"turnip" poems
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
12.9k
Diseased turnip
Rooting in the dirt
Rotting fodder
Unpicked
Untapped
Gnarled and bitter
Lying under your bridge
When you are gone
No-one will miss your rancid rag
© 2019 MJL
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 10:02 AM UTC
**** this coffee's really sour
I've been drinking it for half an hour
Wanna hear a poem
Wanna hear a poem
Wanna hear a poem about a cauliflower
[Cauliflower's foolish
It doesn't fit the theme
I'm sick of all your nonsense
I'm tired of your memes]
Woman selling knickknacks
I'm not eating tic-tacs™
Your words were put in brackets
Check out my rhyming tactics
I see that you're not one for fun
Your a cloudy day, I'm the shining sun
My absurdity
Is the key
To happy for eternity
[You're clearly deeply broken
And only you can cure
Your fundamental problems
But really I'm not sure
The only one who conquers
Is one who really tries
So stop with the gorillas
Since everything will die]
Maybe you don't understand
My foolishness goes hand in hand
With making things that are the best
Like giant squids and turnip fests
Order, chaos, streets and bogs
Them, White, Color, Talking Frog
Odd on top but clear below
From ash and fire life will grow
Then again I see it's true
I am right and so are you
Maybe we both have a claim
In this crazy poet game
**
Okay]
That didn't rhyme!
[It doesn't have to]
I love you
[Mmm hmm]
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
Give me a fresh *** of your nips.
Ehh?? Give me a ******* turnip!
I went to Peterborough, came from Marrakech,
Which one should I rip to flesh?
In summer I love to chew icicles,
Whatever! It’s to die for!
I rode a bike and had a stew,
Never mind this poem, go and have a poo.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:11 AM UTC
Gold Digger
now I'm not saying she's a gold digger
but her hands are in my pants pants pants
and I'm thinking as far as I can figure
she's not asking me to dance dance dance
cause the only tune I can hear playing
is the one that's in my head head head
and she's not skinny but she keeps saying
honey I need some bread bread bread
only last week she was begging me
she's needing cash for her sister sister sister
in my pocket once again you see
surprised her hand isn't one blister blister blister
I tell her go away you fool
you're not coning me this time time time
then she cries saying I'm not cool
the way you treat me is a crime crime crime
that's a lie and you know it honey
I give you everything you need need need
but all you seem to want is my money
I'm not a turnip and I bleed bleed bleed
so I'm not saying she's a gold digger
but her hands are always in my pants pants pants
and I'm thinking as far as I can figure
she's still not asking me to dance dance dance
Gomer LePoet....
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
Let it be known throughout the land
From highest peak to wettest sand
With sharpened tongue and steady hand
The talking frog is in command
With belly white and skin of lime
A hero for the modern time
He uppered fun and lowered crime
His skillset includes pantomime
Of all the kings he is the best
A chiseled jaw and manly chest
We even put him on our crest
(He helped to found the turnip fest)
A friendly frog we all adore
With lots of fun and games in store
He'll make us smile, he has before
We thank you, frog, for this and more!
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
Jack, they say, one autumn day did fool the devil well;
And then and there, did make him swear, to keep Jack out of hell.
But when he died, he was denied his entrance into glory;
And so he roams our streets at night and therein lies the story.
To see at night, he has a light that comes from hells own flame-
Which burns so well in a turnip shell –and jack-o-lantern is its name.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 3:29 PM UTC
"WHAT'S this?" I pondered. "Have I slept?
Or can I have been drinking?"
But soon a gentler feeling crept
Upon me, and I sat and wept
An hour or so, like winking.
"No need for Bones to hurry so!"
I sobbed. "In fact, I doubt
If it was worth his while to go -
And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know,
To make such work about?
"If Tibbs is anything like me,
It's POSSIBLE," I said,
"He won't be over-pleased to be
Dropped in upon at half-past three,
After he's snug in bed.
"And if Bones plagues him anyhow -
Squeaking and all the rest of it,
As he was doing here just now -
I prophesy there'll be a row,
And Tibbs will have the best of it!"
Then, as my tears could never bring
The friendly Phantom back,
It seemed to me the proper thing
To mix another glass, and sing
The following Coronach.
'AND ART THOU GONE, BELOVED GHOST?
BEST OF FAMILIARS!
NAY THEN, FAREWELL, MY DUCKLING ROAST,
FAREWELL, FAREWELL, MY TEA AND TOAST,
MY MEERSCHAUM AND CIGARS!
THE HUES OF LIFE ARE DULL AND GRAY,
THE SWEETS OF LIFE INSIPID,
WHEN thou, MY CHARMER, ART AWAY -
OLD BRICK, OR RATHER, LET ME SAY,
OLD PARALLELEPIPED!'
Instead of singing Verse the Third,
I ceased - abruptly, rather:
But, after such a splendid word
I felt that it would be absurd
To try it any farther.
So with a yawn I went my way
To seek the welcome downy,
And slept, and dreamed till break of day
Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay
And Leprechaun and Brownie!
For year I've not been visited
By any kind of Sprite;
Yet still they echo in my head,
Those parting words, so kindly said,
"Old Turnip-top, good-night!"
1.7k
Moldy mutterings-
A char-broiled doomsday
Licks the salted air, no condensation in clouds
Dry and cracked.
Elephant stomp
Pounded ground where
Lizard-scaled turnip roots drip
Into dirt, drooping low and quick.
That senseless racket, the incessant buzzing
Yellowed a crusted earlobe
The cauliflower cult.
Chipped to smithereens
As the sun split
In sizzling heat.
No porcelain skin to drizzle
Tender sweat beads
Blackened back-burner.
Conquest of detention to
Contain lackluster irrelevant lessons
Blessed with a dead hand
Crumpled flesh stump.
Hunched Trapezius circle person
Cowering in familiar corners.
Glisten as an oyster's ravaged shell,
Sour cream pearl dangling between your *******
Twinkling Adam's apple
This speech could sink its teeth in.
Spurting eloquence
Gushed up word juice.
Swallow hard and whole
Choke on the knowing.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
His hand was outstretched, nabbing a pesky windswept hamburger wrapper
near a garbage can alongside the exit to the cafeteria
Bent over, exposed, frozen, pretending the hamburger wrapper
required more effort than normal to dislodge it from the open air just above the ground
Perhaps it was a turnip or a beet, that he had to carefully, surgically remove
and it was only that he saw me coming
if I could have slowed down time, to slow motion
Seeing my boss, the principal of the school, up ended like this
for the sole purpose of not having to look me in the face, I would have
more kids would have had a chance to stare at this strange posture,
and wonder how a hamburger wrapper could have such a difficult
time being removed from the ground and I want to remember this pose
it only gets worse, and as my exit comes nearer, I feel lighter
but he still can't look me in the eye
if he felt secure in his decision, in all his decisions about me
he could, but he doesn't
So he will focus more time than needed to grasp that delicate
wrapper, which contained a stale bun and the remains of a dairy cow
spent and gone before her time on a factory farm in the central valley
and if insecurity can impose such ludicrous postures on a person
I will take this lesson, and remember always to be brave
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Inside a damp turnip or pumpkin
carved with a smile on its face.
To scare the living daylights
and vanish without trace.
Glowing embers sparking madness
Toss a coin in its place.
Jack of the lantern to keep spirits away
carved with a smile on its face.
Happy Halloween to you all.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.
One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.
so corn, cabbage and turnip too
were left to rot. Daddy knew to strike
when hot.
The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Keeps my nose from turning up.
the front was never farmed again.
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
is the tendency of the reddish sunshine
to become drenched some more
let us hear
what the milky-way seamed by pins
says
and it’s you
how much can you be able to read
the venation of the Barringtonia acutangula
can you touch the season of making apples
in the aquarium
the empty bottles without any co-ordinate
that shoulder with endless grief
the hands of the wall-clocks
in a sudden depression
they’re also making crowd
at the beauty parlour
you have promised someday
to present a flower-vase to display some drops of blood
in the circled face
do you remember it
you haven’t floated that turnip
till now
here the month of trumpet-flower
covers everything
with reedy grass
with the festival of colours of the white horses
the new leaves of bananas become associated
the total dipavali rows
along the evening-balcony
taking it as daylight
will any bird fly towards it
then send a walkman
for the bamboo plants
you must go today
in search of the source
of the hand-woven lamp-post
from the pitcher-worship to the kantha-stitch
it is a very large
twelve-horned deer
the mango-marrow
demands more land
demands more kingfisher
the breath of the Ravenala
touches the chicks of the black-pepper
in every evening
the flood that tears the button
touches the bowstring
that passes through the centre of magnolia
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:32 PM UTC
being Polish was never **** it was never a clue for
the sentencing of volleyball team effort... it was never ****
whatever it was... it was never going to be an Irish
bargain of gambling... it was just bad luck...
something akin to Lithuanian, something worth forgetting...
like Indians and the Bangladeshis... like Versailles and Belvederes palaces...
it was worth forgetting... which exemplified the love of
music in western Europe... and where music is
lacking there the poetic expression... well thank you Pink Floyd,
but let us forget Auden... we can all do enough with a sing-along...
but when it comes to canvases of involvement to track
the shoe-lace ties or the cravat tangle readied for a ballet...
well, aren't you the one to tell us that it was just
a calorie intake of veganism:
mark that as a turnip postage... and a
fried potato licked, while she gags on ageing for the
added repertoire of scandal in sandals flicked to represent lapping
tongues and butterfly flicking of what became
flapped toe-curls of synchronisation; and the dipping,
soda baking of a tartar sauerkraut.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
Waking in the stagnant syrup, viscous in its compound, molasses for the profound
Met Anne soiling the jar as Mouschi and Boche wage war
Diary held in the family name, passages removed for the sanctity, of a lonesome father’s sanity.
Voided bowels kept in masonry, cemented, to the back, weeping out portals of light held through a crack.
Seems prosperity can be found in imposed seclusion, though not maintained until conclusion.
Turned over for turnip change, imposing on the Frank family a need to estrange
Left off to Poland to fumigate the air, stripped of the yellow star one’s required to wear.
Thrown into death in motion, avoid eye contact, and most kinds of commotion.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The voided track clicked into a closed lane.
Hennessy held as operators quiver in alcoholic splendor.
Rolling thunder, click clacking for no gain.
Stationary tumble, fragments of ice kicked up from the blender.
Mrs. Garrett went to town on all the *****
Traded for at cost.
Pulverized **** gifted for a glimpse of ****
Snorted out with assembling frost.
Cannibals hidden amid the train car
Stored in S.S uniforms, to be smelted in coming years
Vocalizing incendiary bigotry meant to sour
Relieved transgressions…being deemed a response to fears.
Cruel, burnt ash floating from the cinders
Red-lit skyline resonant before sleep
Slave life held in mines, and retrieving timber
Sole remaining heirloom, the cloth from their feet.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing,
******** around with my good nature.
I mean I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday,
but I didn’t think she’d break my heart like that either.
Oh sure, she used all the perfect words,
knew just what to say, to make me fall.
And when I fall, I fall hard & deep.
Oh well, I guess it’s my own fault,
but I can’t change the way I’m wired.
It’s this passion thing that
makes me see the best
in everything.
Even in hot calculating women.
Oh it’s crazy how
I’m wise to those tricks
& I still get taken,
trusting in some like that,
all alone & brokenhearted.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
He held the rich brown earth in the palm of a large hand from which his crops grew. tasted the smoked country ham meat, ate freely of the cornbread, the peach cobbler, sweet potato pie, turnip greens, while laughing a laugh like pure rich music. I thought him to be a glass that would never fall nor break, a flower with need of rain nor soil a daily tower of gentle strength. He embraced all of life's joys and pains like a man. He went forth with gifts and sought to anoint the world with the same love that anointed his family. Grandpa Penny tried to make me look beyond my foolish youth, so that i might understand the ways of wisdom. Now looking back over the long passing of years, I realize that he opened my blinded eyes, offering me a chance to see life face to face. And I closed my eyes and let time move this solitary man to another emotional place and cried, because I didn't want to deal with expectation and far away hope. But now brighter is the way for Grandpa Penny taught me that truth never lies and no lie lasts forever.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
I will never touch a turnip
I will never look at PB&J;
I will never eat celery
But I'll always love chicken!
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
Guarding the door,
like a bulbus Heimdall,
a blank pumpkin sits,
internally unhallowed,
without gashed gaping maw,
nor knife-notched nose,
nor eyeslits: triangular and odious.
Its inertia, serendipitous,
not for a moment did it greet
children asking
"Treat-or-Treat?!";
Never a one did it glow for.
Encased within, like
those stringy pumpkin guts,
is the puckish Pagan spirit,
craving bones ablaze in a fire;
Lost Loves manifested as moonlit
flaxen apparitions,
finding them Angelic
(yet unchanged),
easily as a ring
found in barmbrack.
A return to the turnip.
Ambling along ferns
rusted that same shade of pumpkin,
pondering the dead, and where
I long for them to reside now;
Rose, with her heaven,
Ryan, his Valhalla.
To each their Kingdom
of eternal inviolate peace.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 1:28 PM UTC
White beans.
Pinto beans.
Even turnip greens
Or lima beans with hot water country bread make from scratch.
Left an impression upon you as you reflects back.
With children's so picky about food they like.
They would have been thankful for , what they had to eat at night?
Wendy's, Mcdonald's, or any other fastfood.
You only saw it only Friday mostly.
It just wasn't a selected choice.
When you would rush home to see the meal being prepared.
Yes, the days of being young.
You look back and realize , how bless you was?
We all should salute our moms.
And in some cases back then.
Even our dads.
The days of being young.
Tri-cycles still are better then a Big Wheel.
Even the simple bicycles back in the day.
Stands out better then some of these high prices bikes today.
You use your imagination.
And mainly knew all your neighbors.
From the Postman to the Mother Patrol.
Who knew them that lived next door?
Not all was creeps.
Even if one of the house might have creeped you out.
You knew church.
Oh, how you knew church?
That's the one place mom made sure you knew.
And, if pushed by dad refusal to attend.
He made you know it too.
Gosh, the days of being young.
I wouldn't change them for anything.
But, why should I?
When they make up this poem.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
The wheel of the year spirals in her established and revolutionary celebrations; and the spirits of the dance move freely amongst the bonfire of lunar festivals, whilst innocence parades herself in the streets of contemporary entitlement.
Will you please proclaim a feast for the ghosts of the land who reside in our momentary presence?
A portal to the fairy-world may be obstructed by our diluted perceptions of the significant occasion, even though alcohol and explicit *** are expected rituals by our ancient and sovereign forefathers.
Oh ancient Goddess of pagan folklore, I am truly thankful for your inviting and feminine secretions. But I cannot glide with ease in my quest to find a suitable compromise between the turnip and the pumpkin.
Treat me according to your seductive and encapsulating will. But I implore you: Please do not trick me, because I trust the power of your group intercourses. Let us spread the seed of superstition and burn black candles in the midst of this urban graveyard of symbolic and haunted attraction. I crave the treat of your femininity, oh Goddess of the West.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC