"tomato" poems
(Co-written with my awesome friend)
The thought is savory
But I know it won't put you in dismay
Triangular in shape, but it needs not to be a worry
As I can just imagine eating it all day
I am gobsmacked by this medley of tomato sauce and stringy cheese
Blimey! How dare you gobble this thing up and not share
Oh, for a slice I'd get down on my knees
A world without pizza wouldn't be so fair
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
Considering the tomatoes
Sunshine turns the grapes to wine
We have 27 tomatoes standing in a line
Waiting to be burnt and blushing to the sun
But too much sunshine makes me taste too sweet
But if I jump now I will lose my green feet
You have got to be mature enough to be squeezed
To juicy sour and loosely sweet
For I am a tomato,
A tomato thinking about life
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
**** a polar bear's funky ***
**** a racehorse's **** with Heinz Tomato Ketchup!
**** a donkey's ****** ***
**** a male camel's **** with Hoisen sauce!
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a European bison's smelly ***
**** a woolly mammoth's **** with Miracle Whip!
**** a snow leopard's *** with whip cream!
**** a hyena's spermy ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a llama's ****** *******
**** a panda bear's spermy *******
**** a sloth bear's bootyhole!
**** a greyhound's musty *** **********
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
Polaroid, see what develops
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
In the storm-tossed
Chilean
sea
lives the rosy conger,
giant eel
of snowy flesh.
And in Chilean
stewpots,
along the coast,
was born the chowder,
thick and succulent,
a boon to man.
You bring the conger, skinned,
to the kitchen
(its mottled skin slips off
like a glove,
leaving the
grape of the sea
exposed to the world),
naked,
the tender eel
glistens,
prepared
to serve our appetites.
Now
you take
garlic,
first, caress
that precious
ivory,
smell
its irate fragrance,
then
blend the minced garlic
with onion
and tomato
until the onion
is the color of gold.
Meanwhile steam
our regal
ocean prawns,
and when
they are
tender,
when the savor is
set in a sauce
combining the liquors
of the ocean
and the clear water
released from the light of the onion,
then
you add the eel
that it may be immersed in glory,
that it may steep in the oils
of the ***
shrink and be saturated.
Now all that remains is to
drop a dollop of cream
into the concoction,
a heavy rose,
then slowly
deliver
the treasure to the flame,
until in the chowder
are warmed
the essences of Chile,
and to the table
come, newly wed,
the savors
of land and sea,
that in this dish
you may know heaven.
14.4k
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
****** it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
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
star,
displays
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.
11.4k
Where we shoveled coal into the furnace was an inconsiderable door. Behind it held ***** chubby cherubs with cherry tomato noses, whose job it was to keep the fires of our parent's liquor cabinets full. This they did to keep them from constantly beating us, but the happy distraction did not always work. So, we would pluckily go. Go to the scuzzy pond at dusk with kerosine lanterns and listen for croaks. We tied forks to the ends of canes or stakes and would gig bullfrogs for dinner. It became only momentarily mortifying, but was always a choice way of ridding our sisters and other clingy girls of our company. We'd fry the legs in cornstarch and pepper flakes and be allowed to share with the adults their beer if it was a good catch. Usually, it was. Most of forever we waited for teaberry season, always the best time of the year. Though it was hotter than Beelzebub's bath water we'd go swimming in that **** pond to reach our favorite teaberry patches. This ensured our riches and fame throughout our Appalachian village. Everyone would eat teaberry ice cream and sing our names and no one beat us on those days.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
Dont treat me like potato
I aint no ****** tomato
Imma do what i want and smoke tobacco
Dont think of me as your flashy babe ***
Im sick of all this crap yow,
Youve been neglecting the **** outta me bro
But im through playing your games tho
So kiss me hard and just let me go
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
I was treated like the VIP,
A cat and a big fish,
A hook and a big Six,
whilst visiting madam bow-peeps
rotisserie of *****
Always receptive,
Wearing open silk
working 9 to 5am.
With a little overtime,
hot funk never satisfies,
She had the way-with-all
to feign, delight; even interest,
before negotiating the price,
Two shekels,
She was classy,
kind of slick,
she tickled my ears
for nothing more than kindness,
a small token in exchange for a smile.
She popped on a tune,
as she took off her dress.
The petting started
her two hands tugging with the zipper of my jeans.
A woman's touch... Ha HA,
the rich sultry kiss of *****
tight and tasty;
***** like a ripe tomato,
Sugar fried and drunk.
She opened her legs,
her hair smelled like shampoo,
She was on her belly,
knees tucked up
as I took in the fruit,
deep holes filled with **** and shabby fingers,
hollow spit and angry poison,
head spinning to the groove,
loud and high,
The bed squeaked
and a single light bulb dangled
like a loose tooth,
Ten minutes and
two ******* love songs!
Sick and spent up,
I got dressed to leave,
I said with a poke,
"I couldn't get laid,
Not even in a ***** house!"
And now I'm back in the cold again,
only dirtier.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
you are tomato soup
acidic
and creamy.
your path is marked
by risen temperature in my esophagus.
your path is parallel to my spine.
and you rest in the warm vats of my stomach
but you are warmer still.
no real need for digestion.
you are but orange liquid.
but sometimes you burn
tttttttttsa on my tongue
your steam-less appearance fooled me;
there is no need for cooling
hot hot tomato soup.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
Tomato:
Big, juicy, red
INSANE!
Sneaks up upon unsuspecting
Unreliable
MATH TUTORS!
A terrible fight ensues!
Tomato or tutor?
Tutor or tomato?
Tomato knows no math.
Tutor has no seeds.
A standoff.
Tutor and tomato growl menacingly,
Circling one another
Like two pieces of meat
On a microwave turntable.
Suddenly, their rhythmic dance of Hate
Is broken
By the rhythmic sound of incoming
Imminent
Inescapable
Doom.
Tutor and tomato are trampled
Like a TV dinner
On the freeway.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
Thinking about pizza as I'm here
it's warm with the ovens going
the order has been placed
i sit and wait
and wait
and wait
no time erased, only 1 minute elapsed
I feel like I'm swimming laps
in a tomato sauce pool
with black olives for floaties
the sauce is well past my knees
so hungry
and desperate
just to get a slice
of this great American pizza pie
it makes my heart swell
my eyes not dry
i'm gonna get eat pizza until i die
and if there comes a day
when they say no more pizza no way
your stomach can't handle it
your intestines will flare
i'll say i don't care
pull the trigger in my underwear
crime scene investigates
saw it on the news
a man covered in pizza
and bottles of *****
they couldn't get in the door was unlocked
a wall full of pizza boxes had the entry fully blocked
but deeper inside was a man no one knew
cheese oozing under the doorway cracks like glue
i'm still here waiting for pizza
no more imaginary trap
i look at my watch
the tenth minute elapsed
the lifeguard gets out
he's done with his swim
his whistle blows
everybody back in
the pizza is ready
time to dive in
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
Sometimes the poem
doesn't want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders' eyes,
ledge so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.
Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of losing his essential
loneliness-which he calls
freedom.
Sometimes the poem
can't requite
the poet's passion.
The poem is a dance
between poet & poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won't dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet-
iambs, trochees-
out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.
If the poem won't come,
I say: sneak up on it.
Pretend you don't care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda,
immortal Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.
Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.
Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.
When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.
As you rock
over the damp sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her.
8.7k
i. you took the clouds
and dyed them, used droplets of food coloring
so the sky would almost always
look like it was in mid-sunset, aching for the moon.
ii. tomato vines, tomato vines
tangled on you
and you are not even mine.
iii. songs that stopped being beautiful after you left me
iv. they named cottage cheese after the
first place we watched the food
network and
pretended to make a casserole for our family of six.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
What I miss mostabout New Yorkis pizzawarm, melty, tangy cheesewith **** tomato essense dripping out of the sideand the garlic! i could ward worse than vampires away with it!Don't get me wrongthere is pizza in ScotlandBut it just isn't the same as pizza from New York
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 1:00 PM UTC
Gender is just an invention by society
I'm a strong independent black woman and I don't need no man
Oprah
Michelle Obama
Yoga Pants
Hilary Clinton
Breast Milk
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
when you asked me about certainty
and if my mind was a tree
rooted in cement and truth
i was on my unaccustomed knees
blinking into a sunbeam's architecture when
the brilliant wind brought you to me
to cure me with the miracle touch
i was alone by a window dreaming through glass
you bent toward me in a mile wide sky
a butterfly with a skinny voice
or an adorable tomato in a retail uniform
before that i only knew the clouds
as bears wrapped in pastel baby-blankets
before i first kissed you in the street
i knew the sunset as a drop of fire
in a barrel of whiskey and
suddenly your eyes like a deep pool in a forest
seeking out my past with the molecular traces
of your fingers across my abdomen
mandalas blooming out of our palms
only touching at the fingers
as flames from mosquito torches filled
the round coral faces of my gauges
with apricot light
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Another tomato
splats to the
floor,
but I'm getting paid.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
“Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” I hear the EDL scream,
as if somehow the county, relates to their regime?
Trying to push on others their far right views,
and tainting Yorkshire with their taboos
cos Yorkshire to me, is whatever the **** I want it to be,
I do love a bit of local pride...
maybe to revel in the comfort it provides,
and even though stereotypes say we're tight,
as well as stubborn, argumentative (they're prolly right),
But I'd rather that, than be uptight,
like a stereotypical southerner might
I recently read a quote from Stuart Maconie,
“England has a bottom half,
but there isn't a south, in the same way there's a north”
The North in the south means desolation,
A cultural wasteland with deserted stations,
a place built on violent, aggressive foundations,
With mid summer Arctic temperature fluctuations,
Nothing that comes close to a nation....
But that's not what I see,
To be from the north means good fish and chips,
with tomato sauce and vinegar, it's glory on the lips,
I see people willing to lend a hand,
A honest chat about the weather as you stand at a bus stop
that you never planned,
It doesn't matter whether it's a cob, bun, bap, barm or roll,
Or that the north was ****** over by the outsourcing of coal,
Or your opinion that we're all just sat on the dole, drinking tea out of a ***** bowl.
We should still all have a similar goal,
To have a good time,
and not hurt a soul
Sometimes I do like to revel in the divide,
but I'll always welcome people from the other side,
Acceptance is not sin,
and if you let it,
it generally ends up with a win : win
What's Yorkshire to you? I haven't got a clue... but come sit down so we can have a chat and a brew! And hopefully we'll both learn something we never knew.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
the world sits on the wing of a dove
being swallowed whole by a fiery goddess
descended from heaven on a chariot of ivy
i am incarcerated by shaking flesh and itching cloth
the road before me is giant and knows no bounds
the graveyard is warm and wet with spirits and dew
and red clouds are born from fire in the dawn
there is an intelligent horse being ridden by a snarling insect
and this man has come to claim our souls
our sunset blood burns boils blisters until a million animals wounded
i'm still alive, transfigure me into a creator
choke up my nostrils with the scent of your ***
invade my lungs with the burn of your god
caress my toungue with the infinite promise
enter my brain from above, and regurgitate your anxiety on me
slimy worms devour a psychadelic tomato laughing
into transendency, an eyeless eel has dissappeared into a pocket
i speak from balconies, from terrible heights, from hastened windowsills
in a million desperate quarrelling cities
this is where i **** up illusion, i give up to despondency
i ring the great iron bell that resounds with corruption, with hatred, with hideous *** and admiration,
i scream and cavort on rooftops alone with a black & blue midnight
covered in electric lights and gunpowder tongues
here comes the disintegration of my mind
disgraced by the eye of the earth and spat into
a realm of salivating light
i am swimming through digested heartbreak and melancholy livers
sickened by madness and homemade bombs and ******
the rainclouds carry a truckload of babies' hearts
and it's raining eyes over the city now
the cry of the mind escapes from waving mouths in impotence
as millions of bacteria invade the brain
may these lines be answered by the bird of the sun
by the worm at my ear
by the sight of my skeleton
by the stench of ***** in the air
by the dead gong shivering through midnight
by the bleeding eye of abandoned dreams
by the prophets in proclamation
by the god of all my sorrows
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:55 PM UTC
Tea Talk (or Taking Tea)
Jam comes first
And then the cream
Said the scone from Cornwall
To one ‘n’ all
Taking tea
Milk jug blinked.
The teaspoon gasped,
Who would have linked
The layers of bliss that sweetly kiss
With their order between the halves of a scone
From Cornwall
Where one ‘n’ all
Know that the milk is churned
Until it’s solid
Then we say the cream is clotted.
The teapot looked at the scone from Devon
Who knows that cream and jam is heaven
But only if the cream comes first
And then the jam . . . . .
My thoughts exactly said the ham
From between its sandwich fingers
Where it lingers
Until it’s time for tea.
‘Are you sure?’ the teacup said
To ham within its breaden bed.
Saucer asked the cucumber salad,
‘Should jam come first?’
‘But does it matter?’ said cucumber salad.
‘It’s a ballad
So red and white,
A symphony of taste
Into which to bite.
It is so right
For those who are taking tea,’
‘Jam then cream, is what you do,’
Insisted Cornwall’s scone who
As we know likes cream to be clotted.
But tomato blushed and quickly said,
‘With cream from Devon I am besotted
Because we know it’s clotted. . . . .
Too.
Onion, hearing Cornwall and Devon
Knows that cream and jam are heaven . . . . .
But jam and cream are bliss
Sealed with a kiss that is heaven . . . . .too.
The dilemma of order fuels onion’s frustration
And onion’s tears lead to prostration
For those who are taking tea.
What is to be done
To solve the question of order
Jam first . . . . . or cream?
The issue borders
On the ridiculous
As the layers sweetly intermingle
Like the lovers’ kiss
As those who are taking tea
Bite . . . . .
Ouch! said onion
The scone from Cornwall
And the scone from Devon
‘Either way is heaven.
David Applin
Copyright …David Applin (2015)
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
*'Twould do any young person well to step into the muddy boots of a farmer for a spell . *** a field the whole day through , milk an ornery goat , pick a row of okra or two ..
Clean a hog pen , run the dogs at the crack of Dawn , build baskets and set tomato plants in the hot Georgia Sun ..
Pick your meal in the morning and eat it at dinner , cut firewood in the dead of Winter . It would most assuredly do a teenager well , yes it would*
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
I can't believe I bought them.
Is this the top scoop?
I've entered a raffle for
pea & ham soup.
I can't even eat it,
I'm vegetarian you see.
Won't you just change it to
tomato for me?
I don't mind the peas,
It's the ham that's no good.
They slaughter those piggies
screaming, covered in blood.
Eyes bulging, their throats cut.
It's really not nice.
There's so much more to choose from,
not just cakes made of rice.
Have you seen how they nugget,
crispy goujons and breast?
They've found faeces and gristle
in a food safety test.
So don't think that these people
have your interests at best.
Look it up, do your research
and I'll give it a rest!
Poetry by Kaydee.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
Freedom At Kannyakumari
“The destiny of India is molded in her class-rooms”
Kothari had no confusion; no vision on the fusion-
of the East and the West, as Swami Vivekananda’s vision,
“The comingling of the East and the West will dawn a new Era”.
As tissue culture, transplantation or cloning
we Indians imbibe the Western Culture;
or as G.M cotton or brinjals,or tomato
Indians are produced, transmuted
destroying the very indigenous genus for material growth.
Ayurveda is preserved not in Sanskrit but in English letters, now !
Followers of Lord Maccaulay as obedient servants,
by experiments,bring up Indians only in blood and colour-
in every other respects-Europeans
(using imperialist - capitalist media);
poor sycophants ,for a visa,
the Indians: now , turn to the West for light,
leaving the bright light under the Urn;
cry for a way of progress, safety and food;
and beg:once self reliant nations as cells of a body
No retrospection or introspection,
only putrefaction, hence , no resurrection.
On August 15th ,at Kannyakumari beach , beside me,
a bare body of a woman(my sister?) lay asleep;
I witnessed at the starry cold mid-night:
the surging sea spitting frothing snow
upon the black rocky *******
protruded, greasy, mossy. bare but fair ,
ever young at the feet of Bharat-matha.
Wet in the salty breeze , from the foul smell of death,
I walked and walked searching shelter,
but no room for a single son with meagre wealth.
The tourism net -workers with the thirst of mosquitoes
hummed around me with highly rented room offer-
source of tourism exploitation- I bargained,
till, morning red balloon rose up in the Eastern horizon
cleaving the vapours of the sea,
when , thousand tongues chanted Gayathri;
then , the locals thronged around the woman on the shore;
somebody among them, staring blear eyed
as the police jeep and the ambulance arrived , bewailed
“O! Gayathri, my darling, O! Gayathri…” Unsoothed.
The chanting and the yelling dissolved in the breeze
that passed by the Vivekananda rock, afar, south
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
Hey, past me from so close yet seeming long ago...
A knot from my sweater's bow I regret tying despite how unkempt the ribbons look hanging by my sides because now it's digging into my back
The hair I can't decide if I want out where it's pretty and makes me look less like a generic nerd yet gets in my face and food and life
The jeans I insist upon wearing without a belt even though their slipping down my **** may actually outweigh the pain of loosening the belt
The tennis shoes I'm too attached to give up that emit a constant squeak, squeak, squeaking through the hallways whether it's caused by residual rain from outside or not
The glasses, fond of slipping down my nose at frequent intervals, covered in smudges I rarely notice till they get out of hand
The phone whose screen happened to crack at the most inopportune moment and takes forever to read my finger print
The jacket that should be a highlighter blue but rather presents itself as a canvas of the week's tomato stains
The face covered in acne-
The stomach with fat instead of muscle-
The arms lacking muscle-
The legs with too much hair-
I've always acknowledged that perfection is not possible, yet I have to at least try to strive
I think, as I sit at my desk, fingers typing fragmented sentences, attempting to convey thoughts speeding too fast to grasp
Yet, just a simple poem of reflection brings to light these numerous deficiencies, many of which I COULD fix were it not the invisible fiend upon whom I stamp the label-laziness
These deficiencies, many of which aren't even noticed by those around me, some of whom are better some are worse
But it's not as simple as that, I've known I can't just be "one of the people", I need to find something, some identity, some way out of my seemingly impossible to escape label of "just above average"
In academics, in extracurricular activities, EVERYTHING, I seem to be at a stagnant
I've done bad, I've done "just above average", but never above. What is the point if you get plenty of losses and plenty of "fine" but no victories?
It's something about me though, somehow I believe, subconsciously, I'm impeding myself. I'm holding myself back.
...
Why?
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
Fresh as a warm, ripe tomato
right off the vine.
Juicy and sweet
your kisses.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC