"spud" poems
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:
JANE! GET ME OFF THIS CRAZY THING!
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 1:46 PM UTC
I am told that Bilbo, before his
Adventures began, would walk, the
Shire to seek the queen of the fungi.
To search was the compulsion.
Driven by taste, for the mysterious
Fruit of the forest floor.
When asked, he would say,
To savour the wild delight has nothing to compare,
To the humble taste of a spud, or sprout,
Just an ecstasy of unparalleled delight.
Knowing you have found the woody nutty treasure.
Of the queen of the forest floor.
Tis the biggest adventure a hobbit needs
To test his might against the mighty mushroom.
But then he had yet to meet ...
A wizard and a dwarf.
© Nick Strong 2014
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
From the humblest of beginnings
Began a tough innings
A family deprived
His dad had died
So to work he went
To help pay the rent
From a teen to a man
In a short time span
He had many a job
Hard earned each “bob”
He was a keeper of bees
He picked beans and peas
With marbles and shanghai
He had a keen eye
So rabbits he’d stalk
Their pelts he sought
A butcher and baker
And fence post maker
A fisherman and fruiterer
And even spud picker
A shearer of great ability
Those shears he clicked with agility
From morn to night
He worked hard alright
Met a girl and made her his wife
Ten children now blessed his life
He provided as best he could
Forever working for their good
A large family and so little money
Life, of course, was not always sunny
Simply he lived, simple his dwelling
The trials he faced so very compelling
A ****** awful thing was done
A terrible tragedy stole his son
With grief immeasurable and untold
He held together; staying controlled
Children struggled to forgive their mother
As she left him and found another
Yet for her he would always stand
Always hoping to win back her hand
Another tragedy claimed a limb
We thought it would be the death of him
His work, his wife, his health now gone
Yet silently, painfully he continued on
We knew his heart was terribly broken
Yet always forgiveness he had spoken
We knew he lived with daily pain
But silent and strong he would remain
His strength and courage was beyond belief
But for him there would be no relief
His children were now all grown
He died, one night … alone
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 12:49 PM UTC
(sorry, but not sorry)
There once was a potato plant,
(Because potatoes grow on plants...)
This plant harvested baby potatoes.
This was no ordinary potato plant, however,
It was SPECIAL!
Anywho, the plant grew several baby potatoes,
Who were harvested and shipped on a crate to a grocery store
in a cold, dark shipping truck.
The potatoes, they weren't scared! Yah know why? Simple.
Because Potatoes don't have FEELINGS!
....but if they did....they'd be scared. Take my word for it.
The potatoes arrived at the store and were bagged, ready for purchase. They sat together in a pile for hours,
thinking about (but not thinking about) what would happen in the future, why they were in this bag, UNTIL, UNTIL a homeless man (he looked homeless) reached into the bag, pulled out a single spud, and RAN! Out the store, down the street,
HE WAS OUTTA THERE! BYE-BYE SUCKERS!
Well, on his way to.... wherever he was going, he fell and dropped it. That's what stealing does to yah.
It rolled into an abandoned alley, far away from the man's sight. He couldn't stop and look for it, because he was being chased, so he ran away sourly, the potato being left cold and alone, without it's family to be piled up motionlessly beside it.
This potato was different. Unlike it's family, it could feel,
it could think and understand, even without knowing language at all, it's like the potato just knew everything and anything, without a purpose. And, another thing.
This potato, it was hungry. Very hungry.
Only hours later (again)
A parentless child walked the streets, searching for something to eat. They hadn't eaten in days. Of course, the child found the battered potato on the ground,picked it up and smiled.
It was the end of the potatoes life cycle, it seemed.
Or...was it? Seconds until the end, seconds until facing the terrifying wrath of the human's sharp, untaimed teeth, seconds until it got to see if there was a potato heaven or not, JUST SECONDS, something changed.
The spud; it grew. No, it didn't grow in size, but it did grow a mouth, and arms. And it could scream. Oh God, yes, it could wail like no tomorrow, so, quickly adapting to it's new form; it yelled ****** ****** The child threw it at a wall, screaming and running away.
..... Silence from the potato.
Sadly, it could withstand the grasp of a sweaty, homeless dude,
it could bare the growing silence from it's siblings,
it could even dodge the teeth of a starving ape!
But the potato was no match for a wall.
Mashed potatoes for dinner it is.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:54 PM UTC
****
Frock..
Flock.
Bock!
Bock bock bock!
Mother mother bock,
Mother mother bock bock
Mothercluck mothercluck
eggsh eggsh eggsh
1 2,
1 2 3 Crack!
Eggs eggs cheese,
Baking biscuits
Frying spud
Mix'n roux
Squashing beefs,
Squashing beefs beefs beefs.
Rolling patties,
Flipping bacon.
Who eat the bacon?
We eat the bacon!
Roll'n patties-
-uuuh yeah, let me get a bacon'n'egg
In'a'tick little man.
I'll put that **** in my pan.
If the thank you doesn't show,
You can owe me blow me-
Imperial March ringtone
-Checks cell and ignores call-
"Who was that?"
"What? Oh,
Just another annoying memory."
-OH!
My kitchen love!
Ovee Ovee Ove-n
I think I wanna roast-ya toast-ya!
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
If I were a flower
Perhaps if I were a flower, you'd pick me to be yours.
Of course you would pick the flower that was the most exquisite,
Luminous in every spectrum,
But more importantly the most Beautiful blossom,
Therefore plucking me from my survival.
See, the anticipation was your acceptance,
However, your admiration was a free ticket away from my existence
Because I am a flower,
And You removed me from my stem.
Now,
I can't breathe.
But I love you...
And I've always loved you.
And as each day passed you kept me stashed in the darkness
Every heartache, a petal would deteriorate.
Which left me withered and pale as cotton
See, I lost my beauty tangled in your insecurities.
Not to mention my vulnerability,
That created this reality.
Oh but how I wish I could turn back the hands of time,
Perhaps,
Make me intangible,
Invincible from you're grasp.
Cover me in thorns and levitate me to the highest branch,
Away from those resent less eyes.
Perhaps?!?
However, I remained transparent in your world.
No longer the center of your love.
What was once a flower became the remains of a petal-less spud.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
As I lay beside my darling
On an early Sunday morn,
I could feel her rounded softness
Sleeping under blankets warm.
My mind caroused the memories
And loitered on it's way
And found itself deliciously,
Immersed in golden play.
I remembered something special
In the way my little boy would look
As his eyes rose up in wonderment
When I read his favorite book.
And the joy involved in feeding
A hungry little mouth
When the porridge spooned all over
From the eyebrows heading south.
A tantalizing moment
On the beach down by the sea,
In the warm December sunshine
With my happy family.
We were running in the black sand
Drawing circles with a stick
As the surging waves approached them
Laughing little boys were quick.
Laughing, happy moments
And some sad ones like the day
When dear old Meg, our Labrador,
Got sick and passed away.
Young Boaz in his sadness
Climbed the big tree to it's crown
And it took a lot of pleading
To persuade him to come down.
And young Solly played the taniwha
At the Cornwall Park school play
And a better taniwha has yet
To grace the stage today.
A natural in his element
This young comedian
So hilariously funny
As he drew the audience in.
The tender, loving moments
As we both strolled arm in arm
Through the verdant Ferntree Gully
With it's sunlit grace and charm.
And the towering eucalyptus,
Hanging wood smoke in the air
And the whiplash resonation
Of the lyrebird hidden there.
Of Buttercup's wild parties
When fancy dress was king,
When everyone would whoop it up
And laugh and dance and sing.
When mum's and dad's and little kids
All joined the happy throng
With spud mashing as a ceremony
And a night of fun and song.
Of sitting in the garden
With your feet up and a book
And a cold beer at your elbow
And a barbecue to cook.
With the easy feel of family
As they go about their day
And the joyous sound of summer
When two noisy tui's play.
Memories of yesterday
Moments in the life
Of ecstasy and agony
And wonderment and plight.
And the ordinary ness of everything
And the magic everywhere,
Like the auburn in the sunlight
As it strikes my darling's hair.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
10 October 2009
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
My daughter fell in love with a potato,
"A potato.......
My mind was confused and my face was a picture...
of why would someone ever love a potato?
I asked this myself in my head then out loud.
My darling how have you a fondness for a potato?
*He is the only one for me he is so soft and never
has a chip on his shoulder..*
A chip? really, how did you meet my little lady.
He was just mulling around in a mash pit,
The music was the spud rock and he was my root.
I will have to meet you new boyfriend,
Dad, I love Barry, he even let me wear his jacket
it was so fluffy inside...
Fathers out there would have the same look on
their face as I do now!!!!!
"OK, as I was waiting impatiently to see this lad.
She walked in hand in hand, I just gave the daddy
look, hi Barry he stared in a starch looking gaze.
my daughter spoke "I'll just get my bag,
I spoke in my sternest voice,
"Barry if you don't treat my daughter right,
"Lets just say ill mash you up, understand....
And then they left not the gentlemen of before
no jacket to lend her, just walking out the door
like he had just been roasted by my words...
Hours had past worry in my thoughts then my
daughter came back, tears in her eyes.
"What ever was the matter my darling?
*"He had steamed off because I wanted to know
why he never leant me his jacket,*
"He said I was being a dumpling with him,
*"So I told him you were right and that he had
a chip on his shoulder, he replied I was fried,*
I told her that potato's can be a little mashed, and
a chip they will always have, because you cant change
a potato they will always have a little starch inside...
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
late night hoops
24-hour fitness
you call me "white boy"
"how did you know?"
i want to say
funny
"hey white boy"
sounds a lot like
"hello mr. oppressor"
i am not
a poster boy for the past or present
a rusty slogan of inequality
or
a white boy
i am
irish norwegian german french-canadian native american
spud-eating fur trapping wampum-trading viking
i am
pumping pull-ups on the poverty line
just tall enough to ride the wel-ferris wheel
unable to tell my mother i love her
and
b r o k e n
Deta
ched
scarred
******* my shirt like a salty otter pop
swallowing sweaty syllables
the pringle on my shoulder
about to crunch
game point
tie game
15
15
we are equal
even when i sink that shot
tickle that twine
we are still equal
you and i
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
Earthy mottled brown,
Pomme de terre
The humble spud,
When not covered in mud;
Chipped, boiled or mashed,
Steamed roasted or hashed.
First the Incas of Peru,
Used them in a stew.
Now the tubers grown in space,
To further the human race.
Chopin, Mozart, and Vivaldi,
Can all be bought at Aldi.
(Other supermarkets are available.)
(More varieties are saleable.)
A versatile Maris Piper,
Couldn't be any riper,
When served perfectly baked.
© Nick Strong 2014
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:59 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
You are Irish. So am I. The Kennedys are, and so is half of ******* America.
We aren't special, you aren't unique, so put down your Guinness you freak.
I hate people being so proud of a land they have never been.
Our freckles and our hair and skin is the color of ham.
You act like the Irish invented beer
and are proud that the Celtic women have a big mule rear .
Our ancestors had to escape such a ****** forsaken place.
and you act like god chose you to procreate some master race.
I know that your family and mine spent years in mud.
Dirtier than swine, just to feed your family a diseased spud.
Our pink grandparents came here, and put down every other race that didn't match their rosy face.
So go find a leprechaun with a *** o' luck.
Don't raise a drink to our ancestry, because I don't give a ****
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
A grassy salty surprise,
A succulent bone,
A crisp spud.
Each bite a jubilation,
Every swallow a rebirth.
Greasy grease,
My lovely love.
How I've missed you,
maybe we'll meet again,
in another two years.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
"What softens the spud,
hardens the egg."
I think resonance differs,
depending the head.
Depends on the heart,
some broken,
some cold.
Depending on age
the young
and the old.
Depends on the path,
some crooked
some straight.
Depends on the way
we handle our faith.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
On the deck of the HMS Randalls
Were sorry array of antiques
They would amble about in their sandals
To a chorus of ominous creaks
The crackle of bone upon gristle
With a litany grumbled above
Just give them the slip
If you feel a grip
Like a handful of dice in a glove
In the galley of HMS Randalls
Where the tables were ******* to the floor
There’s a chef with a dwarf where his leg was
He was bombed in the Argentine war
If you ask him about his ‘prosthetic’
He just winks and he taps on his nose
But the dwarf will admit
That they make a good fit
And a noteworthy total of toes
At the engines of HMS Randalls
With her overalls smeared with blood
Stood cannibal kind of mechanic
By the name of Veronica Spud
Her hunger has never been sated
Or her eye been the source of a tear
Her teeth have been chipped
Into screwdriver tips
And a spanner protrudes from her ear
On the bridge of the HMS Randalls
Sits the captain, Geronimo Spent
His unblinking and pallid expression
Say he left but he never quite went
But he puts on his hat and his jacket
He fastidiously logs his report
With a secondary list
Of the passengers kissed
As he figures that life’s too short
**
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 7:44 PM UTC
Seraphic in form
He promised to end the storm
Setting me in a trance
He pulled out a lance
To rescue he had to carve my naked armor
So I stood vulnerable on the rejuvenating harbor
I held the scrunched hand of my Mariner
As we sailed together over the rough waters
But soon I realized that his service was a sham
His shadows had deceived me to believe he was my guiding lamp
Contrary to the promises he slashed my trust
With knives, blades made of inhuman lust
That wretched soul turned me into a wreck
A forgotten flotsam, as I continued on the arduous trek
Merciless the journey grew, I was reaching my nadir
But hungry still was the counterfeiter’s stare
An alarm signaled him that his prey was out of blood
He waited to remove me like a **** with his stump spud
Thunderous, monstrous the gory battle raged
He bathed under the scarlet running of my veins, deranged
He devoured me till the very end
Corpse I was but undead
His wrath had turned me incredibly fragile and frail
So before he could end this life,
I jumped in the treacherous cascade following a much peaceful trail
~Manu M.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
If the Sun doesn't get you
the scorpions will.
There were four of us in a half track and a little way back lay the fifth.
The Sun got him good
roasted and peeled him like a spud.
Tannoy, the radio man was the next one to go, slow like a withering vine,
sounded like static on the line
then he went dead.
Fitzroy, the Sepoy, more of a boy than a man
prayed for a day and then went on his way to whatever heaven it is that Sepoys go.
Bill, a bull of a man from Mill Hill and who spoke with a permanent stutter
uttered his last and I travelled on at half mast
cursing the Sun and the Sand and the hand I'd been dealt.
Felt the scorpion sting as I pulled up and funny thing too
I could swear that the scorpion looked like
Frank Sinatra.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
Cracks in the foundation -
They don't make 'em like they used to. Chipped concrete, rusted rebar
Fading facade
I make facile arguments
Excuse myself
Blame mental illness
Blame the drugs, the molly years
Blame ****** (I don't choose life)
**** you,
Ian McGregor
Blame the ****** February weather
Blame the itchy sweater
That is life
If that truly is life then,
Become I conscientious objector?
Already live in Canada
Blame the city
Blame the *****
Blame yourself
They say we have agency
I grasp, I reach
But the fruits
Are bitter sweet
**** the bed honey
Like Spud lovely
Which lines do I keep?
And who to throw away?
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC
the way your fingers cooled
against my forehead
the shape of your laugh
crystallized into
chrysanthemum breaths
i forgot myself
and
my heart is spud-sputtering
down the freeway to your house
over again
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
We throw around “I love you”
Like children playing catch
Disregard for incubated tenderness
Too impatient to let it hatch.
We throw it on the floor
***** with all kinds of mud
Disregarding potential growth
Limited as a spud.
We drag it in the dust
As if we never care
Hearts. Raw love. Precious.
Yet, not considered rare.
Perforated souls
Deadly games of fear
Initial intention: hope and love
Yet harbored pains appear
Yet smiles appear on every face
Pretending its all ok
Too hard to face true worth I suppose
So our hearts of love, become child’s play.
A common misconception
We believe the lies are true
But let’s review true treasure again
Let our understanding of love be new.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 10:50 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
my writing style
is akin to a purge
or biblical flood
within a minute, I write a mile
driven by this surge
it’s true, some of it is crud
still, I grow my pile
unwilling to control the urge
coated in poetic mud
I take a break once in a while
then new thoughts emerge
which I shoot at like Elmer Fudd
jotting quickly, with a slight smile
never meaning to splurge
sometimes landing with a thud
but still I write as this is my style
viewed mostly as a scourge
like a rotten old spud
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
My Granny is 87
And has a new carer every week
Today’s woman is slight
But smiling
A South American beauty
Granny sits and explains
How the potato peeler works
And she beams
A bare spud in her fist
That this is something she has never used
That this is something she will bring home to her mother
That with this she could peel the world
And I believe her.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
A ***** shirt and holes in your socks.
when you're folded away and put in the box it won't matter to you,if
you're in a suit with tie and boots,
you'll still be down there with your roots.
We all will end the day we bend to the will of time,
which is not as far as I can tell,
a crime,
yet.
I get this feeling, that if there is a punishment to come,
mine will be peeling potatoes under the blistering sun,and
after the things I've been up to and done,it seems fair
to me.
No worry though,less haste and let me be slow to catch
the bus to the terminal.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 7:07 AM UTC