tune.  
You’re the silence between a bad pun and “Huh?”,  
The plot of a mime’s TED Talk—oh, brother, enough!

You wear pajamas daily, yet still blend right in,  
A champion of naps, but you never quite win.  
You’re the cloudless blue sky with no bird, plane, or flair,  
The “U up?” text sent to a cactus. Bold. Rare. 

So here’s to you, Nothing, you cheeky old void,  
The world’s quietest meme, forever deployed.  
Though poets may weep for your depth, I insist:  
You’re the *something* I missed… wait. Dang. Plot twist!  

---  
P.S. If you liked this poem, pay me in air.  
(It’s fitting, since Nothing and I split despair.)

Cookie Dough Creatures

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.

Kitchen Knife Hygiene

Finally, my blood began to coagulate. 
I counted up my fingers, and found I had eight; 
And so, I'm sorry to say, for me it's too late; 
But I'm still alive, and hope to spare you my fate.  
Let me stress the importance of kitchen knife hygiene. 
Listen up, budding chefs, and you will see what I mean. 
If you do not sharpen your knife, you’ll pull and you’ll tug, 
And you’ll fight with your food, until you give it a slug. 
You’ll cut up your fingers until you’re covered with blood
Which will spurt out from you like a diluvial flood.
Your face will turn white; and then you will fall with a thud
While up on your cutting board remains that dumb spud.
So, sharpen up your knife until meat cuts like soft butter,
But miss and you’ve no fingers in the kitchen to putter.

Mr Spud head gets mashed

Mr Spud Head is wearing a frown
Some eejit stole his wife’s best gown
His wife who’s called Myrtle
Looks like a gross turtle
Spud’s concerned that the chips are down

They’re going out, Myrtle gets dressed
But Spud Head sees she looks depressed
Her old gown doesn’t fit
And mis-shapes her left tit
She’s crying and looking distressed

Poor Spud Head must think on his feet
He whips off their king size bed sheet
Wife’s bod won’t be seen
Cos it’s Halloween
He’s keeping watch on what she’ll eat

There’s excellent news about Myrtle
She no longer looks like a turtle
Myrtle went on a diet
Spud insisted she try it
To ‘platewatchers’ she will now hurtle!

Potato

This potato today I sat down to eat
Was not the spud I expected to meet
It seemed to be a tad bit dry
A red one it seemed it each of its eye
I couldn't quite tell how it was cooked
With a rumbling tum, closer I looked
Lightly seasoned with oregano 
Was it mashed? Then I realized, no
I thought briefly, potato salad?
That theory didn't seem too valid
Between the beans and it, there was a void 
As if my potato was being paranoid
Then I thought maybe it was roasted
Looking closer I see it was toasted
It snickered as my belly ached
Turns out this potato was very baked

Another Generation

   We had Debbie Gibson, 
And Motley Crew.
   We had Jon Bon Jovi,
  and Scooby-Do.
 We had Axl Rose,
And MTV.
   We had school
 house rock, 
And MR. T.

   We had Alf, 
And Pac-Man.
   We had Doc Martins,
and Duran, Duran.

   We had Boy George,
And Bill and Ted.
   We have Ferris Bueller,
  home sick in bed.

  We had Where's the Beef,
and Robo-cop.
   We had Thunder Cats, 
And pudding pops.

  We had Ayatollah, 
And the Whopper.
   We had Spud McKenzie,  
 And Cyndi Lauper.

   We had Ziggy Stardust, 
And Family Ties.
   We had Michael Jackson, 
and Hungry Eyes.

   We had Rainbow Bright, 
And Flash Dance.
   We had Pee Wee Herman
And Puffy pants.

   We had Led Zeppelin, 
And David Bowie.
   We had Pink Floyd, 
And Chocolate 
Chips Ahoy.

   We had Jaws,
And Richard Pryor.
 We had the 
war on drugs,
 and Easy Rider. 

       TURBO1904 ?

Potato Skin Potion

Scraped, friendly freckled face falls to benchtop
Starchy spud plays poker, blank slate envelope 
Lost costume spotted cape, super elixir escapade
Layers on shiny raised scars, recovery escalates 


Sticking plaster, milky soak soothes, heat tempered
Compost bound bandaid quells Hell unrelented
Derma learns renewal, Nurse dresses fire sore victim
Tugged taut rawness fades, subsiding symptom 


        Nerida never administers synthetic medicine
        She reassures peel press is healing essence 
        Piano punctuations plod, then pace, parade
        Figaro notes frolick over keys, aural first aid

         
Choral cure prays perfect circle curse moon miracle 
Stroking fingers fuse potato to patient, glue
Discarded skin glimmers in kitchen, hopeful sunbeam
Her burn potion infuses through bloodstream



 
               6th May
          Quick Recovery

Revoke Her Passport

There's a passport I would like to revoke
from one person who thinks it's a joke
to repeatedly make fun of fellow writers.
Like a pugilist, she calls us 'prizefighters.'

What harm if we enjoy entering contests?
That doesn't prove whose poetry is best
because one person's opinion has weight
and another says it's open for debate.

If she's trying to deflate anyone's intellect,
she won't do it with a weapon of disrespect.
I applaud people who bravely try a new form
They're not afraid to write out of the norm.

She stabs with a pen, trying to draw blood
while sitting on her toosh like a couch spud.
We don't write to be popular. She's wrong,
but lord, she keeps howling the same ol song.

She claims we want attention and a high profile,
but her posts draw attention in words that defile.
I've never understood why her eyes get glazed
over contest entrants who should be praised.

She dares write of grace and having humility
but complains vehemently, and with hostility.
Her PS passport should be revoked & shredded
as punishment for being rude and hardheaded.

Mayo and Fries

The whole world knows that
Adding vinegar to chips and fish
Turns the whole offering into
An almost Earth shattering dish,
But how many people know,
How many people realise 
The amazing effect to be had
By adding Mayo to your fries.

Almost a Damascus Road event
The first time that you try it
Just take the humble spud
And very quickly deep fry it
Then take a huge dollop of
That thick yellow stuff
Don’t worry just how much
You can never have enough.

A nice thick blob to make
A very tasty tasty dip
Then use one by one
On every single chip.
An explosion of joy
Follows each immersion 
It really is a case of 
Taste bud subversion.

Oh vinegar can be nice
It never ever goes to waste
But lather on the yellow stuff
For that cosmopolitan taste.
It’s the simpler things in life
That can give it zest and glow
Like a bag of red hot chips
And a splodge of Mayo.

You can keep your Fine Dining,
Your food artfully arranged
Your Meat barely cooked,
Oh how things have changed,
Just give me fish and ‘taties,
Wrapped and ready to go
To be Eaten with the fingers
Hot fish and ‘taties  alfresco

The Streams Are My Veins

Shall I compare you, O streams, with my very veins? 
Let me do it; let me see who loses who gains; 
My veins fill up my body; full of flesh-and-blood;
Your presence fills each thud, spud, flood and little bud...! 

Pulmonary, umbilical, muscular, Ha! 
Hearing all these, I, a simple man, stand in awe; 
I know you quench my thirst and refresh me until,
Unquenchable thirst is evoked toward God still...!  

One-way valve, they say; duckbill valve; venae cavae; 
Your works, O streams, I just can't leave, believe; perceive;
You serve as takers of blood from organ to heart, 
Your functioning could be compared to a fine-art...! 

Oxygen to tissues, is like sun to flower, 
Streams, midst sun and shower, like clouds, each reach hover;
Veins in me keep me endlessly till end alive,
Streams assist mother earth to eternally survive...!


13 August 2022

Freedom Never Fail

Vivid vitality, vast ductility, and opulent appearance.
Powerful and fiery, bearing a deep sense of tolerance.
We won't fail since we have sinew and dear freedom.
A luring maxim to rank on the victor of a battle.
Alike the eagle's eyes as they fly up a zenith saddle.  

America's yielding was cognitive to be limitless.
Ethical skills were set by the fathers to progress.
Whenever they set to foster their ingress of liberty.
The bald eagle fight with repute, uproar, and flood.
Like the peak and seal, a fight for might in a spud.

The bald eagle stands gladly by the clock tower.
The Uncle Sam Flag and the star-spangled banner.
The Statue of Liberty and the Americans who relish it.
Empowering hook and eye fly over Satanic storm.
We have tweaked our saws and freedom swarm.

Our friend's eyes were loaded up with tears in Arlington.
Deprived fighters who fought and died for liberty, won.
Freedom isn't modest or free, troops die while fools rest!
Under the starlight, frogs sang into the foggy wood.
When I rested in freedom, I dozed deeply and stood.

Written: March 17, 2022


Freedom Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori

Devils Tater Patch

Devils ‘Tater patch
Hungry from hiking hills
Not a single spud

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