"spuds" poems
I march to a different drummer
My life it is my own
I'm an explorer of experience
That is how I'm known
I've seen snow in South Dakota
I've been on the Vegas strip
Had barbeque in Kansas
My life has been a trip
I'm a gypsy of the railways
I'm a legend in my time
I move on in a boxcar
Brother... spare a dime?
I've been through all the landlocked states
Five provinces as well
I've seen Niagara Falls all frozen
I've seen it flowing fast as well
I've had margaritas in Key West
And Bourbon in Kentucky
Craft beers out in Oregon
In my life I have been lucky
I travel on my stories
Feed myself with all my tales
I'm an explorer of experience
I'm a gypsy of the rails
I never stick around too long
I don't wear my welcome out
I come and see just what I want
That's what life is all about
I've railroad friends in Texas
Some up in BC too
We've shared drinks in San Diego
And had a great Alaskan brew
I'm not one to live by your rules
I find my rules suit me fine
I'm an explorer of experience
And I'm riding on the lines
You can find me down in Georgia
Or eating spuds in Idaho
I never know just where I'll be
Until my ride begins to go
I'm a gypsy of the railways
I'm a legend in my time
I move on in a boxcar
Brother...spare a dime?
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
To smile at the carnation,
So gallantly growing,
At peace with this world.
In silence...
I tune in a short conversation
Between minds and bodies -
Incredibly cold.
My heart has surrendered
To nightingale's song.
I dream of Rhode Island...
I'm leaving! So long!
The winds of Sonora,
My nannies and friends.
My love for Evora -
My tears know no end.
The shadows of Mordor,
With sunrise they fade.
Grace, Kindness and Splendour:
Three Buddhas in jade.
I feed roastede pidgeone
To poor ryebread crumbs.
Avoiding curmudgeons,
I'm playing professional dumb.
Caressing the grass-blades,
I live in a drop.
Arcadian arcade:
There, God has no job.
In hurting the Nature
We drain our souls.
Let’s all at once cease
Being ignorant ghouls.
...To stroke the carnation,
To gently kiss buds.
To eat simple meals
Like lentils and spuds.
To carry some water,
To chop down some trees.
To stop feeling rotten.
My soul is at peace.
The time is forever,
The purpose is now.
No “when” and no “where”,
No “why” and no “how”.
The light effervescent,
The sound circumaural,
The hearts ever-pleasant,
The dreams polynomial.
...Collapsing eternity,
Upheaving humanity,
Rock-bottom fraternity,
Defying the gravity.
Creative destruction
Is staunchly forbidding.
The wisdom of ancients
Is widely-misleading.
Depleting our anger
Is key to survival.
Harnessing the hunger,
Improptu revival.
Combustion of senses,
Precarious laughter.
Incurable sepsis,
Delirious canter.
Regrets are forgotten,
Bright days are all-cherished.
Let’s live unbegotten
Until we all perish.
13.06.2012
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
Shucking peas on the back steps
Maureen and I watch her Mum,
My Aunt Grace,
Arguing with Aunt Edna
In the kitchen
The narrow kitchen
Of number 84 Truro Road
As they whip a Sunday lunch into shape
A test match drones on the radio
The aroma of mint on new spuds teases.
It’s a modest roast
Served in the tiny parlor
To nine of us!
Eating elbow to elbow
With yellow handled knives and forks
Down to the bare porcelain
Waiting for the apple pie
with Libby’s.
That crust, with sugar sprinkles
Is a lifetime goal for me!
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
sleepy sleep
sleep in sleep in sleepy town
my eyes need wakey up
sleepy sleep my bed does call
me lids so glued there stuck
look at me at half past three
a hedge still in me hair
eyes so red a cameras light
saucers oh my dear
give me bed a silent night
cos sleepy snooze is me
time to snore and wake you up
me fidgits sleepy sleep
na na night its time for kip
me bed is calling me
clocking tick soon far away
a dream of dreams i see
rise and shine yet i need more
some sleep will do me good
bags of spuds upon each cheek
come on dont wake me up
sleepy in as sleepy does
im staying where i am
soon be dinner oh thats good
a lay in i'll be dammed
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
met a man once
and he took me to a steakhouse
the type where tuxedo men come back
with a twee bite-sized piece of meat on a plate
he ordered my steak for me
and though it glistened
the slab barely satisfied
the crack in my teeth
i was starving
and he kept talking about
business deals
and networking
to the type of cars that make him hard
which one of these thousand ******* forks
is best to stab?
making friends
with a bunch of pruned men
chatting business
he introduced me
she speaks Spanish
how exotic
raw and juicy
STEAK
sure does go well with potatoes
i started ordering loads of wine
when they all agreed that it was time
to make America great again
i downed even more down my throat
‘till I was seeing spuds in Versace
drinks for everyone!
we ordered like five bottles
so drunk
that I started mooing
but if this gasbag ever hopes to get laid
he’ll need to go to the slaughterhouse for that
meanwhile, let the bartender do the milking
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
You'll often see them running
and chasing across the plains,
a rabbit skipping and laughing
at an eagle, in great pains.
But why's the eagle running,
surely he can fly?
Sadly he’s afraid of heights
and frightened he may die.
An eagle that can't fly,
well surely that's not right,
it's just like having an owl
who won't come out at night.
But then one day the rabbit stopped
and said, “I've had enough”,
he waited for the eagle
who by now was out of puff.
“Why can you not fly my friend,
there must be a better way,
all this running so doing you in,
especially twice a day”.
“I will not fly and I'll tell you why”,
the eagle had stopped for a rest,
“I have a horrible fear of heights,
since I fell from my mother’s nest”.
“It’s ok for you just sitting there,
chewing on your carrot
but just you try catching
a pigeon or a parrot!”
“Well why don't you just change your food;
try veggies for a while?”
The eagle replied, “Are you serious?”
and couldn't help but smile.
“It’s not as daft as you may think;
it's clever, if I may say,
it'll save you all the running around,
veggies can't run away!”
The eagle thought and with a grin
ran off as fast as fast as he could.
“Where are you going?” the rabbit called.
“I’m off to find some spuds!”
Written by Darren Scanlon, 4th January 2014.
Revised 18th July 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC
So many, many moons ago
The gang from St. Brigid's would go
Every single chance we could
Off to local farms to sow spuds.
Each one covered in burning lime
(No health and safety at the time)
Each sown under a foot apart;
If not, you went back to the start.
All for only ten pence a line
(Though 'twas a fortune at the time)
Working mostly long ten hour days;
Kids would not do it nowadays!
Picnic lunches in all weathers,
Sitting in the fields together,
Lemonade bottles for the tea,
Eating with hands filthy *****
It was work that would break your back
But sure we all had mighty craic,
Laughing and joking all day through,
Slagging each other as kids do!
St. Brigid's gang were number one,
Farmers knew the work would be done.
At harvest time back we would drag
To pick spuds for ten pence a bag!
It did none of us any harm
Working such long hours on the farm.
Although the work was onerous
'Twas the making of all of us!
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC
ANZAC CHUMS AND THEIR MUMS
In Oz the possum grinds on thorn and gum
Far too stretched to visit mum -
Things are hard outback of Bourke
And there’s no time for anything but work.
But Kiwi possums like to visit ma
With flowers for her crystal jar -
They’ll even take a shopping bag of buds
With some greens and beans and spuds.
In Oz the possum is protected
As indeed might be expected -
Beset by fires and drought and prickles
And parched out creeks that slim to trickles.
But Kiwi possums are heaven sent
To slurp and scoff to heart’s content -
When they dine they have the best
And not surprisingly are deemed a pest.
In Oz a treasure - in NZ an imported glitch
There are mixed opinions either side the Ditch –
Mum’s the word on making possums able
To visit home with veggies for the table.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
i cooked a christmas dinner a proper christmas roast
i cooked it by myself i was the christmas host
i bought a great big turkey and a box of foil
to wrap the turkey in so it wouldnt spoil
i plucked it and i stuffed then placed in to cook
doing as it said in my little book
then i peeled the spuds and cut up all the veg
then i got the parsnips and cut them in a wedge
everything was ready it gave me such a thrill
never knew i had so much cooking skill
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC
standing like my father
staring into nothing
no, not nothing
usually something
boiling,
spuds , the kettle,
water.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 9:10 AM UTC
I peeled a heart-shaped potato today;
Its skin was red and moist,
after i washed all the dirt,
and removed all the growth.
All of the clean potatoes
did not get chopped up,
for use on this day, but
the heart-shaped potato was shredded,
with a few other spuds,
and turned into something more useful;
Than a pile of shredded potatoes,
or a raw, *****
chunk of ****** root,
with life extending from its borders.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 8:25 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
Those spuds were all dug up,
using a fork of tempered steel,
The potatoes with all seeing eyes,
Met harvest with a fleeting glimpse.
Popped neatly in a washing up bowl.
Given a wholesome freshening shower.
Into a cooker where the pressure built so.
In their hearts they softened you know.
The bubbling water, it did go.
Pressure off with the flick of a switch,
The cook she stabbed them,
The son of a *****
Relieved the rather hot sensation,
Through the colander they went dry and amazing.
Drizzled them with just a trickle of milk,
Added a touch of butter and pepper.
Now with the seasoning all complete,
Mashed to bits.
Let's all eat.
Dinners up,
Sweet!
(c) Livvi
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
I am a gorilla,
I am an ape.
And I’m trying to escape
This Golden Cage of youthful age,
I grace myself with the withering ineptitude
Of a penguin in commons.
I have the ambition of a pumpkin at Halloween,
That wants nothing more, than to be lit from the inside.
But my fiery breath is nothing more than whiskey
And cigarettes,
A lose regret of swollen knuckles,
Reminiscent of the iron age, I’m blowing off steam.
But it’s only condensed water on the inside of these windows.
Where the lights are off and there’s no one home.
Steve left me on the edge of moon rock,
A town that missed the stars of the night when they looked to sun,
So I sit playing ****
Puffed out like a swan but,
I’m all neck.
I wear a leek with pride and Yes,
I am a dragon on match days,
With claws and shrills, and right I’m sky high,
Cutting through your fluffy clouds, soft and weak.
Copper clad in pennyworth jeans I never chose.
Flaws that will be the floor for me,
Because in my town we never heard of stepladders,
We reach for the sky by climbing hills on tip toes.
Mountains we made with mole hills
My mother wont let go.
With **** so deep even spuds wont grow.
Apologies like auburgines, may be good for you
But I don’t like the taste.
So I’ll continue to squash the marrow between my knuckles,
But you can go gaga if you want to,
Because, I was born this way.
Great pun.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
A country tale from round these parts
Concerning potatoes none too large
Now over the hedge as he rode by
Old Dibber had a little spy
There was his neighbour, fork and all
Digging up spuds, but they were quite small.
With a cheer he blurted out
"Your spuds aren't much to shout about!"
Quick and sharp came the retort
"They're made for my mouth ba, not yours!"
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
It was game night in my friends house
we were halfway through a game
when Chastity came in
with a few of her friends
They asked if they could join us
then Chastity took off her shoes
then she sat right opposite me
with a wicked smile on her face
The cards were dealt
I had a good hand
but Chastity's slender feet
had other plans
I told the guys I fold
for she was too much to behold
having her stocking feet
so close to my spuds and meat
I tell you, it was ****** mind blowing
BY Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Lunch!
Diminutive organic beasties.
The beings not of humankind.
They love them or they hate them.
You can never over rate them.
Not really Belgian.
But make some Flemish (phlegmish).
Rather sick.
Those sprouts from Brussels.
I say yummy.
The swede is not from Sweden but yo ** **
I love it so.
Turnips, so very lush as long as not boiled to mush.
Roasted is much better.
With butter and pepper.
Forget the meat.
Forget the spuds.
Bring me in a platter of veg.
With piping hot gravy.
Maybe I'm so cheap to feed.
Because I need no meat.
Not a vegetarian.
Just love veggies for my tea.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
i cooked a christmas dinner a proper christmas roast
i cooked it by myself i was the christmas host
i bought a great big turkey and a box of foil
to wrap the turkey in so it wouldnt spoil
i plucked it and i stuffed then placed in to cook
doing as it said in my little book
then i peeled the spuds and cut up all the veg
then i got the parsnips and cut them in a wedge
everything was ready it gave me such a thrill
never new i had so much cooking skill.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
i had a go at cooking tea
bangers and mash was the recipe
i cooked the spuds and began to bash
whipped my spuds in to a hash
everything was going well
when from the oven there came a smell
the sausage i had cooked had been far to long
now had blue smoke and and a smell that was so strong
the sausage they were burnt way beyond repair
i openened up the window to let in some fresh air
i still had my spuds so i ate them on there own
and as for the sausage i left them well alone
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 6:44 AM UTC
What would it be to be a soldierTo seek the God of war,To make your mind a death machineTo long for peace no more.To make your sinew hard as ironYour muscle ripcord tough,To bend your thinking mercy freeYour soul enshrined in rough.Conformity in dress attireMeticulous black shine,The gun oil on your sidearmThat rigid stance in line.The taughtness when you march en massThe crunch of boots on stone,The flash of steel with bayonet thrustThat splash of blood on bone. Your hatred for the enemyA lust for ****** war,Abhorrence for a personal styleJust compliance with the corps.The stare that sees a thousand yardsThe spines are ramrod straight,The disciplined magnificenceThe Corps d’Esprit is great! Afghanistan & GazaMogadishu and TehranThe terror strips are globalAnd they’re hell for beast and man.To imagine you’ll enjoy yourselfIs madness to extreme.If you’ve seen a man's face liquefyIn a flailing shrapnel stream.If you’ve felt the fear of God nearbyWhen tribals mount a charge,With the shriek of “Allah Ahkbar”And the stench of death at large. “See The World”, the poster said“Free Training for a Trade”,Develop stiffness in your spineWith the army you’ll be made.Comradeship, companionshipIs the essence of the force,A fast, pack march of twenty clicksAnd chanting till you’re hoarse.The Sergeant kicks your backsideThe corporal licks your boots,Lieutenant has you dodging leadWhist digging trenching routes.The Major trims his moustacheThe General drives right past,Dismissing all the riffraffWho are well beneath his class. This-is-the-Army All khaki and brassy shine,You get to brandish riflesAnd wear berets when in line.So pull that chin in soldierKeep the thumbs straight when you march,Or we’ll have you peeling spuds or worse,...We’ll ream your young white **** You wanted to be manlyYou longed to make your mark,You signed up to be countedNow you're Army, hard and stark.So give it all you’ve got young manBend your back and be a knave,the alternative is purgatoryEngulfed, consumed, enslaved.Now you're in for the durationMake the most of what you’ve gotOr they’ll Court Marshal you tomorrowAnd with pageantry.. YOU'LL BE SHOT!MarshalgMangere Bridge27th April 2008
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 9:17 AM UTC
Have some more scones with jam and cream,
And a mound of spuds for tea,
Then you'll find your obesity,
With them carbs will be your mortality,
It is your responsibility,
To limit your own gluttony,
There are, indeed, bad calories,
Carboholics eat too much, you see!
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
*..the red cheeks of children,
the scarves and the rush
the patches of snow
lips in strawberry crush
I finish today the tasks of tomorrow
I’ll make a new list of TO DO
and to borrow
more time more time
I need it for something
perhaps to arrange all these cards on a word string
the kitchen in frenzies
the turkey asleep
the spuds and the pies
and the microwave bleep
the tree in the corner the cat and the guests
and the million dollar last minute request
the presents wrapped up
the smiles in their eyes
the mulled wine smells good
(I ‘m having a high!)
the sneezing, the coughing
the ‘I finished I think’
the sore feet and headache
the ‘I need that drink’
my eyes getting heavy
my glass gleaming red
the sounds bypassing
the thoughts in my head
as I sit by the fire
they should now all agree
that mission’s accomplished
...and this is Christmas for me*
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 2:22 AM UTC
Mark’s hands are grooved by ***** handles
grown on trees in the garden. He fastens bundles
and plains the best, saves leftovers for autumn piles.
The forks and tangles become a bonfire
where his children pull on woollen ears, spin red cheeks
with tumbling songs, watch Mark butter tinfoil spuds.
The children sneek off into adulthood and play catch
with a gilt wooden box, the pick of the grain
from the trees in the garden where a new ***** fills in gaping holes.
The box throws out branches in a cobwebbed cupboard.
Green hands with grooves droop in summer
then yellow and fall in the middle of autumn.
The bottom of the cupboard mulched with bones
and the children’s cheeks still burn.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 10:38 AM UTC