"crisps" poems
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
solace is to comfort in words to be kind
in the wake of tragedy and tribulation find
solace is as crisps as fresh as air after the rain
wash away the tears heart broken by grief and pain
solace is soft as gel as tender as dew on blades of grass
mellow the bereaved of bitter memories till it come to pass
solace to the loser like sun rays breaking through dark clouds
bearer of hope to the persistent over negativity that shroulds
to console the believers for at the tunnel's end there's light
like merciful angels sent to soothe the terminal's plight
solace is to come to term one will expire oneself
to be plucked by the One off the shelf.
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
I am making you toast.
White bread, thick and moist, crisps and darkens,
A smell of crumbs and comfort
wafts around the room.
The butter curls about the knife
Soft and oily, there is some on my finger
And I lick it off.
The toast is ready, it jumps from the toaster,
And I start to spread, butter sinking in with a satisfied sigh.
And here you are, with your arms around my waist,
Your warm breath in my ear, trying to steal a piece too early.
I catch your fingers in my oily own
And you put them to your mouth.
What do you want, hungry mister?
Me or the toast?
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
the aussie thing to do
then they go off to the pub and say wanna beer to you
i didn’t know what to say at first
these people do like me, yeah
they think i am cool very very cool
yeah they enjoy my company a lot
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
ya see the aussie thing
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
and a hamburger with the lot
ya see ya go to the footy and the first thing you hear is
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
the aussie thing to do
then you go off to the city
to a nightclub, a man blows his cigarette smoke right in your face
you say what, are you doing, then
you say
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
the aussie thing to do
you see you think your a man but you look like a hooligan
yeah, your aussie mate true blue
you look rough and ready to punch the guy next to you
and then you say
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
the aussie thing to do
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
better being a true blue
you see they look ***** and very very rude
as they say
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
the aussie thing to do
you go to the footy and then the cricket
and then off to the pub and park illegally and you get yourself a ticket
the police have arrested you, then they let you go
and the first thing you say is
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
the aussie thing to do
you see there is nothing wrong with the australian way of life
as long as they just leave me to do my own thing
i would love to have a packet of crisps
but i hear this
wanna beer wanna beer wanna beer
the aussie the aussie the aussie thing to do, MATE
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 12:10 AM UTC
The forest of legs swayed in the moving shadows beneath the chatter over head, each threatening to block our path and crush our attempt to get to the first fallen crisps of the party season, which as yet laid undisturbed.
We weaved and advanced as fast as their legs allowed, eager to scavenge the waiting bounty before they were trampled underfoot by the oblivious adults who were intent on a seasonal ritual of their own that went on high over our heads.
We emerged unscathed at the edge of the forest and raced across the open parquet to the cover of the drapped, white topped trestle tables catching our breaths and crunching our snatched crisps planning our next move toward the plateau above.
Our scout had reported rich pickings, but when we looked around, seeking signs of our brave advance party, we could find no trace beyond a half eaten volovant and what might have been regurgitated mushroom. We shook our heads in despair at their folly. Every kid knows to stick to crisps and to processed meats, avoiding anything that might contain vegetables. We saw an open French window just beyond the trestles and heard plaintive heaves that had a distinct 6 year old strain.
We checked each other's resolve and saw on each other's faces that we believed our mission was more important than any one stomach. With a maturity that would have surprised our parents, we pushed the plight of our friend to the back of our minds and focused on the task at hand.
We each reached up with practiced stealth, taking only a second to check the food on offer and with a speed bred into us by the curse of older siblings, we each grabbed our prize.
Acknowledging the hazards of the return journey we devoured the meat at hand and with hyena grins savoured our just rewards. While our fallen friend heaved once more, we saluted one another: the season had started better than any of us could have hoped.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
Crystallized hair pins gilded in her soft touches
Caressing earths ground
She sings the earthly creatures gently to sleep with her dream like sound
Sensible, sensitive my dear
Breathing in the clear dew drops hanging below the gibbous moon.
Natures serene dreamer planting their seeds, reaping - but soon one must choose
Difficulty arises
And despises the force of nature
Bends of the crisps wind - if shocks and stirs
It blurs her senseless ,
And shakes her earth. The goddess drinks the goblet of diamond
In silk she lays
Yet not be mistaken......
Surrounded by serendipity and indulging in life's pleasures
The crystals of the golden moon set in her hair
Beware she will leave you dreaming in heart ache
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
A thousand angry fingers are fighting.
"I’m right! Im right! There’s wrong in your writing.”
There’s a war of opinion, it's a slaughter of facts,
as fearful dominions blame who they can for the acts
of hate that they scrape across our tired eyes;
and as we try and decipher truth from the lies.
So soon people point, push, drag and despise
anyone they believe to be the devil in disguise.
“ Hang them, hit them, beat them down.
Don’t let another one of ‘those' in my good town”.
I tried to tie my own tongue and keep quiet.
But my fingers felt need to fight in this riot.
Though I am not seeking a thumb from anyone,
I was beginning to fear I was a disloyal son;
for our mother is weeping for every child.
Whether radical, righteous, anxious or mild.
She’s worried this war, like a fire in the wild,
won’t stop until all is consumed but the ash that is piled.
“ Stop this! Stop this! My dear children!
Life is so much more than the motives of men"
And I watch this war from a cafe in Glasgow;
outside enjoying coffee, crisps and tobacco.
The smoke swirls my head into a strange sense of comfort,
as before my eyes I watch my own world distort.
Where political posts attempt to equal social justice.
Where blood, bodies and bombings add to our numbness.
Where others opinions slowly shape and become us.
Where poets lack rhyme, guidance or substance.
Where In friends we see foes, and in fellow citizens: dangers.
Where we speak with our fingers, and to ourselves become strangers.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
A Crop of Lies irrigate farmland
Deception grows and dies
Its corpse sustains
A cycle refrains
Cold, this night is
Cracks open the ground
Revealing a sight
Seeping through with light
Regions were found
To be taken and conquered
Sailors sailed to eat sailors
And they as well ate bread
Sounds of paranormal had
Guided every boat, then plane
Then spaceship, to the inside
Of a toy box they made
“These Crops dictate Truth”
Says Man (or monster)
Every night is cold; cracked
These Crops are impure
Livestock tell stories of their leader
It’s more of saying really
Because they’re ******* livestock
The Truth cannot tell nor talk
Reason slips off their skin
Like water off oil
Harder and harder it is
For Man to let joy soak in
Journeys of discovery
Travel through the television
Crisps, colas, pies, and cakes
Is what ******* does it
Beef pulp, French toast, tomato paste
Is what ******* does it
All we consume is ****
Crying fat morons decompose
“I really like the rain”
Says ****** with pudding stain
And her body melts and pours
As the rain does inexcusably
Great big dogs soak up in the rain
Unlike Man with his walking cane
They are all dying as they retreat
Underneath a roof of sin to replace
Emotional politicians claim they’re drug-free
As they smoke cigs and drink alcohol
Infant babies were torn apart in shopping malls
Did the World set them free?
Man (or monster) propose
To have a war on anything
Must any more children die?
Or can they get high; watch television?
What the **** is wrong with an aspect
Of harmless self-discovery
Can Man wager livestock’s epiphany?
Is it o.k. to live in a subdivision?
Or on a farm, or in the television?
Do these Crops have to dictate
Which victim we choose to mate?
To dictate our truth?
Can the fake astronaut admit?
He got ******* high; watched sitcoms
Ate potato chips, ate cereal out of the box
Never told a soul it was a hoax
Crops soak in the sweet rain
As the political Man weeps
These Crops become true
Dying Men no longer retreat
A Crop of Lies
Become so true
This wisdom is beauty
What we see now
Is as clear as day
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
I don't think I'm a very nice person.
Dead people can have *******
The weirdest part of this morning was the tropical bird that was road **** but I thought was a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, in London.
Always ******* up, ******* up all ways.
I'm your green grocer.
Mental collapse is quite close.
**** my ****
A gale of wind.
Sitting by a canal in the sun with a coffee at 7am.
My time is now.
That isn't sarcastic, it's brilliant.
I saw a werewolf drinking a Piña Colada .
Need an adventure.
like peas in a pub.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
I like the smell of cut grass and dew in the morning.
Sunshine and rainbows and when the sky's dawning.
Coffee and baked bread, and crunchy leaves in the autumn.
Singing and dancing, and anything that cures boredom.
Roast chestnuts in winter, and painting and reading.
Skipping stones on the water, warthogs and weeding.
Going on adventures to places unseen by my eye.
Also, cheese and onion crisps and chocolate, at the same time.
The smell of the rain and a good thunder storm.
Blue sky and the starlings when they gather in a swarm.
Anything purple, walking my dog in the evening.
Randomness and laughter, all of these are appealing.
I like music, my long hair and wearing a hat.
My high tops, my guitar, cheese and also my cats.
I like the drum of the rain on a caravan roof.
The thud on the ground from a horses hoof.
The warmth of the sun upon my face.
The crackle from a log burning in the fireplace.
I love my family and friends, and my happy places.
Meeting new people and putting smiles on their faces.
I like birds, all animals and frost on the window.
I love the look of the countryside when it's covered in snow.
A cobweb with raindrops, taking photos and nature.
My book collection, seafood and the blue of a glacier.
I like making cakes, playing risk, and flowers and trees.
Writing poems, walking, reading, and I love bees.
I like the crash of the sea, and the trickle of a stream.
The sunset in Africa, crypic crosswords and a good dream.
I like a lot of things, as you can see.
There is a lot more you don't know about me.
Maybe another poem will pop into my head.
Always at the time when I should be in bed.
When it does I'll write it down somewhere to show.
Then more things about me you shall know.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC
This is it.
Your big moment.
Taking time at these crossroads.
Your decision determining destiny.
A moment all your own, never to be replicated.
skittering circuits buzz, obedient to your commands.
Hours lay ahead of you, stuffed and bulging with the static you will consume.
Channel 2 or channel 4?
This is it.
Your catastrophic downfall.
An outcry was made, now the civility is shattered.
the acquaintances you once held as companions,
may now cut icy glares as the senate did to Caesar.
alarms ring, as you feel reduced in their eyes.
You got the wrong change at the cafe,
so you ask for a fiver.
later on,
your banquet awaits, golden and sunbaked.
stewed for months, in rich and creamy crop of the land.
taking your throne, in the cool shaded flank in your garden of eden.
A cup of soup and a bag of crisps.
these grand odysseys still raise up those same emotional epics,
as moments in youth locked in the past.
like lying on a blanket at the very edge of one of the seven sisters.
alas, you are still perched upon oblivion,
cup of tea in hand.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
And the prophets all dressed in their Sunday's best,
Waiting for the secret of the sacred test
While the little red birds and the big black crows
Sang a tune, "One above, one below"
And as she whittled the knife cross her wrist,
She came across an ancient tryst
A place she knew from way back when;
The place she knew that she would end
It had hands like hers, and vulnerable eyes,
But the mind did not shake, the soul not disguise
It drug her away from the beady-eyed ones,
While she stared from below with a mouthful of guns
It took her away to a quiet room,
Where around her was no one she knew
She turned to look at its face, but only emptiness
She turned to ask it a name, but only vagueness
And what did you mean when you said you had a dream
Full of colorful squares and the butter king?
And why did the man drinking gin from a can,
Provide such a riddle on the night of the ******
"He'll come to you in chains, so take what he gives"
Does this mean that I'll die, and he lives?
Is redemption the path for the doomed and the great,
That comes only when called upon by your fate?
Where then is this world, with chips, ruffles and pearls?
Where is my ticket to? Heaven or Hell?
Either way, I'm not meant for this realm,
Where I'm flying blind with no one at the helm
The haunted attic days are over
No more crimson, no more clover
The lollipops are frozen, the crisps have turned black
They possess everything; I only love what I lack
So rid me of here, or obliterate it all;
Being "self-contained" just isn't my call
I could be strong and keep a tight trigger,
But these unborn chicken voices are bigger
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:33 PM UTC
Five days a week
for six months now
I have crossed the street
from work
to the little shop
that sells sticky buns
pork nuzzled by pastry
and perused the food
something for lunch
and almost always pick
a baguette brimming with chicken
chilled cucumber disks
a sprinkling of lettuce
plus a muddy-coloured latte
for that extra afternoon kick
though today is different
I’m feeling ruthless
a shimmery packet of salt and vinegar
waits for me to pluck it
from the shelf
squeak it open
the lady says hi and I reply
with a we’ve spoken
five days a week for six months now
and it’s about time I told you
these small encounters
brighten my day
a rotten cliché I know
so I leave quick with my grub
but a tiny grin on my face
unwrap the baguette
take a satisfying bite
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
We're all walking cliche's,
So what's the big deal?
I can wear a beanie and a gay pride tee shirt and moccasins,
And listen to Neutral Milk Hotel,
And talk about feminism and politics.
Do not kiss me with your mustang convertible and your ****** piercings.
I am a taken woman.
But I will take your free drugs.
Thank you very much.
Stop mourning me,
My arrogance should never have been a turn on.
Pretzel crisps, tattoos, and student loans.
It's hard walking down the boulevard of broken dreams,
And bumping into all the other lonely souls.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
We share blood you and I,
and have shared
golden pocketed memories, sticky ice-creamed fingers
back seats,smelly packs of cheese and onions crisps
and jokes about the two in the front arguing over directions,money- us.
Yet we couldn't be more polarized,
Your a young soul but your older,
you used to whisper scandalous grown -up things
and I would swallow your information as gospel.
Under sapphire skies,
I'd follow you around just wanting your attention
and I know now how annoying it must have been
to have a whiny little sister wanting you to play Barbies.
And I won't lie,
I love you most days and hate you the rest
for all those times you'd beat me up(really just a punch)
and pronounce me the Loch-ness monster and call me fat.
It'll always be Love/Hate with you and I
I'm the chalk and your the cheese
but you make me laugh until my sides ache
and I know you love telling me the news of your latest exploit.
There's a camaraderie well that implied,
I've got your back and you've got mine.
we table tennis tease but we both draw a line
and we won't cross it.
because we share blood you and I,
despite nurture over nature
or blood is thicker than water
know this big brother
I love you as a person.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
the age old adage rings loud
1 tequila, 2 tequila, 3 tequila
FLOOR!
I look around and I see some simple ********
some lying in their own filth
when will you learn
it is sip not slam
god forbid you order training wheels
next one with lime and salt
better be eating crisps not drinking
bartender pour me the long glass
let me savor a whiskey back
i've got drinking to do
tequila for me and everyone standing
i plan on looking at my liver in the face tomorrow.
bring me the bottles
because if you didn't know
joe crow and jameson are long lost cousins
and play something loud
lets see if this liquid gold makes them dance.
:D
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
There's a crowd of pitch black unicorns at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert.
A crowd of pitch black unicorns moving their onyx hooves and horns
at the rhythm of drones dressed in electric guitars. An acoustic break follows.
The vibrations of the music and dancing cause purple flowers to grow,
purple flowers weaned on blood and sticky black tar. There's a crowd of
unicorns dancing at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert feeding on ladybirds crisps
and dragonflies sticks, that once home will play vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
The purple flowers grow into vines and try to smother the unicorns
to prevent them from listening to bloodred-dyed vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
Meanwhile in the corner of a museum S. Teresa of Avila's statue animates by itself, walks
to the window and throwing itself crumbles into a thousand of pieces of marble.
The seventh seal has not been opened yet but the ninth the eleventh and the seventeenth
exploded already, cracked their own wax and started spreading tongues of flames
and water to decimate humanity. A woman dressed in a fifteenth century scarlet outfit
leads the pitch black unicorns to salvation creating a safe haven for them
in Manchester and another one in California. They have in the meantime gone bonkers
and started feeding on each other. Equine teeth suddenly grow carnivorous jaws.
Nothing is left in the two oasis apart from a puddle of blood and a pavement of corpses.
It's 7 a.m. Chelsea has not yet finished her concert and her music blossoms around
played by the mystic turntables of fire. That which remaineth is pitch black light
and the breath of aeons lingering here and beyond and nowhere.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
Y'know whenever I go to my brother's to watch a football game
He always brings out a lovely big platter of cheeses, with a selection of crackers
This and some hummus, nuts and potato crisps
Along with a nice cold beer
He really likes his cheeses does my brother
Me! I don't mind a bit of cheese myself
But Him, he's a real connoisseur.
Anyway last Christmas I was looking for a present to bring him
And in my local supermarket, guess what, they had these lovely big platters of various cheeses
Wow! I was delighted, that was his present sorted
No more traipsing around shops, tiring my poor feet out
And this was a good present, something he'd really like;
So I brought the cheese home and put it in the fridge
Next morning I was up early sorting out the presents, who got what
Putting them in nice Christmasy type bags
I then packed them in the car and took off,
An hour later I'm sitting at their table and we're talking about some poor celebrity movie star who's just passed away
Their saying he had some Brain disease, just like Alcheimers except it wasn't Alcheimers
My brother's wife is there trying to articulate, to explain
"It's like his brain had holes in it"
And I'm thinking "Holes in the brain, hmmm... just like...like a Swiss cheese"
Then, of course, I remember. **** I say out loud in front of them all,"I forgot the cheese, I left the feckin' cheese in the fridge"
Really ****** me off
Then I start thinking, that's actually quite funny
We're talking about Alcheimers disease and it reminds me I left the cheese in the fridge
What do you call that, is that ironic or what ?
What's a Paradox ? Sounds like a washing powder.
Wait! Is this a poem at all or am I in the wrong place ? (LoL)
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 10:31 AM UTC
As legs hang on rusty hinges
the strides of doorways
lesser long
wisdom crisps its palms
up to the hearths of winter
on walks
Older finds joy
watching little jelly movers
under the snowy leaves
of autumn's fall
There is freedom
in holding back;
experiencing exuberance
perched high in cedar
witnessing the now moments
of a uranian world
from a fifth dimensional view
Knowing that Love
sourced from the heart
affects the observed
just as true.
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 5:58 PM UTC
i stand and stare, fridge is bare
no carpet on the floor
washing soaked, heating broke
bailiffs at the door
roof is leaking, house is creaking
single dad, sad moaner
middle aged, without a wage
christmas round the corner
but.....
a little boy in india
not eaten for a week
no shirt upon his back....
a grin upon his cheek
he's never tasted biscuits
crisps, or orange squash
always wears a smile
but never clothes to wash
unaware of fridges
heating run on gas
never seen a carpet
school room or a class
materialistic ********
food that goes to waste
life we take for granted
he will never taste
happy ever grateful
for simple things of need
never witness our ****
of gluttoness and greed
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 2:11 PM UTC
'I'll see that plate clean,' she said,
'Or I'll send you straight to bed.'
Liver and onions lie in wait,
two choices up for debate.
'I won't hear a word till you've finished.'
It lay there still undiminished.
It's cold, unfit to eat, congealed,
and nowhere can it be concealed.
'You should have thought of that before.'
When I grow up I'll eat no more
of that cabbage, liver - lousy crud.
Give me sweets and crisps, perhaps rice pud'.
She should have thrown it in the bin.
Now I'm stuck, a locust for my sin.
I must eat all, my waists expanding.
Though Mother's gone, her ghost's demanding.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
Assembled forces
Around the heaven of the Moon
The heaven of Gabriel the Holy
Influences the beings
Fragile to death
Who can pull out the geese bird?
From the clay ***
Without breaking it
Not the life’s ignorant disciple
Nor the Sisyphean planetary orphan
Neither the life’s exhausted ascetic
A key-maker a treasury holder
Yet I do want to embrace the whole
Visible and invisible entities
You may celebrate your prodigy
And mock my naivety
And immeasurable love
I’ll do this until I dry
As a dew
Until I become a piece
Missing from terracotta
Kept for ages in the sand of Baghdad
Where Shamash made crisps from
The skin of the humans
So they may think they’re
Reptiles
Red eye killers
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 7:42 AM UTC
ChestNuts roesting on an open fire
Roesting over the flames of yuor forgoten love
Ash
Burnt too a Crisp (This is what they call Chips in Englis )
Mother's' love showed me the Love I needed from yuo
England they call them Crisps
Eating Chest Nuts is scrumptous
Training my ***** in the Art Of War
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 1:27 AM UTC
Tammy,Tammy,call your mammy
daddy's run away.
Buildings built of stilton cheese and Wilton rugs,bugs that run round in my head,silver diamond ten gauge thread to tie my eyes up.
Tea leaves tell no lies,
I've seen them in a broken cup where broken people all look up to watch me fall.
I call the Master of Ceremonies,also made of Stilton cheese,eaten slowly by the mice,made from chocolate covered rice cake crisps and baked in ovens,gas mark seven and ask him,
where did daddy go?
he doesn't know and never did and slowly drops off from the grid,
in hidden thoughts behind veiled red eyes where riots run with teddy boys,who ride Italian imported scooter bikes,
twenty thousand Facebook likes for what,
a **** *** underneath the bed?
more bugs that run wild in my head,
another silver,sugar coated thread to wrap me in when I am dead,
but I'm not there yet
I've got to shift the fuzziness,the interfering laziness,be blessed twice by his Holiness,undress the dressings I am wrapped in,bleach my skin and reach inside to clear my mind.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC