"turnips" poems
No sprouted wheat and soya shoots
And Brussels in a cake,
Carrot straw and spinach raw,
(Today, I need a steak).
Not thick brown rice and rice pilaw
Or mushrooms creamed on toast,
Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,
(I'm dreaming of a roast).
Health-food folks around the world
Are thinned by anxious zeal,
They look for help in seafood kelp
(I count on breaded veal).
No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,
Zucchini by the ton,
Uncooked kale and bodies frail
Are sure to make me run
to
***** of pork and chicken thighs
And standing rib, so prime,
Pork chops brown and fresh ground round
(I crave them all the time).
Irish stews and boiled corned beef
and hot dogs by the scores,
or any place that saves a space
For smoking carnivores.
21.8k
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the ****
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
5.5k
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
no dead birds in the oven
no innards in the stuffing
nor fatty drippings to be scraped and poured
the smell of roasted veggies
wafts through the wintry air
pumpkin and sweet potatoes
marshmallows green beans lentils
turnips & collard greens
hashed browns & black-eyed peas
quinoa sorghum cuscus hummus
carrots leak broccoli Romanescu
gumbo in southern regions
wild rice dishes in the north
tastily spiced with turmeric
cumin and baked paprika
Indian curry soy sauce chipotle
as well as with the usual suspects
of garlic salt and pepper
and whatever fits the taste of hosts
in short
a venerable feast to demonstrate
how nature feeds us a large cornucopia
of plants for our delight and sustenance
in short
no need to **** a bird
* * *
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
Who was there had seen us
Wouldn't bid him run?
Heavy lay between us
All our sires had done.
There he was, a-springing
Of a pious race,
Setting hags a-swinging
In a market-place;
Sowing turnips over
Where the poppies lay;
Looking past the clover,
Adding up the hay;
Shouting through the Spring song,
Clumping down the sod;
Toadying, in sing-song,
To a crabbed god.
There I was, that came of
Folk of mud and name--
I that had my name of
Them without a name.
Up and down a mountain
Streeled my silly stock;
Passing by a fountain,
Wringing at a rock;
Devil-gotten sinners,
Throwing back their heads,
Fiddling for their dinners,
Kissing for their beds.
Not a one had seen us
Wouldn't help him flee.
Angry ran between us
Blood of him and me.
How shall I be mating
Who have looked above--
Living for a hating,
Dying of a love?
2.7k
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
How far would you travel from where you were born?
She spends more on her dogs in one week,
Than the government provides for those in trouble.
She’s a naturally happy person.
The mottled concrete walls of the council block she’s moved in to,
Complement her pock-marked, pink skin.
For a rich person,
She’s ugly.
The doors to buildings are painted bright colours,
-blues and greens-
And stand out against the brown stone that is everywhere.
Kevin is a mousey young man with stringy brown hair,
Recovering from drugs,
And she thinks he looks like a very nice man.
They are playing football on cement outside,
-plants are expensive-
Now talking over vegetables, around a table,
About the young mothers who will be coming in to learn,
How to grow turnips -
Like growing confidence, they’ll be told.
Did you know that people move to Dundee from Warsaw?
Makes you wonder what Warsaw is like-
-who’s fault it is that people can’t eat alcohol-
She’s hanging knickers out to dry and telling me that she’s discovered,
She doesn’t need all the shoes that she has,
And would it do if she were to donate,
A hundred and fifty thousand pounds?
They smile when they receive their checks.
Their blue doors fly open,
And when they say thank you, they mean it,
The money is enough.
Round the back,
The husband is in tears.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
JANE, Jane,
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again;
Comb your cockscomb-ragged hair,
Jane, Jane, come down the stair.
Each dull blunt wooden stalactite
Of rain creaks, hardened by the light,
Sounding like an overtone
From some lonely world unknown.
But the creaking empty light
Will never harden into sight,
Will never penetrate your brain
With overtones like the blunt rain.
The light would show (if it could harden)
Eternities of kitchen garden,
Cockscomb flowers that none will pluck,
And wooden flowers that 'gin to cluck.
In the kitchen you must light
Flames as staring, red and white,
As carrots or as turnips shining
Where the cold dawn light lies whining.
