I'm just living a life of an one-eyed AuDHD dude,
Always repeating the cycle every single day
As folks think I'm acting like a robot,
And always having an undisciplined heart.
They say it's not always seen from the outside,
With history and video games is all I think of
Yet they see me as a young Sheldon,
Thinking being smart is a big blessing.
But I still look like a nerd
As if they see me as a nobody,
I'm still a spud in my eyes
As I'm too different for anything.
A proper British jacket potato
Butter melting like a volcano
Super crisp on the outside
Fluffy and salty on the inside
Topped with melting cheese
Scrumptious and made with expertise
A simple meal but a satisfying staple
Cheap enough so all can sit at the table
Every British child has had these
Always happiness guarantees
The memories of the buttery goodness
The simple nature and pureness
Evoking happier memories
Of simpler times with less disparities
For everyone can enjoy a simple jacket spud
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
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
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.
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
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.)
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.
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 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!
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
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 ?
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
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.
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