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The color of mud,
they live underground.
Only coming up
when they want to be found.

Oh, woe is me,
a mere farmer,
that I produce
a product as **** as me.

It can't help its
oblong nature,
bland taste
or simple denature.

‘Tis but a spud
of different types,
colors, and shapes,
yet still manages to have a bud.

A simple starch,
that much is known,
but when added to things,
it brings in a life all its own.
GreenTrees Mar 2018
Love is like cake.
It is sweet and fun to make.

Friendship is like meat and potatoes.
It is better for you and worth the wait.

Karl von Mecklenburg
Zero Nine Nov 2017
Broke, sitting with half plate
Pasta, butter, spice
Shuffle through my old clothes
I used to look nice

What is nice, but smaller?
Smaller, smaller, still
String bean and potatoes
Go fine together

The grocer tries to tell me,
"Divide, conquer, divide."
"What is nice, but smaller?"

I guess the grocer's right
Acina Joy Sep 2017
If only words could reach down
below the skin, I could be the one you hear.

But of course, you can't hear anything
when I'm covering your ears.
-I love potatoes
Journey of Days Apr 2017
peeling potatoes is a therapy
well it is with Nan
chatting about nothings
little weapon in your hand

peel them thick when you are angry
thin when taking care
rough when you don't give a ****
Nan: "I think we'll leave it there"

memories of peeling literally tonnes of potatoes for family meals at Easter  with my Nana

great chats and fun times
Andrew T Jan 2017
For a week straight, I avoided going to the supermarket, even when my stomach grumbled and the fridge stayed empty and lonely. And instead, I looked through my binoculars from the tree house my dad had built with a few planks of wood, nails, and a rusty hammer. A place he’d built before I was put into my mother’s arms and put into a bright blue cradle. Blue as the shirt Abigail was wearing, the same day the cops busted her for giving head to my best friend Isaac in my Toyota Camry. Right in the middle of the parking lot of the supermarket, as I bought pancake batter and cage-free eggs for breakfast.

And Abigail never ate that meal after she spent a week wasting away in a cell block, reading JD Salinger stories over and over, as though his words could heal her marks and bruises.

Today, I made pancakes and eggs for breakfast.  I waited for the TV to load a Netflix show, hoping Abigail had learned from her mistakes. She passed me the salt and pepper shakers, as I lit a cigarette, sat in a chair, and smoldered.

Abigail put her face in her hands, cried for a bit, even reached for the ***** bottle.

We went to the supermarket later, walked down one aisle, and picked up meat and potatoes. As we headed for the self-checkout line, I passed the breakfast section and saw the pancake batter and the eggs. Abigail crumbled to the floor, said, “I’m so sorry.”

After that, we never touched breakfast.
Francie Lynch Jan 2017
O indiginous tuber to Peru,
Now in nations' daily stews,
From the Polar South to Timbuktu,
Ranked with rice, wheat and maize,
Oh staple potatoe
You grace our table.

We plant seed spuds,
Red, yellow or brown,
Harvest the new ones,
The remainder mound
To thrive in leisure,
As buried treasure.

Heel the spud *****,
Unearth your trove,
A gatherer's surprise
To woo true love.

We slice, dice and mash,
Roast, deep-fry and bake.
It's not an egg,
It'll never break.

     Medium-rare, please.
     And make mine a baked.
     Oh, and don't forget the butter,
     Oh, and sour-cream, just in case.”

It hasn't got *** appeal,
What you see is true,
But make no mistake,
I swear by what's holy in taste,
It only has eyes for you.

It soothes,
Burns, itches, puffy eyes,
Migraines and headaches.

Make a stamp,
Make silver shine,
Clean your windows with its brine.
And potatoe muffins are simply divine.

When blight strikes,
When crops don't thrive,
Many starve,
Many have died.

So, I raise this toast
To the lofty Tuber,
And I dedicate this Ode,
To the one,
The only:
*Mr. Potatoe,
This bud's for you.
If an urn, why not a potatoe.
A little known potatoe trait, labourers scheduled tater breaks.
Hannah Reber May 2016
Crisp is in the mountains,
Not kin with the sea,
Empty roads,
Not filled with busy bees,
Blank land forever reaching,
Not buildings forever creeping,
Wind is our sound,
Not sirens that can always be found,
Farm land is our job,
Not something you can rob,
Our sweat and our blood go into the dirt
Not by force, but by our work,
You see a potato, we see home,
Not some random dinner which you can let go,
I know you think the apple is great,
But it has a lot on it's plate,
And I'm sure it doesn't care for you,
As much as this warm potato stew,
Which was grown here in Idaho,
just for me and you...
Potato + Idaho Country
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