Cockscomb hair on the cold wind
Hangs limp, turns the milk's weak mind . . .
Jane, Jane,
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again!
2.4k
I bring hotdogs and turnips to it
gladly sit in the unpopular rows
with people who know their **** stinks,
not those who feel a need to condescend
degrade and comment on others here
I would gladly bring 'tato chips
and nachos and pass on the high brow
caviar some think they are
for you smell
when you judge others
like you are the beginning end and class of the show
when you are just
pretty versions of ********
in better clothes
with store bought words and
stupid wits.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
Let your Life be a sacred garden,
planted with genuine, saintly seeds;
properly nurturing your crop daily,
yields blessings for personal needs.
Begin with three rows of peas:
“Peace” of mind, heart and soul,
for it creates a basic foundation
that leaves you healthy and whole.
Next plant four rows of squash:
”Squash” vain gossip, indifference,
grumbling and unwelcome selfishness
to reap real, spiritual brilliance.
Add four generous rows of lettuce:
”Let us” be kind, walk in His Love,
faithful, and patient with each other-
being reflective of the Kingdom above.
Follow with three rows of turnips:
“Turn up” for meetings, service
and to regularly help one another.
Not to do so, would be a disservice.
Finally, plant three rows of thyme:
”Time” for family, friends and others-
seeing that we’re really related through
our humanity, as sisters and brothers.
Sow your seeds often; water with patience;
prune and cultivate them with His goodwill.
By transforming into a master gardener,
the desired results, you’ll… eventually see!
.
.
.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
2 Cor 9:6-7; Hos 10:12; Gal 6:7; Luke 6:38
and the anonymous “Planter’s Guide”.
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
This is what I want
A little house with an a frame top
And giant colored strands of lights in every window
With a huge tree , too big most definitely for the room
And a ridiculous mixture of old and new just covering the walls
I want wallpaper
Peeling from the walls
As though it almost hurts it to remain stuck on so hard
And I want it so be intricately ugly and old an’ discolored
In a cozy way
I want to live on a street of little houses
With potluck suppers
Small gardens that are improperly tended
Maybe with some oregano spread throughout
I want a little cozy life
With a tall cozy boy
We can pick our oregano and our turnips
Cook us a stew
Peel the onions
Like the wallpaper from our little walls
I want a Polaroid camera
So I can take instant pictures that I cannot regret
That I can keep in a tin beneath my bed
Forever they will stay etched
I want to ride trains everywhere
Sitting in my seat
Glaring out at the window at the little houses
With A-frame tops
Yellowing lights
Covered in that glinting snow
Today the snowflakes looked like real flakes
Like the ones you cut out of paper
And hang on the wall of your dorm
To cover up the stains and cracks
In the yellowing paint
As is peels from the wall
Like my dream wallpaper
The wind in Buffalo makes me cry
From my right eye
My wrong one just sits and wonders
“What makes the right one so weak?
It is just a little storm,
Why can’t the right ones just hang in there?
Without drowning us in their sorrows…
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 7:47 AM UTC
Now I'm in the turnips and string beans of poetry:
It's like, you think you'll grow up some day
And live in a two story house with swimming pool,
And a two car garage, with a six pack driveway.
Things turn out differently, though you might think
You'd spend whole days devouring Dickinson, Keats, and Shelley,
Drinking fine wines with tidbits of exotic cheese.
Then you find out you'll live in a one car rented garage apartment,
Over a couple always yelling or making love-
There's no in-between; and you never know which it'll be
And if you're mistaken for the significant other you might get
Bopped with a lady's spiked heel or an army boot.
Then you find out that you're the couple
But you're always too busy to make love;
Love is no longer scheduled like bowling night,
It all depends on uncluttered horizontal surfaces and spare minutes-
And the wine turns into beer, when you can afford it
And the nightly budget pizza is the only dough you'll get
It's constipating; but the words still get squeezed out.
And the poets you're reading now aren't dead:
They're urbanely unkempt, and you know them personally,
All their quirky habits; writing poems at bus stops
In a voluble rush; writing words on cafe napkins,
On discarded want ads and torn paper sacks;
And none of them are well known, and none of them are rich.
But they're poets all the same, they live and breathe
The written word, and you're no different, certainly no better,
All of you shooting up words and slang nightly,
Weighing out the soul of the latest idiom,
Choking on cheap cigar smoke and wishing you'd written that,
And thinking you could have done it worse-
And suddenly some night, you look around you
You realize you're living poetry, and you don't care anymore
About rich and famous- because now it's your addiction;
None of that mattered anyway, for only poetry holds any reality now.
Everything else is imaginary, and all the poets started out this way;
Nobody knew them or gave a rat's ***
And they went on writing just the same
As if it were the most important job on earth they'd been given.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 2:02 PM UTC
The Afghan army insisted things
Were more secure in 2013
But they had to close down the schools
One man said the Taliban threatened to attack the schools
Now the men fight with Soviet era weapons
The American troop levels reduced
In one village
The people can farm and work freely
Because of patrols by the Afghan police and
The police took over the patrols after the Americans left
The police report what is going on to the military
The people want clinics and schools
To be built
The army leaves day to day security
In the hands of the National Police
The Police Chief says
They have gained the trust of the local people
And they discuss how to punish the warlords
May God be with the national army and police force
May they protect the people and keep them safe
Some Afghans
Living in Pakistan
Were forced to return to Afghanistan
After a school was attacked in Peshwar, Pakistan
The Afghans suspect
That local officials are taking advantage
Of the situation
To expel unwanted refugees
More than 33,000 undocumented Afghans returned from Afghanistan
In the first six weeks of 2015
Even some registered refugees
Have been driven out of Pakistan
Many returning Afghan families have nowhere to go
In Jalalabad, the closest big city
On the Afghan side of Torkham
Families pitched tents along a canal
Lacking any other resource
Their children pulled turnips from a nearby field
The most reliable source of food
One woman is worried
How her children will fare
They no nothing of the country
And what it is like
Their is great mineral wealth in that country
Perhaps that is the main reason why
The U.S. has plans to stay there
For an extended period
I doubt life for the Afghan will ever get better
Or be more secure
The Taliban are there to stay
33% of people live below the poverty line
I doubt that figure will ever improve either
Even if the country prospers from their mineral deposits
The common man won't benefit
Well, that's just how the cookie crumbles
In Afghanistan
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
Long live the king
All the peasants sing
They were slapped in the face
And fed him turnips
As he did not turn up
The peasants sing
Long live the king
...
The turnips were poisoned
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 9:40 AM UTC
Turnips & Silver King,
onions & string beans,
carrots & radishes,
lettuce & potatoes,
yellow squash & bells,
the brown eggs
sure look swell.
Honey of all shades,
homemade jams & jellies
& wildflower arrangements
made to glorify God.
People here smile & nod
their friendliness
& what matter
if they have any teeth or not,
they will never be forgotten
for their gifts to mankind.
And if it were their last penny
& you needed it,
it would be yours.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Biscuit and sorghum syrup happy faces with Georgia peach butter and blackberry muffins , childhood favorites that tickle the palette !
For a bag of Fall persimmons , a handful of roasted pecans I would gladly cross the Alcovy River naked as a jaybird !
Rutabagas , turnips and cracklin cornbread would be my staple of choice if marooned on an island , a Frosty Root beer and mothers egg custard !
Peach ice cream and scuppernong jelly , fig preserves and tomato gravy !
Columbus grits and Claxton fruitcake , Vidalia onion rings , Elijay apples !
In my next life I relish the very thought of becoming a Cardinal , turned loose in a muscadine arbor ! The most heart stopping , meanest scarecrow ever made would be no match for a wise old crow in a watermelon patch ! Mockingbird busy in a old plum tree , a honeybee in a clover field as far as the eye can see !
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
We all have our favourite flavours, be it what you will
Add some stock or a can of soup, anything but chilled
Pick a pack from the shelf,
Carrots,
Celery,
Turnips,
A clove of garlic,
All good for your health
A side scoop of fresh mash, potatoes mixed with butter
Bought from the farmer down the road, Mr Smith with the tedious stutter
Straight to bakery for some bread, to soak up that lovely mix
All the ingredients clumped together, every box it does tick
Served with a feeling of a homemade dish, pretty simple when you know how
Delicious and tender and a joy to eat, especially that winter has come now
It warms you up, puts a glow to your cheeks, feels good and livens the soul
Now dunk that bread and sip that wine,
Delicious with Casserole
JJB
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 2:53 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
When the King came down to the counting house and found all his money had gone
he ranted on as only Kings can in the Kingly way
for a year and a day,
which was surprising but only in that it reminded me of the pea green boat and the ***** cat
the loss of his dosh had nothing whatsoever to do with that.
The King was now potless
not a penny to spare
he couldn't sell knighthoods or forested woods,
he was as they say,'boracic lint'
skint
a pauper.
His Daughter,
the lady Jamille
cried a lot
for now she'd to deal with the peasantry and pleasantly so,
she had to learn how to grow,
cabbages,turnips and broad beans it seems she did well enough to feed the family with vegetables
she could stuff tomatoes with mince because quince was 'orf' the menu
she made ragout and that was a mess,spilled it all down her best lavender dress and she cried a lot more.
Being poor was not good and being knightless and single was worse,she was sure she'd been cursed by some well versed old witch who was concocting a spell to leave her quite naked,not even a stitch to her name,
I did mention her name was Jamille?
yes
Jamille learnt to steal and to lie and to cheat
a normal occupation
if you have to stand on your own two feet (in shoes which she stole)
She got caught in the end and in the courts of the justice was ordered to mend her ways.
The old King was ashamed but could hardly be blamed for this circumstance which caused him such grief
it was down to the thief who stole all of his money and the same thief pretends now to be posh,
well he would do with all of that dosh
but we know different don't we.
Clothes may make the man as much as any amount of money can but
it does not make you a king and vice versa,
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
allow me to sting the tip of my tongue to lick
every drop of disappointment
each of these failures
let me drink,
if there only be a God
The god,
a wise one cruel and cunning.
forecast me into a fight grim
fatal and frightening,
wrestle the nails from my fingers,
lay before me the lamb to slaughter for the grin
of knowing:
I do not wake torchless
in the caverns of a beast
(rest, I am no coward)
in place, that I am one
shiv of cement grains more
ahead of the rotting moments
yet to come.
if not,
I pull the recorder
too far,
my humid chest
floods the sacred synapse
pansied blood and frantics
the light dwelling there
I did it idiot I do it to
myself, no else
let there be a light
**** a light
make it turnips, pounded eyeballs
give me
give give give give give
a dry well with a bottom
the color of dust.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
It is warmer
In Paris
They talk about
The weather
Eat frugally
Hamburgers made of
Indian cows
Turnips from Sweden
Potatoes
From Holland
Gobbledegook
And sign on
The dotted line.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
A sky in purple hue!
Of turnips, roots, and green!
A purple-starred tree-blowing veil!
The stars in sky not black or mean!
And piercing winds that eat sinew,
That sheds the sky in fabric leaves;
I couldn't more describe this night
Its colours awe as I inscribe!
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 3:30 AM UTC
Another day and what to make of it? Tu Du list.
Things start to happen, don't worry. Don't stew.
Water down darkness. Ask the sun for a light.
Loot Frederick's of Hollywood. Cultivate pompous grass.
Rewrite *Moby **** as free verse. Irritate life with art.
Plant Rhino rhizome and grow ***** Turn over an old leaf.
Take a road trip to a state of anxiety. Try chewing gun.
Play the Jew's harp in a mosque. Pray for drains.
Steal a cop from a donut. See if LSD still works.
Listen to Rockabilly noir. Experiment with dysentery.
Set out buckets to catch sky. Talk with, not to, turnips.
Insist on having the last word. Get it. Die.
Or just admit another wasted day,
lonely as your heart, not as grey.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
Young chicken turned into fricassee
How hot is your gravy?
Such sizzling goodness
Smells so fresh in the pan
Having a fry
Don't really know why
Cooking at such high temperatures
Makes me crazy this way
But I've got to have you frizzle
Cut tenders spitting grease about
Think I'll dice up a side of
Turnips, greens and roots
There's an unwritten law about it
Even so
Availability finds comfort in handiness
A little splash of wine on that
Ought to make it all
Come together
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC