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F White Nov 2014
Drove my sleepy heart...

Today, all I could give you was coffee

but you've already got more than that,

when you're ready to wake up.
copyright FHW, 2014

Author's Note: he never did. Unfortunately.
Dorothy A Aug 2010
Phone in your home
Phone with you on the road
Three way connections
Incoming calls, not one, but another-aka call waiting
Phones with caller ID
Cordless phones
Hands free phones
Toothy phones sticking out of people's ears
Picture phones...say cheese!
Phone texting instead of talking
Hello? I cannot hear you!

Television and movies in your home
DVD players in your car
Watch those images on your computer
Watch them on your cell phone
Television in the airport
Television in the restaurant
Television at the gas pump
Television in the grocery store line
What's next? Television in the operating room?

Music on your home stereo
Music on your car radio
Store it all on your traveling ipod
Melodious cell phone rings everywhere
Your mp3 player and new computer speakers
Your favorite cable music channels
And plenty of music blasted in the stores
Can't I just have a thought to myself?

Don't forget computers!
Instant messaging
Junk mail in cyberspace
All your shows and movies
always at your instant access
Computer dating
Computer stalkers and hacking
Computer crashes I foresee
because computer bugs and viruses
are trying to invade my soul!
And I feel sick!

I can't get that music out of my head!
I think my ears are ringing!
You've heard of couch potatoes
I think I'm a mouse potato!
How is that for a human spud?
Yes, I admit I'm addicted to my PC!
That I spend more time with technology
than I do with the human race!

I should be burnt out
like old hardware
that is on extreme overload
Not made of wires and steel
but of flesh and blood
I am designed!

But I can't stop!!!

The technology of the future is now here!
I know what George Jetson was saying when he said:
Michael Hoffman Jan 2016
Her transition ritual
between lovers
a masterpiece of denial
took at most
a week
before the rebuke
about what a ****
he was
and how dumb
the other was
and let me cook
the way to a man’s heart
always the stomach
until one man
an older wiser sort
told her
I don’t like potatoes
and you’re too cruel
I am afraid of you
and will not
be staying
for dinner.
Lynn Al-Abiad Apr 2016
When you are alone in a restaurant
And a stranger walks in and sits on the table facing you
And you feel that he is not hungry for food
But probably hungry for lust, beauty, new acquaintances, intellect, art, knowledge...
And that is when your bill comes back
You leave a tip and then the table
Abandoning him starving for the eye contact that would have fed his hunger.

- LynnAA
To the stranger who willingly came back into the restaurant and sat on the table facing me.

Sofia Von Jan 2014
Nothings how it looks in fact, maybe the opposite
People say I'm energetic
When I'm fighting for consciousness
Downed NyQuil to solve my imperfections
Took Benadryl to sleep
Drugs make chatter over the back and forth banter of boredom
And action
A trip to the hospital
Affects the people to care for a minute
Hallucinogens fade, but this music it stays
No 3G left **** it lets sing
Words slurred
eyes red
I don't give a ****, spread love
And tears of joy
The ones that run over the face of a baby boy
Mama's proud
Baby you're so smart!
You're gonna be so successful!
Yeah I remember those days
Now its nicotine sticks on my lips and E's for my mom to brag about
They think I'm lost
Am I?
Testing to be done
Society approved pills to pop
And a letter from my aunt
Words spread like dye in water
I've dropped
Down from the heaven of the early years
Lucifer can maneuver his way around the city unnoticed
A spy who tells lies to himself and greets the people as equal
Human again
I'd like to be

All I want to do live!
But a life's money, family, and a plan
Floaters get flushed
Couch potatoes get crushed
Lazy *****
They just get fat
Like these joints everybody wants to roll
**** is for beginners but what happens to the pros?
No trophy for the taking
No stack of gold
Just a massive headache
And dependance
Diet coke doesn't count

My sis puts her heart on her sleeve
I don't even think I have one
No wait it's up my ***
**** me good **** me long
That only love is what turns me on
If not
Keep out
Of my head
Switch, light
Too ******* bright to illuminate
these white walls I'm hired to paint
24hrs, 365 days a year, until the day it’s complete
Births time from time

Cuts wrists to elbow
Show how mellow
I can be
Let me cope
Every days a new day
Born today die tomorrow
Next day
Wake up
Look in the mirror and decide
what you'd like to see
David Barr Dec 2013
The Kingdom of Morocco has a rugged mountain interior which reminds me of the British meal of mince and potatoes. But hold that thought, and examine our seemingly superior Western legislation. Just like the pickle, the dynasty of death is a brazen festival percussionist who is celebratory in her bitter and gustatory inevitability. Jizyah is that taxation which is imposed upon those who fail to conform to those expected societal norms. Although we have the status quo, one cannot help but wonder what happened to the rectitudes of individuality and paradoxical equality? So, where do we go, oh navigator of the great and mighty West? Marrakech or Rabat? I have no concrete awareness of where solace is to be found. I am lost! Therefore, I can only offer the following direction: Contemplate the ever-changing intricacy of the dunes in anthropological amazement and acknowledge the sky at night. Allow the celestial pole of the North Star to speak to your deep uncertainty. Our purpose is openly displayed if we simply open our heart in the midst of our Bedouin oasis. That, my friend, is the essence of being psychosocial.
jimmy tee Jan 2014
the rain never ended yesterday
the thick ice that covered the world
was obstinate and refused to melt
on any condition but its own
the ingredients were on hand
in pantry, kitchen and desire
for Peanut Soup Senegalese
but melancholy was as  stubborn
as the ice out doors

three sweet potatoes peeled and chopped
one onion peeled and chopped
one can diced tomatoes with liquid
one and a half cup crunchy peanut butter
half teaspoon cumin, cinnamon, allspice, salt, black pepper
three tablespoons olive oil

over medium heat roast the spices in the olive oil
add onion and stir to coat; cook a couple of minutes
add sweet potatoes, tomatoes, salt and pepper
add water to barely cover
bring to soft boil and simmer for forty five minutes
or until potatoes are soft
remove from heat and let cool  for ten minutes
with a hand blender, blend until smooth [careful]
add peanut butter, blend by hand until smooth
simmer over low heat for fifteen minutes

recognize that the melancholy of the day still persists
but is much more flavorful
Harrison Apr 2017
My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child

that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks

My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.

after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,

writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes

light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once

Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees
Algernon Mar 2014
a frying pan full of potatoes
and one glass of tea
because you've only one mug.
complaining about my cold feet
while pulling me closer.
taking an hour to find a parking spot
in a city made of streets.
letting go of your hand the minute we arrive
picking it up again when we leave.
I almost called you by her name once
but I bit my tongue and swallowed her name down
with a glass of water twice a day or as needed
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.akin to a reply within the respect of Olivia Gatwood... these are not war chants... these are not war invitations... what deserves the hostile, is what bears an answer... these statements? they're only preliminaries; apparently two freedoms of the same argument, have the right / are expected to coexist: mind you, thinking, is the antithetic argument supporting talking... oh ****... right... i "sound" condescending... the clicking sound of my keyboard is condescending... at what point... did you arrive at the paradox... of hearing, before seeing? airplanes... i see, prior to the dragging "echo"... who said what who said who said what? i didn't say anything... i typed... keeping in line with: freedom of speech... what an exhausting right... esp. in a time when speaking is equated to thinking, and "speaking" is relegated to the opportunism, of writing being equated to "thinking"... talking... simply a tabloid freedom for the populace... i said ****... if this is not in the comment section... who said what who said who, who said when? when? maybe i delayed posting this... having thought it... a thinking, liberated from the cognitive schematic of a moral ought... a cognitive schematic to parody the enshrined freedom of speech, deviating from being forced to ask the moral ought? what is freedom of speech, by comparison? you are given the sort of freedom that implores you to speak... you are actually being given enforced rights to be compelled to speak... but not to think... to speak... at the exact same time... you didn't equate thinking with speaking... oh... right... this, "freedom"... was exacted when... quiet a large number of people were still deemed illiterate... and they were illiterate... but i'm literate... so... why would i need a freedom of speech... when, by writing, i have the higher right / freedom, to think?!

reworking a vindaloo recipe...
what sort of madman...
writes a recipe,
that includes 40 grams of
dried chillies?
i weighed them...
around 30 came in at 30 grams...
i had to revise...
the recipe...
a hopscotch chilli...
two fresh red chillies,
8 dried chillies,
and some Kashmir chilly
powder (much milder,
slightly sweet,
than usual)...
    it's a ******* meal...
it's not a competition as to
who can east the most spicy meal...
you play that **** while drinking
*****, not eating dinner!
mind you... vindaloo?
the most specifically scented
curry in the world...
you lift the lid off the...
baking tray? cooking utensil?
you're immediately hit by
a whiff of... sour spiciness...
can't describe it...
it feels like lime chilli...
hot & sour...
counter to the Chinese
sweet & salty...
   **** me...
     Indian cuisine...
                 it's like...
         what pepper,
salt and horseradish did to
European cuisine...
thank you England...
well... since i'm doing all
the cooking around this house...
i guess... a woman can just
sit pretty, and pretend to be
an ornament of the mantlepiece,
playing candy-crush saga...
works fine for me...
i wouldn't trust a woman
in the kitchen to begin with...
she might under-cook
the potatoes,
over-cook the pasta,
and over-salt a sauce...
so... yeah...
  women are not welcome
in the kitchen.

but, hell, they can bake, women can
do one thing right in the kitchen:
they can bake...
i hate baking, because it involves
waiting... i hate waiting...
a woman in a kitchen has
perfected the role of baking,
but that's about it...
figure this one out...
all this anti-white male rhetoric...
where are you going to
get your rhetoric...
when we die off, died out,
become the prime suspect
of the dodo project?!
    who's going to replace us...
and make the same argumentative
reprisals of your little,
tirade, symptom of
being borne by a real daddy,
and not a *****-bank
   mother daughter relationships
must, really really work out
so well..
mind you, mind me...
i really need to ***...

when cooking, i hate waiting...
i don't like making
something, and then guessing /
waiting for the end results...
i want the whole fling...
the whole translation
of organic chemistry into
a heston blumenthal kitchen...
  i want...
the many aspect of transfiguration,
cooking no less an art,
but more a science...

women can bake,
they can also walk around pregnant...
can they cook?
you really want women
to return to the kitchen?!
under-cooked potatoes,
overcooked pasta,
following a vindaloo
recipe word for word?
you sure?
    in the army...
women didn't cook...
the men cooked for the men...
sure... a feminine role...
   and this this is a pretty big but...

makes no fighter on an ill
stuffed gut...
           men cooking for men...
while the girls play the role
of the trophy mantlepiece...
"jogging" along to flirting
with candy-crush saga...

please, please... come into the kitchen
when you feel like
baking a banana bonanza...
otherwise... *******!
Pea Jun 2016
xvi. where do you go when your house isn't home?

i ******* crawl out of my body, swim infinite miles of the ocean, stretch my neck to the skies, replace my head with the moon. i ******* yearn for your presence, try to break the mirror with my weak stare, can't go further, fitting room doesn't fit whatsoever, all the buttons escape from my ***** and hair falls like tiny dandelions in a rainstorm.
i grow potatoes in my mouth, when i speak i smell of my root, when i am on my period i talk about stomachache at dinner table, when i search for space my tummy is the balloons at pingkan's 8th birthday party which i couldn't bring home. blow the candles i forgot to make a wish for a moment the fate seems seamless, bright red lipstick, brown mascara, outfits i can't ever wear to school, or to be honest, not anywhere because when i try to walk, every step is a ******* hysterical cry, when i use my toes every cell in my body violently shakes.
my house isn't home. my house isn't home. my house isn't home. my house isn't home. my house isn't home how do you know that? how did you barge into my clichés? how dare you claim something that even i won't bring myself to think about?
i ******* crawl out of my body, not as soon as possible, i do it right now, right ******* now so i know the years i've spent trying to nourish the flesh i don't really own are worthless, the years i've devoted myself to my worldly lover are the ones that have been consuming my tiny soul, if you ask me now of course no one is satisfied, no one is satisfied until i don't want to call you mine anymore.
i ******* crawl out of my body.
in a desperate attempt to make the hideous pleasing to watch, i sell blindfolds on the street, i light the matches in the rain, i dream of dead grandmother and christmas feast. i turn into a cold statue, i left the tenderness for stupid microorganisms, my divorced bones blame me for everything i did not do. i used to do the right things now i just do nothing, it's ******* useless anyway, i can blink five thousand times and still believe that time is what the clocks and calendars say. (my grandmother was a buddhist.)
i ******* crawl out of my body. i don't want to experience this anymore, i am not into this kind of thing, i long for your presence, all i've got from this building is an infinite count of absences. my body is a building, it has no level, no room, no door, no window, no furniture. my body a giant concrete boring box, i do not even live there anymore, nobody lives there anymore, they are all gone to a poppy field in the middle of nowhere (actually somewhere, only that i am not invited). i ******* crawl out of my body, did that answer your question?
i ******* crawl. out. of. it.
with all due respect, please just kindly shut the **** up
Ron Tranmer Nov 2011
The table is set for our thanksgiving feast
and all have taken their place
The meal of the year, is finally here,
and oh, how great it will taste..

Potatoes and gravy and cranberry sauce,
and rolls that are made fresh and hot.
Turkey with stuffing, right out of the oven.
Pumpkin  pie that hasn’t been bought.

Our family is anxiously gathered around
in a circle of love hand in hand.
A scene reminiscent of thanksgivings past.
A tradition we all understand.

Dad offers a prayer of thanksgiving to God
for abundance of blessings we share.
Tears touch his cheeks as he humbly gives thanks
for much more than the food that is there.

Though stomachs are empty, each heart is full
while united as family we pray,
Thanking dear God for His wonderful love,
and our blessings this Thanksgiving Day.

When this day is gone and life carries on,
may gratitude live on in me.
Lord help me, I pray, to make every day
a day of thanksgiving to Thee.
Joe Cole Nov 2014
Took  mother in law to do the weekly shop this morning
Nothing unusual about that
Did mine in 20 minutes
Waited over an hour for Mary but she is 83
Anyway, I love people watching
Going up the aisle, two mature ladies
Blocking the way nattering as ladies do
But what a subject
The menopause!!!!
Now I'm an old man, thought I had heard it all
But boy
Such graphic details when you're buying a pack of lambs liver
Anyway aisle blocked so turned round
In the veg aisle now
Young woman buying loose potatoes
Can't be that difficult
Every single potatoes minutely examined
Every minor blemish checked
Nearly 10 minutes for a few potatoes
WOW, it must take her 4 hours to do her weekly shop

Its great being a man
The street
filled with tomatoes,
light is
its juice
through the streets.
In December,
the tomato
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
****** it:
the knife
into living flesh,
a cool
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
its flag,
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
Corndog08 Sep 2014
Deep in the cupboard,
hiding in the dark,
there silently,
but still,
27 eyes staring,
arms extending,
creeping outwards,
but only slight movement,
as it leans against the wall,
waiting for the time,
to go out,
opening the door,
awaiting its enemy,
hiding from being,
This poem is made by my friend Jessica Stone.
A leather chair
It's comfy
And the headrest actually fits!
The woman
A nurse of some sort
Explains **** near everything
"This does blaahhh
And that does bluhhhhh
And this other thing does
Let's just get it over with
Then in comes the dentist
He's an oral surgeon
He tells me his name
And hooks up an IV
And in goes the anesthesia


A comfy chair
I must be coming to
But in the office?
Then I hear the cat
I'm home
What do you mean?
All I can eat is ice cream?
And mashed potatoes?
Ughh... I wish I was back asleep.
Got my wisdom teeth pulled out today. So that's fun
John F McCullagh Jun 2014
I can recall a simpler time
when just spelling was the problem.
But now D.C. has doubled down
and is really scraping bottom.

What did the humble Potato do
To draw Pelosi’s ire.?
Why are white potatoes banned
From school lunches I inquire?

Sweet Potatoes are welcome still
on school kids’ lunchtime plates.
But Idaho’s may not be served-
That makes Michelle irate.

Baked, mashed or fried There’s good inside
the humble white potato.
Potatoes of color are welcome too
upon my dinner table.

The Tuber is a starchy treat
with vitamins and fiber.
Whatever will the Irish eat
If you toss it in the Tiber?
( The Tiber mentioned here is a tributary of the Potomac river in Washington D.C.) Republican Reps from Idaho are attempting to reverse a proposed ban on white potatoes  from the school lunch program.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.a woman's place is not in the kitchen... **** right! about time someone made that observation, the times i've eaten under-cooked baby potatoes and over-cooked pasta? i'm actually ******* surprised that the kitchen was ever intended for a place for women... what the **** are women doing in kitchens? given, that their offspring don't know where milk comes from... or how peanuts grow... huh?

somewhere between eric dolphy
and frank o'hara:
    in terms of lunch...
            i have to gloat over this one...
it was... simply... pristine...

                   women do not belong
in the kitchen the more i'm supposed
to belong dangling off a ceiling of
a cavern emple for bats -
men don't want women in
the kitchen...
  i don't like the idea of a woman cooking...
women can't cook...
          well, for the majority...
   what's this? fast meals,
     junk restaurants -
i'm about to eat something that's
equivalent to me having ******* it out?
sorry... no...

not when i tell what i had for lunch...
iceberg salad,
mild green chilli,
         em... ****...
    turkish goat's cheese -
a pear, a ******* FIG (skin intact),
    schwarzforst prosciutto -
chilli infused ****** olive oil,
balsamic vinegar...
women, do not, belong,
in, the kitchen...
              a kitchen is no harem...
where... i believe...
Sappho escaped from...
                  but fair enough:
nudge budge: bear a grudge... ha ha...
it's like this teasing contest i had
on my way back from an off-lice
at quarter to 11 one night...
a boyfriend,
    a scaffold(er) and his girlfriend,
drunk, d'uh...
  joking about her height...
this: smurf -

                       we laughed
she was evidently ******* -
but in a way that we could have cuddled
and kissed falling
      acorn leaves in autumn
to imply a next annum of revival...

  but **** me, what a trinity -
a FIG a pear, (a) goat's cheese -
   and that balsamic vinegar
transcendence medium of sweet contra
  oh wait... that was sexist?
             fine, enjoy the microwave
    spaghetti and cheese -
      like some diabolical version
of an electric ballerina twirling -
   i have the neo-**** gig covered too...
don't mind, being a *******
****** and all,
   having talked to my great-grandmother
about her experiences on the Eastern Front...
giving my grandmother opiates so
she wouldn't cry and become a beacon
for the Wehrmacht...

            don't worry... i'm supplied
in neo-**** music...
just in case...
   oh lookie look over 'ere...
that song -
   feindflug's größenwahn:
bought the album about a year ago
for £15... now? it's worth £40+...
                     never mind wumpscut:
               i like the fact that there is
such a position of interests that
confiscates a magnetism of
eclectic tastes...
        and please...
   the only reason you would have your
toddler and subsequent child
to listen to classical music is
not an I.Q. resonance -
   it won't make them smarter,
fat chance in anorexic hell -
         hell, let them listen to classical
music, but entrenching their I.Q. is
not the main byproduct...
    how many people, do you know...
who have lost interest in music?
   i know a few...
   some people really, really do lose interest
in music...
                by the time when they've been
fed classical music,
   been exposed to pop, perhaps even
   and never reached the antithesis of
classical music, namely jazz...
subsequently having the zenith of
having read a Jane Austen novel...
but not a Mary Shelley -
      and not divulged into espresso quick-step
******* jargon of
poetry contra performance, bloated vocals -
and that... annoying,
generic voice, apparent throughout
the spectrum of all vocal performers -
that asthmatic quasi-exasperation
true: i could perform...
   drinking got in the way...
the prime vice...
   secondary vice?
true though...
   women don't belong in the kitchen...
what sort of man would
allow a woman in the kitchen?
   i've tasted undercooked potatoes
and overcooked pasta...
   let's just say...
  we're not on friendly talking terms.
Sharina Saad May 2013
Mrs Sharma is looking busy
Walking back from her yoga class
In Her right hand a bag full of potatoes
In her left hand, 2 kilos of onions
Its a freaking hot day in Delhi,
She stopped a taxi and hurried home
Aloo paratha her family's menu for today.

At home she went straight to her kitchen
Peeled and boiled the Potatoes
finely chopped Onion, coriander, ginger and chillies
Now where is the garam masala?
Here you are Mrs Sharma,
Salt Red Chili powder, Garam masala and some butter
Aloo Paratha with lots of butter,YUM YUM
Lunching at Sharma's home is Splendid
better than Mahesh Lunch Home in Juhu, Andheri.

Let's get started says Mrs Sharma
Let's make the dough
Make two chapati
add the filling to one chapati
and cover it with the second one.
Now Mrs Sharma rolls it slightly and heats it in the oven...

Let's ask Mrs Sharma,
Is food the elixir of life?
Yes very much she said
She feels like she is living for it.
As she spreads butter over the paratha
She says her mantra twice,
Eat healthy but don’t over eat.

She serves aloo paratha hot to her smiling kids
adds yoghurt to Mr Sharma's plate
she is so proud when she says to her family
Eat in moderation and eat healthy..
Smile and let's eat Aloo paratha Mrs Sharma's way...
Aloo paratha is my late mom's favourite..
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. give me enough *****, lime juice and pepsi, the right song, and i will show you a control-environment psychotic episode...

sometimes, it's not about what you
know, versus who you know -
notably? when you're aiming at knowing

      and psychosis?
   the synthesis of a soul while within
the confines of a body?
       one such example is walking
under two street lamps,
and spotting two shadows,
   immediately investigating,
whether or not, someone is walking
behind you, with a stalking

  you turn around -
  nothing but a hallowing voice
on the slightest of breezes -
the kind that barely motivates
branches to bow...

       - everyone knows that
the italians are famous for their pasta,
just like the french are, for their buns...
some Pakistani makes a joke
about the western love for cabbage...
esp. pickled cabbage -
mashed up with wild mushroom
to make up the filling for slavic

       sure... how's the turmeric?
i've been dying for the turks
working in kebab shops
to elevate the lamb doner (kebab)
using pickled cabbage -
  like they might use pickled
chillies -
       oh look... both are muslims -
the Ottoman's might have
figured out the southern slavic
palette, having occupied
the Balkans...

          we do more with potatoes
than a mere boiling down
to, what could never become an Irish
     there's the *****...
    nothing quiet unlike the whiskey
perfumery of pict-land of Scotland...

     Silesian potato doughnuts -
usually served with a cabbage radish -
pickled -
          and a thick pseudo-Hungarian
   the potatoes are boiled,
then mashed,
   then sliced into 4 portions,
1/4 is moved aside,
      potato flower is added in equal
volume, and one egg...
   then it becomes mashed bashed
and given the skin
     tenderness of a drunk's wife's skin...
cut and molded into little doughnut
   the index finger is inserted
into each one,
          and then each "infantry" member
is boiled,
till ready, i.e. floating on top
of the salted water...
             and there you have...
        Silesian potato doughnuts -

and there is a variant - potato hooves...
same ergonomics -
but instead of potato flower,
plain flower -
               i can't remember the proportions...
also boiled...
         but best cooled,
and subsequently fried -
for a crispness -
         mingled with honey
and something the Hindus know
that the Slavs also make -
     not exactly quark cheese -
   but getting there - more flaky...

    mind you...
   the whole out of Africa story?
   given that so many Roma live and trade
in Poland?
            perhaps having incorporated
the Africans into your pre- and post-colonial
nations, the genesis story would
begin with: out of Africa...
        and they swam across the mediterranean...
    you's sooner see a white competitor
in the 100m sprint final,
   than in the 100m final of
     the breast stroke / butterfly / etc. final...

      i place my origins in India...
moving across the platitude of Siberia...
i have more in common with
Raj origin story... than i have anything
to do with: Zulu and the pinnacle
of Giza...

     i place my origins there...
         and those potato hooves?
they have a name in Italian...
       they're called gnocchi...
served with parmigiano-reggiano
       & pesto...
    never fried,
          and subsequently hardened -
next time i hear the cabbage
joke from some copper-skin
about a group's palette...
       having, actually enjoyed
the other group's palette?
             skin is a base no one works
from to make obsolete
     and redundant bigotry...
    we don't have to share
the same physiognomy...
  but sure as **** we can share
a meal;
        like among the russian drinkers...
i honestly quiet enjoyed
their dried fish ***-bits
to nibble on...
    because, whoever said that...
beer was to be accompanied by
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
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The kitchen's air is redolent with spices,
peppers and cinnamon, all-spice and star
anise, thyme and curry. The cooks are
shouting orders; taking rose-silver pots
and copper pans; each having the print
of the Lily of Aurelinaea; from the wooden
shelves, plates and bowls from the cup-
boards; some are stirring soups over
coal-fire stoves; others are dicing carrots,
potatoes, fresh poultry and more.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi, in a light-green off-the-shoulder
dress of rose-silk with a triple ruffle trim,
lined with yellow ribbon, a thigh high slit and
white lilies beadery, is speaking to the head-chef
who nods. "Certainly, Lady Esshi." he says
and turns to his busy staff. "Bring out
the paella pans! We have orders for the
Queen Mother!"
"Yes, chef!" a woman says as she pulls
out a rose-silver paella pan and places
it on the stove. The head-chef turns to
Esshi. "You need not worry, Lady Esshi,"
he smiles. "I will make the dishes with

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"You always do, Bael," Esshi chuckles as
he washes his hands and she walks to
the corner, sighing. 'My Lady...'
she thinks worried.
"Lady Esshi?" her thoughts are broken
by a woman's voice. She turns to see a  
florist behind her. 'So lost in thought,
that I did not hear the door open.'

She thinks as her eyes fall on the flower

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The vase is art noveau style; a deep emerald
green with a maiden in flowing silks, her
hair bejewelled with lilies. Esshi's eyes then
rise to look at the flower arrangement - white
lilies with lilac kisses, purple roses and
several stems of lavender.
"Lady Ainhara said I should bring this to you."
"It's lovely," Esshi sniffs the fresh flowers.
"Very beautiful! You certainly outdid yourself.
It's for our young Queen, I take it?"
"Yes. And Lady Ainhara said I should bring
you this also."
She sees her place some paper, quill and ink down
and Esshi smiles.
Hard to believe that this is my 800th poem! ^^
Anyway, enjoy part 4! ^^
Lyn ***
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.

Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.

It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.

The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”

What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.

We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the ***** sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging.  I look down

Till his straining **** among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a *****.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper.  He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf.  Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no ***** to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018
EᔕᔕᕼI  ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sniffles as Ainhara gives her a
handkerchief which she uses to
wipe her tears.
"Thank you, guys," Lyn whispers,
giving them a weak smile.
'Well, at least she smiles,' Esshi
Ainhara has a bright smile. "My lady,
your lady mother gave Bael orders to
make this soup for you. She instructs
that you eat this."

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When Esshi pushes the serving trolley
to her Queen's side, she lifts the gold lid
and Lyn looks at the soup; steaming
kale in a beefy broth with chopped
peppered sausages, lamb cubes,
onions, garlic, mint chopped potatoes
and carrots.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Kale, really? I hate kale," Lyn whines,
gently pushing the bowl away. "I don't want it!"
Esshi and Ainhara look at each other and smile.
'Still acts like a child when her lady mother
commands she eats her vegetables!'
giggles Esshi.
"Your mother says you must eat it, My Lady."
Ainhara chuckles. "It will help with reduce
your stress and help relax your body."

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sighs and mutters under her breath,
"I hate it when she does this! She knows
I hate the smell of kale! I swear, I'm going
to outlaw the vegetable!" She held hers
nose up and huffs at the end of her
statement, making Ainhara and Esshi smile.
'At least she is in better spirits now.'
thought Esshi.
Kale, ugh...
It's eeeevvviiiiilllll!!! My mom actually tricked me into eating it one time (don't ask how or when) and as much as it pains me to admit it...
I actually liked it.
Anyway, enjoy part 8!
Lyn ***
CA Guilfoyle Aug 2012
GMO foods punch holes in cells
permeate the gut, creating gaps in guts
Leading to food floating in bloodstreams, rivers of pain
Food allergies, ulcers, IBS .... these are the milder troubles
I won't speak of  IBD, Cancer and Crohns disease
Babies born now allergic to foods, children allergic more than ever
They said, though the BT injected crops killed bugs, bursting their bellies
that they were still safe for humans....They were wrong!
Now these GMO crops are causing a myriad of gastro problems in people!
Food crops are now Roundup ready in the
Killing Fields.

Videos to watch:;=relmfu;=relmfu

TOP FOODS TO AVOID (unless labeled organic)
Canola, Cottonseed Oils
Sugar, fructose, corn syrup
Dairy - except organic
Tomatoes - except organic
Helpful links:
I know this is another rant...I just really like getting the info out there to people.  This is serious stuff folks. I have seen it's seriousness first hand, we need to stop eating this crap! Buy organic if you can, grow your own food whenever possible.  : )
ChinHooi Ng Nov 2014
Deep in the jungle,

an austere log cabin,

no electricity,

no running water,

no telephone,

only flowers,

streams and meadows,

no taxicabs,

no house number,

no McDonalds,

no KFC,

no Burger King,

only bonfire,

roasted potatoes,

and the winter snow.
zebra Feb 2018
she likes to dance in cemeteries naked
warring little but jeweled ***** bells,
ankle bracelets
toe rings
bingles, bangles, piercings,
through ******* and nose

her tongue split
each side wiggling independently

she gives head on a head stone
her blow jobs
like two undulating mouths
her skin inked with
black and blood tattoos that say
Satan's little ***** *****
double penetrations preferred porfavor
the more buttery big ***** and pastry puffy ******* the better

all purple hair tinged red
and antler horned hat
with silver toe and finger nails
a crazy saint sane
adored by the popes of the lascivious
eyes wide open over a crimson mouth sneer
cherry pout lips
gods gift to ***** and vaginas
a temple of relief exalting
a **** it bucket list of lust
her heart
cotton candy in flames
****** like a river of smashed potatoes
in cream

she like
phases of a corpse moon
begs to be used after death
like pigment on canvas
smeared red globes and chiaroscuro
she playing dead
living it up

do you know her
she keeps her secret hidden
on her sleeve
while you keep yours
from yourself

bless me father for I have sinned
and loved every minute of it
yet dare not be happy
for fear of Gods rage

my soul saved
turned fertile earth to sand
and shrouding vistas of light
till the bed is the bed
of the living dead
so there's nothin left but work and sleep
and dreams of drunken **** madness are buried
under the weight
marked forbidden

black sun curse
hips sway in ashes
a forbidden dance
Donna Jun 2017
peeling potatoes
they remind me of Daytime
so I mashed them up
Then I added peas greens and gravy :)
Anna Martinez Mar 2012
When did Wishes become as commonplace as pennies in Fountains?
When did Unicorns stop dreaming?
In a place where Unicorns can Dream
And Stars are Paths
And Fat Orange Cats are Sullen Irish Dancing Potatoes
With Biscuit Legs and Waterfall Eyes
With an Everything complex
Due to feeling the Absence of all
Whilst having felt an overwhelming Nothing
And Ant ****'s full of Honey and Air
Pirouette and bend their slim Amber eyed head backwards
To see such hopeless Unicorns Dreaming of
Trollops and Almosts who don't know what Mermaids are
Mermaids that only Sing Underwater
And watch Sullen Irish Dancing Potato Boy
With Biscuit Legs and Waterfall Eyes
And an Everything complex
Because Garfield can't figure out
If Fat Orange Cat is okay with loving Selfish Harlot Mermaid
Or not

Maybe we should all just stay Honey-Eyed Harlots
And Hero Twin Flames
Maybe the penny can be a Wish
And the Star's dust pathways
And Unicorns can see black instead of Dreams.
And it would do you much as well
To leave well enough alone.
What will become will become of this day and I wake up to find this day's been taken away by the thieves of the night,is this right,
does the night carry on even though it has gone,does the day have no say in its dawning?

It is morning in my head ergo,I am not dead or maybe I could be.
If the night doesn't see me does the day really free me,do I carry the can for the sins of mankind?
I find in illusion a great deal of confusion,a smelting of fantasy,a melting of freedom.

This hit and miss in me really disheartens me and although I keep trying there's something inside me that tells me I'm dying,it's a shame.
There is no fortune or fame for the runners up in a game just the harsh feel of failure,but if the day should return and I am still awake,there's a chance of a part,a starring role in the affairs of my own beating heart,
is it here
do you know
did the day really come and the night really go?

In cahoots with the Pole Star, I map out a route that will make me fortune,the moon makes me a beggar man and the beggars just scowl,
I'll be free soon not out of tune with my peers,not retreating from the advancing of legions of years.
It's all relative or so they say,
and what will become will become of this day.
Poor Mr Ketchup, He did look rather funny in his new clothes. None of them seemed to match, In fact Mr ketchup often wore different co-loured boots. His friends were always telling him.that he looked silly, but he just carried on wearing the wrong clothes. The people who lived in Tiny Tot village thought he'd had lost his marbles and perhaps was in need of some help. Haggis and Neaps decided  it was about time they paid Mr ketchup a home visit. It had been rather a long time since they last saw him.  Sweet Potato Face  had tried to help him match his coat with his trousers but he didn't want to know. she felt helpless because Mr Ketchup always nearly got his own way. You see he had a very stubborn personality  One fine morning Haggis arrived with some of his favorite chocolate cream cakes."Oh, yummy he thought Haggis would you please do me a favor, and put the kettle on."

"Oh Okay then replied Haggis just a second."
Minutes later the table was neatly set with  the most delicious cakes you ever have seen.
Mr ketchup rudely grabbed the cakes but he lost his balance and the cakes went tumbling on the floor with Mr Ketchup He did look an awesome sight.
He looked like the abominable snowman.
"That's torn it now he thought I shouldn't have been so greedy in the first place."
"Well I am dis-pointed in your behavior Mr ketchup."
And all of a sudden Mr Ketchup began to wail loudly.
" I am so sorry, he sobbed I'll make it up to you all."
How about you come next Saturday and I cook you dinner.?
"Why that would be most kind of you remarked Haggis."
"I'll cook you your favorite roast potatoes chicken and gravy with all the extras.
and of course not forgetting the steam pudding and custard."
That sounds good laughed Sweet Potato Face except you not be the one cooking it.?
"With that comment Mr Ketchup looked away embarrassed."
"I sort of gathered that giggled Haggis.'
We all know about Mr Ketchup and his little promises

Saturday morning had arrived and Mr Ketchup appeared to be in a good mood.
Until he discovered they wasn't any shopping for the meal he had promised Haggis.
he just took it for granted that his wife would do all the fetching and carrying while he just took all the credit for the hard work. But Mr ketchup hadn't a clue what was involved in the preparation of cooking a main meal, especially a roast chicken. The chicken has to put into the oven at the right temperate and roasted for two hours.
the potatoes have to be peeled and cut into half's then part boiled and put into the oven to roast.. Mr Ketchup took it for granted that Sweet Potato Face would do all the hard work ...... BUT HE WAS IN FOR A NASTY SURPRISE...  
Later that day Mr Ketchup dragged all the weekly shopping up the hill he was puffing and panting Poor Mr Ketchup you couldn't  help but feel sorry for him .

Oh Dear you can guess who will be doing the cooking.?  
doug mocoy Feb 2010
chopping the leaves off the onions
scent trailing them into the garbage
the beets stain the hands ****** purple
potatoes and carrots
as the first summer of our togetherness
gives its fruits
to us and to our children
and your child’s unborn child
marching on from the winter of our stony beginnings
and our spring storms of anger and hurt
big cabbage head heavy and firm
like your head on my belly
in the middle of the night
vegetables on the picnic table
and in your tub
clean the potatoes then
give me your love
I peel sweet potatoes.
My phone pings.
I check it.
Messages of pride flood my eyes.
I feel loved.
I put it down.

I peel the sweet potatoes.  
My dogs sniff my legs.

I am distracted, searching and anxious.
I feel loved.

I peel a previously peeled potato.

I stop.
I lecture myself.
"I focused and worked hard.
That’s all I did."

I focus on my potatoes.
The work gets done.
I feel proud.
I feel loved.
n stiles carmona Dec 2018
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
                               (- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.

Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
            on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
            barely there, staring at a laptop screen.

Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"

                                                       ­   ((A baritone chorus of laughter.))

"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."

Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.

A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We leave your house.
happy holidays! if you rub your eyes, it semi-looks like a christmas tree.
A Thomas Hawkins May 2010
I remember Sunday dinner
that granny used to make
enough to feed an army
piled on each and every plate

three kinds of potatoes
boiled, mashed and roast
Chicken, pork & roast beef
and a glass of wine to toast

and veggies from her garden
that grew right there herself
no canned corn from Guatemala
would you find upon her shelf

there'd be carrots, peas and parnips
brocolli & cabbage too
and anything that wasn't ate
ended up in her famous stew

but desserts, they were the best bit
there was custard, pies and tarts
an the only bad thing 'bout it all
was knowing where to start

— The End —