#potatoes
Heavy...
Antipode, and with irony
Do potatoes say hi, to everything?
As if, a dramatic crunch has a soul, in epiphany...
Choose...
My tender eye versus your lending mind
Sour or sweet, mighty or meet; the vice of liberty
Waits on a headier much, than a chance all, to any in time
Hello, guarantee
Many is a fellow name, I keep...
At arm's length, in the need
Of a simple seem, you came for, when I seek...
Have, and a stomach to play the part
When a friend is here to let a pride, save a start...
Of us, a something better than when a season has an avid heart
The toil of simplicity is a shrewder fate, for a silence, smart
Days end, and we're best buds
The talk of suggestion, the weight of promises
In the few and narrow, the looseness of tomorrow, should
Like a perfectly good intuition, to look beyond the world of a sigh...
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 10:43 PM UTC
It’s a cut of prime rib,
that I slice to your size specifications,
served with a heaping side of horseradish.
I hate this ******* clip on bow tie they make us wear.
La Cave. Underground niche joint,
where all the cocktail waitresses and servers wear
******* clip on bow ties.
We specialize in meats and baked potatoes with endless amounts of butter, sour cream and ******* chives.
And don’t worry honey, I’ll be sure to bring you a whole plate full of baked potato sides.
Quantity is very important in La Cave.
The quantity of your tip depends upon it darling.
Sultry, red misted desperate dwelling of men
who dampen even the highest of spirits.
Where is my pronged fork for this huge slab of insultingly low grade prime rib?
It comes with all the sides you could ever want.
No questions asked.
And that **** little honey of a gal, that waitress right over there will cut you off a slab as thick and as cheap as you want it.
Happy Hour can **** it.
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 3:00 PM UTC
There's always comfort,
whatever sorrow you have:
there's mashed potatoes!
May 11, 2025
May 11, 2025 at 4:18 AM UTC
For once, I would like a ruler.
A really big one, large enough to span all time,
or my time at least – which isn’t too much to ask.
To draw a straight line through life,
and make it all fall in, drill sergeant style.
Free me of all the jumps and bumps,
dancing about the hurdles which
slow me to halts,
as if life were a blob of mashed potatoes;
surfing through its smooth white clouds,
like a true California girl.
For once, can it be a tunnel?
No more mazes of roads and streets,
avenues, crescents, highways and lanes.
To close my eyes, raise my hands,
and push my bare foot into the pedal,
unafraid of the walls of people.
For it all to be a bowling alley
with the railings up and a ramp to slide down.
To shamelessly ride with pink, bedazzled training wheels
and a lemon learners plaque
to blind all nosy parkers up my ***
For once, wouldn’t it be nice if it all could line up,
so I could be, for once, entirely happy.
Nov 13, 2024
Nov 13, 2024 at 12:01 AM UTC
What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for you.
Dinner is cooked; our drinks are chilling, and I’ve taken a hot bath. I want to be comfortable so I can
enjoy your company.
Your kiss is tasty, did you just pop a mint?
That’s okay love, it’s all good to me.
Go ahead, make yourself at home, wash your
hands, I’ll fix our plates.
Yep, you have a steak and potatoes,
and I have fish and veggies.
But King my Dear, you’re my main dish.
Can I fix you a drink? Do you need some ice?
So how was dinner, did you get enough?
Thanks for the compliment, I’m glad you liked it.
Sure, I’ll pour you another drink, and top it off with ruby red. Do I want to hear some music?
You know I do. Put on what you think I like?
Kem is fine my **** King, and pump up the volume
cause I am ready!
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 10:11 PM UTC
I stand in the kitchen
not really present
talking about baking potatoes
with my husband.
For a second
the girl who baked potatoes
in so many other people's kitchens
looks out of these woman's eyes
awed at the fact
that she can bake potatoes
in her own kitchen.
In that instant the woman
receives as a gift
the incredible pleasure
of baking potatoes
in her own kitchen,
and is grateful.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 4:01 PM UTC
What is this great fruit?
All of life's bounty, in this one root.
The apple of the earth;
From the dirt it doth birth.
Bake, roast, mash,
All else goes to the trash.
The potato's taste is so fine,
Its versatility? Just divine.
***** fries, tossed in pies,
Potatoes are the best, no compromise.
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 3:10 PM UTC
I hold the tool. I am the blade. I drive
myself into the fertile ground. I dig
potatoes out. They were buried alive,
but in darkness they thrive. Now the old pig
will feast. When he grows fat I will slay him
to feed me and kin. I don't like killing
but when necessary it's not a sin.
I shall live another year, God willing.
I have long been on the land. I am old
but my sun is not yet setting in the
sky. When I was a child I was told once by
my father you become earth when you die.
If so, I hope my children carve my chest
with blade. I hope I'll yield a fruitful harvest.
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 10:33 AM UTC
The sun shined to all that day
Gardens flowered
Kids ran
People were born
People died
She smiled
And life moved on
The afternoon's warm cheered all
Everyone moved
Many danced
Several twirled
Some tripped
She sang
And time passed
The night arrived bringing comfort
The sky darkened
The horizon disappeared
The sun hid
The watch fell
She went to her room
And the tomorrow was uncertain
The noises grew silent that early dawn
The moon shined
The wind howled
Life rested
She dreamed
And everything continued
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 8:50 PM UTC
From the grand expanse of the sky
To the unreached depth of the sea
Every stone, every tree
Every bone, every seed
That I know is hard to fathom
But somehow you must believe
Pathways right through the middle of town
Lead directly to an open door
But we were not worried that the rain was falling
No we were not worried if the rain was falling
Sometimes dealing with the truth is painful
But in the truth there is love
Every word despite the world
Every word and each heart beat
That I know is not so simple
But somehow you must believe
Arrow shot forth in a million different ways
Aimed directly at your heart
And a moment you could feel that the rain was falling
Take a moment we can feel the way the rain is falling
The rain is falling
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 3:29 AM UTC
I am a royal potato whose shape is a perfect oval,
My fame is so widespread that everyone knows me from the stars to Mars.
This uncontrollable charm I exude is so novel,
that even the queens and kings before me grovel.
Even though this tale may not seem real,
I would still appreciate if you would go to my palace just to say hello.
These days, times have been hard, for the invincible McDonalds has
been winning countless victories.
My young comrades from the north have been skinned and stripped to pieces.
My amazing xylophone that would make the zealous moon jealous has been
burnt in the fire and trampled in the mire.
We must push for the rights of potatoes
Just like the tomatoes
Whose fire and concept of equality
Has driven hungry humans to see reality.
If it was them in the frying pan,
Would it still excite them to ignite
The fire that burns so painfully bright?
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 9:46 AM UTC
a sweet
little french
fry to
dip in
her basket
when 'tis
Spokane in
a thrill
nearby to
enjoy the
river of
nesting pine
in this
spectacular view
of spring
with ours
in design
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 7:23 AM UTC
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 ugly 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.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 8:27 AM UTC
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
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
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.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
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.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
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.
Pharmaceutically,
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.***
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
Potatoes, potatoes! They grow in the ground,
When you dig them up they're muddy, brown and round,
Potatoes, potatoes! Delicious mashed,
But they don't taste so good if they've been bashed,
Potatoes, potatoes! Steamy in their jacket,
Potatoes, potatoes! Fresh in their packet,
Potatoes, potatoes! Can be made into chips,
Potatoes, potatoes! Are best when they're crisps!
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 4:00 AM UTC
As I trudge through this
mashed potato snow. I feel
that it needs more salt.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC