#onions - Hello Poetry

Am I a good person? Underneath all these layers (The layers of an onion) [Like Shrek, full of layers] -pretty sure the onion quote is dead- I don't want you to remove my layers to find a person that isn't the same on the outside. Onions are perfect because with each layer they look exactly alike. If you took me apart we'd find the person I think you want me to be. (If you took me apart you'd be a murderer) [Don't try to find out, organs don't talk.] -The mess would be such a hassle- I wish someone could tell me. It's all in the way, these layers they're all that we have.

0

Oct 27, 2020

Oct 27, 2020 at 8:14 PM UTC

Penguin

Bojack, Tell me.

Am I a good person? Underneath all these layers (The layers of an onion) [Like Shrek, full of layers] -pretty sure the onion quote is dead- I don't want you to remove my layers to find a person that isn't the same on the outside. Onions are perfect because with each layer they look exactly alike. If you took me apart we'd find the person I think you want me to be. (If you took me apart you'd be a murderer) [Don't try to find out, organs don't talk.] -The mess would be such a hassle- I wish someone could tell me. It's all in the way, these layers they're all that we have.

22

Roses spices and onions skins off Richie ride me back home there's nowhere to hide from your love. ~~~~~ I thought I could find a place not to think of you for one day, so I went to the kitchen for a soup there was nothing to eat but pasta sauce and there you were in front of me up in the spices I had to use in place of meat on bone for boiling a soup. Heating up battled water added cento tomato and the sauce all kinds of spices; parsely real sea salts garlic pepper a pinch of taco spice wild cilantro, a garlic squized and cloves (no basil) cayene pepper did the magic lemon juice added the final punch for my Mexican soup; added a few granes bazmati rice found, added a white onion slice and blessed as I felt "I cried me a river for you" and The White Cliffs of Dover songs came to mind to console me as I broke shrinking down the stinking onion was me and noone to share my soup I turned stove top off to go wipe face off and entering the bedroom I tripped knees on the red floor unconsolable crying. Yes the room was filled with roses wild and roses red! and again you made my day. I felt so blessed to have held so many of your treasures in arms to see my hands half full with roses and half full with bittersweet spices beheld. Upon my bed a heart was carved inscribed in tiny little red rose buds and purple hearts in your words "I love you" I craweled to reach the bed careful not to disturb the million roses nor bleed feet with their thurns as they layed artisticly everywhere room full of roses, I wept there caressed by your roses spices and songs hugged all night long. by insomnia bug Oh please my darling Old Richie "ride me back home." there's nowhere to hide from your love. ~~~~~~~~~ Karijinbba-03/2020. Copy Rights

0

Mar 8, 2020

Mar 8, 2020 at 7:59 AM UTC

karijinbba

Roses and spices

Roses spices and onions skins off Richie ride me back home there's nowhere to hide from your love. ~~~~~ I thought I could find a place not to think of you for one day, so I went to the kitchen for a soup there was nothing to eat but pasta sauce and there you were in front of me up in the spices I had to use in place of meat on bone for boiling a soup. Heating up battled water added cento tomato and the sauce all kinds of spices; parsely real sea salts garlic pepper a pinch of taco spice wild cilantro, a garlic squized and cloves (no basil) cayene pepper did the magic lemon juice added the final punch for my Mexican soup; added a few granes bazmati rice found, added a white onion slice and blessed as I felt "I cried me a river for you" and The White Cliffs of Dover songs came to mind to console me as I broke shrinking down the stinking onion was me and noone to share my soup I turned stove top off to go wipe face off and entering the bedroom I tripped knees on the red floor unconsolable crying. Yes the room was filled with roses wild and roses red! and again you made my day. I felt so blessed to have held so many of your treasures in arms to see my hands half full with roses and half full with bittersweet spices beheld. Upon my bed a heart was carved inscribed in tiny little red rose buds and purple hearts in your words "I love you" I craweled to reach the bed careful not to disturb the million roses nor bleed feet with their thurns as they layed artisticly everywhere room full of roses, I wept there caressed by your roses spices and songs hugged all night long. by insomnia bug Oh please my darling Old Richie "ride me back home." there's nowhere to hide from your love. ~~~~~~~~~ Karijinbba-03/2020. Copy Rights

44

The quiet hum and midnight darkness Cool and contained you sit, sealed tight. Cool air on my face and there you are Illuminated in the blue fridge light I roll and turn you in my hands And hold your glass up to my cheek Vinegar stings my fingertips, But the brine is salty and the onions sweet I replace the lid and seal the jar I place you back with care Until my lips taste you again, I’ll remember you there.

0

Jan 12, 2020

Jan 12, 2020 at 1:41 AM UTC

Laurenski

Onions #2

The quiet hum and midnight darkness Cool and contained you sit, sealed tight. Cool air on my face and there you are Illuminated in the blue fridge light I roll and turn you in my hands And hold your glass up to my cheek Vinegar stings my fingertips, But the brine is salty and the onions sweet I replace the lid and seal the jar I place you back with care Until my lips taste you again, I’ll remember you there.

12

An onion can grow from a seed, From a tiny place and start its life from the beginning, to its end. Or an onion can grow from a broken piece of itself. If it’s tended to carefully and the conditions are favourable. And go on again To begin again.

0

Feb 18, 2020

Feb 18, 2020 at 8:07 PM UTC

Laurenski

Onions #3

An onion can grow from a seed, From a tiny place and start its life from the beginning, to its end. Or an onion can grow from a broken piece of itself. If it’s tended to carefully and the conditions are favourable. And go on again To begin again.

9

Little seeds, growing. Little shoots, showing. Water gently flowing, To seeds in the ground. Little bulbs, forming. Little layers, warming. Sunlight is transforming, Little onions in the ground.

0

Jan 1, 2020

Jan 1, 2020 at 12:45 PM UTC

Laurenski

A series of poems about onions #1

Little seeds, growing. Little shoots, showing. Water gently flowing, To seeds in the ground. Little bulbs, forming. Little layers, warming. Sunlight is transforming, Little onions in the ground.

8

Truckin' onions down the Grapevine Jake brake blaring I am almost HOME sang the feller drivin' onions, Singing common man songs just getting' along Makes up words when he can He's an uncommon man but he takes a lot of pride in what I am. They're playing sad Merle Haggard songs on the radio Rollin' onions down the Grapevine Airbrake smokin' smell heavy fifty miles by now, Singing trucker man songs Just getting along all downhill from there He was an uncommon man but he took a lot of pride in what I am. They're still playing Merle Haggard songs on the radio There's onions on the freeway Clear on down to Button Willow. I guess old Merle died too, today.

0

Mar 18, 2019

Mar 18, 2019 at 10:14 PM UTC

kenpepiton

They're playing sad Merle Haggard on the radio

Truckin' onions down the Grapevine Jake brake blaring I am almost HOME sang the feller drivin' onions, Singing common man songs just getting' along Makes up words when he can He's an uncommon man but he takes a lot of pride in what I am. They're playing sad Merle Haggard songs on the radio Rollin' onions down the Grapevine Airbrake smokin' smell heavy fifty miles by now, Singing trucker man songs Just getting along all downhill from there He was an uncommon man but he took a lot of pride in what I am. They're still playing Merle Haggard songs on the radio There's onions on the freeway Clear on down to Button Willow. I guess old Merle died too, today.

27

They would never let me cut onions for the tears mattered They found me sobbing flooding, a salty river But they couldn't find the missing chopping board the knife or, the chopped onions

0

Oct 9, 2018

Oct 9, 2018 at 10:19 AM UTC

nikitakayal

Onions

They would never let me cut onions for the tears mattered They found me sobbing flooding, a salty river But they couldn't find the missing chopping board the knife or, the chopped onions

11

I like ANYTHING flavored with Onion ... I like Onion rings ... I like Onion straws ... I don't, however, care for them raw. In powder they're handy ... On 'taters they're prized ... And oh that smell ... As they become caramelized! I like French Onion Soup ... I like Onion crisps ... I like them in doses ... I like them in wisps ... On a side note ... I must be fair ... I prefer my friends with ... As many layers ... For seasoning meat ... As many have known ... That flavor infuses ... Right to the bone ... I like any type ... From any ground ... I've tried so many ... The world around ... I like them pureed ... In macaroni salad ... Minced in my meatloaf ... They're definitely valid ... I like how they smell ... Even like how they look ... But for some strange reason ... They MUST be cooked!

0

Mar 1, 2018

Mar 1, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC

Jeff-Gaines

Onions

I like ANYTHING flavored with Onion ... I like Onion rings ... I like Onion straws ... I don't, however, care for them raw. In powder they're handy ... On 'taters they're prized ... And oh that smell ... As they become caramelized! I like French Onion Soup ... I like Onion crisps ... I like them in doses ... I like them in wisps ... On a side note ... I must be fair ... I prefer my friends with ... As many layers ... For seasoning meat ... As many have known ... That flavor infuses ... Right to the bone ... I like any type ... From any ground ... I've tried so many ... The world around ... I like them pureed ... In macaroni salad ... Minced in my meatloaf ... They're definitely valid ... I like how they smell ... Even like how they look ... But for some strange reason ... They MUST be cooked!

