My hopes are dashed and scattered,
There’s no more grace to spare,
For flyaway potatoes
Have landed everywhere!
They’ve landed on my shoulders,
They’ve landed on my knee,
They’ve landed in the ocean,
They’ve landed in the sea.
Some folks would call it bounty,
But I call it bad luck
To live in Tater County
And drive a tater truck.
Perhaps I should be grateful
For taters, lanes, and such,
But after three bad crashes,
I am not grateful much.
More The Whirligig #266
More Writers’ Pantry #20 at Poets and Storytellers United
My mother used to say, “It’s hard to improve on an onion sandwich.” She’d peel three small beauties, slice them, and lay the slices between thick slabs of buttered brown bread, sprinkling them with salt and pepper. She chewed slowly and thoughtfully until she had eaten every pungent morsel. Then brushing the crumbs from her lips, she’d reach across the table for her garden catalog, delve into it and dream of planting peas—and more onions—in several parts of her garden.
two jays at the bird feeder
fight over one seed.
More The Whirligig #252
More Writers’ Pantry #6 at Poets and Storytellers United
What rhymes with blue erasers? Nothing that I know.
Ask the thirty thirsty pencils that live down below.
Perhaps the smallest pencil is longer than you think,
And knows the word you’re looking for, written in red ink.
I believe that snips and scraps, at least not more than three,
Can be used to slit your throat, or make poetry.
I know my tale has ended in a dark and somber way,
But I am a darksome poet, so what more can I say?
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Sunday’s Whirligig #215
More Poetry Pantry #481 at Poets United