32

I love you onion I'll tell you why in part because you make me sigh, you are everything to me the song my Mother sang... a whimsical, sad and poignant little tale I hear you crooning & the radio tuning my Mother knew me better than I'd like to think, singing ... Lonely 'Lil petunia in an onion patch a bittersweet memory of all the saddest words that I have ever heard the saddest is the story told me by a bird tears fall from a pungent smell when I cannot forgive, say you'll never tell and in tears of laughter when I'm tickled seeing the inchworm in the shape of a finger a moment comes, I stay and linger climbing like a spider singing me a verse Spent about an hour chatting with a flower and here's the tale he told as you're peeling layers, & hearing prayers revealing honesty and depth of flavor intoxicating waifs I sniff and savor kept safe by a sturdy skin cooking you I start, begin chopped fresh and finely diced or maybe even thinly sliced for summertime franks, not the Ballpark kind these I doubt you'll ever find homemade baked beans that you adorn and grace a smiling sweet, lil' onion face everything made from scratch gleaning my lil' onion patch in toasted rolls, whole grain mustard potato salad... best I can recall my Mother took the time to make in everything she cooked and baked you're in all my memories though you're in so much more I've never shared with you this love I have before Onions are adaptation at its finest fresh, sauteed with butter translucent sweetness Elevating anything you touch they cry, and laugh and give so much dried, grated..slightly dated... even hated, chopped up.. or roasted, grilled... so very skilled any way you slice it even if you dice it differently delightful and delicious smart for recipes, even onion haters appreciate the graters sometimes your in disguise a lovely found & welcome surprise must be I have something in my eyes as the flower continues to sing a joyful gift my onion brings familiar sounds songs I sing petunia continues who put me in this bed I'll bet his face is red I call him down with every teardrop that I shed then she said if only I had him here I would take him by his ear and make him share my misery I'm cooking homemade onion chips, rewound on old-time family clips recall the fresh-squeezed lemonade while we're sittin' in the cooling shade a memory of you replayed so very glad you came & stayed sippin' slow brewed iced tea my lil' onion friend and me. Cherie Nolan© 2016

0

Sep 17, 2016

Sep 17, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC

Moi-Cherie

"An Onion Tale"

I love you onion I'll tell you why in part because you make me sigh, you are everything to me the song my Mother sang... a whimsical, sad and poignant little tale I hear you crooning & the radio tuning my Mother knew me better than I'd like to think, singing ... Lonely 'Lil petunia in an onion patch a bittersweet memory of all the saddest words that I have ever heard the saddest is the story told me by a bird tears fall from a pungent smell when I cannot forgive, say you'll never tell and in tears of laughter when I'm tickled seeing the inchworm in the shape of a finger a moment comes, I stay and linger climbing like a spider singing me a verse Spent about an hour chatting with a flower and here's the tale he told as you're peeling layers, & hearing prayers revealing honesty and depth of flavor intoxicating waifs I sniff and savor kept safe by a sturdy skin cooking you I start, begin chopped fresh and finely diced or maybe even thinly sliced for summertime franks, not the Ballpark kind these I doubt you'll ever find homemade baked beans that you adorn and grace a smiling sweet, lil' onion face everything made from scratch gleaning my lil' onion patch in toasted rolls, whole grain mustard potato salad... best I can recall my Mother took the time to make in everything she cooked and baked you're in all my memories though you're in so much more I've never shared with you this love I have before Onions are adaptation at its finest fresh, sauteed with butter translucent sweetness Elevating anything you touch they cry, and laugh and give so much dried, grated..slightly dated... even hated, chopped up.. or roasted, grilled... so very skilled any way you slice it even if you dice it differently delightful and delicious smart for recipes, even onion haters appreciate the graters sometimes your in disguise a lovely found & welcome surprise must be I have something in my eyes as the flower continues to sing a joyful gift my onion brings familiar sounds songs I sing petunia continues who put me in this bed I'll bet his face is red I call him down with every teardrop that I shed then she said if only I had him here I would take him by his ear and make him share my misery I'm cooking homemade onion chips, rewound on old-time family clips recall the fresh-squeezed lemonade while we're sittin' in the cooling shade a memory of you replayed so very glad you came & stayed sippin' slow brewed iced tea my lil' onion friend and me. Cherie Nolan© 2016

122

I cried. Not because you shattered my dreams or ripped my heart out of me. Not because you destroyed every hope I ever had in men. Not because you learned to hate me and abused my body and soul. I cried because as I chopped this onion it forced me to cry. That's just what onions do. Kinda like you. That's just what you do.

0

Aug 10, 2015

Aug 10, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC

paperclippoems

Onions and Men

I cried. Not because you shattered my dreams or ripped my heart out of me. Not because you destroyed every hope I ever had in men. Not because you learned to hate me and abused my body and soul. I cried because as I chopped this onion it forced me to cry. That's just what onions do. Kinda like you. That's just what you do.

5

He writes poems the way he chooses what to wear in the morning He does these two things like a child learning Spanish, and he loves the language very much, so why does it matter? He feels at home because Summer is eternal, being the onions he hides under his floorboards under his bed He says, "They smell like shastas."

0

Apr 2, 2014

Apr 2, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC

sarah-sad-matcha

He

He writes poems the way he chooses what to wear in the morning He does these two things like a child learning Spanish, and he loves the language very much, so why does it matter? He feels at home because Summer is eternal, being the onions he hides under his floorboards under his bed He says, "They smell like shastas."

10