Ode to the Potato - Tom DiSorbo
Potato, Potatoe, Pootatoe,
No matter how you say it,
An ugly little thing,
Bulbous, bloated,
Like a swollen thumb.
Less likely to be eaten than
A politician's words.
And yet,
For those who venture,
Courageous enough to dare,
Are met with a pleasant surprise.
Potato, Potatoe, Pootatoe,
The unsung hero,
Savior of Ireland,
Gatekeeper to a goldmine of illustrious flavor.
Butter...
Salt...
Oil...
Nirvana.
Butter...
Sour Cream...
Cheese...
Of course.
Something so dull on the outside,
Is impeccably irresistible, inversely in accordance with its impossibly unappealing exterior.
Makes you think,
This silly little thing,
Is in truth a prophet,
One to make us learn of our mistakes,
Doubting a man for his looks,
While his true gold lies inside.
The apple of Eden,
Nestled in the earth,
Where we must strive to reach.
How far we must strive to reach.
How far we have come,
Hating the imp from the ground,
Letting it stay where it was,
To revering it,
Seeking it out,
And growing to accept it as family.
The potato doesn't mind,
He likes the attention,
Neglectful of the neglect he received,
And blissful therefore.
We worry,
For wronging the righteous,
That our luck will eventually run out.
But the potato cares not,
Potato, Potatoe, Pootatoe.
Many faces, one man,
The benevolent, kind face of one who cares.
The potato is not a god,
Nor a ruler,
But a servant,
Humble to those he feeds.
And yet,
We pay homage him,
He of lower rank,
Just a dumb, ugly bulb.
Maybe to you,
An outside to the world of potato,
But not to us,
His worthy followers.
But it was not always remember our roots,
Of Ignorance,
Of cover-judging,
Of hatred,
Potato, Potatoe, Pootato.
We were blind,
But not anymore.
Looking back
We see our paths clearly,
And our faults highlight themselves.
Imagine now,
How we were blind to such taste,
Such beauty,
And to think,
What we are blind to right now.
Potato, Potatoe, Pootatoe,
No matter how you say it,
An ugly little thing,
Bulbous, bloated,
Like a swollen thumb.
Less likely to be eaten than
A politician's words.
And yet,
For those who venture,
Courageous enough to dare,
Are met with a pleasant surprise.
Potato, Potatoe, Pootatoe,
The unsung hero,
Savior of Ireland,
Gatekeeper to a goldmine of illustrious flavor.
Butter...
Salt...
Oil...
Nirvana.
Butter...
Sour Cream...
Cheese...
Of course.
Something so dull on the outside,
Is impeccably irresistible, inversely in accordance with its impossibly unappealing exterior.
Makes you think,
This silly little thing,
Is in truth a prophet,
One to make us learn of our mistakes,
Doubting a man for his looks,
While his true gold lies inside.
The apple of Eden,
Nestled in the earth,
Where we must strive to reach.
How far we must strive to reach.
How far we have come,
Hating the imp from the ground,
Letting it stay where it was,
To revering it,
Seeking it out,
And growing to accept it as family.
The potato doesn't mind,
He likes the attention,
Neglectful of the neglect he received,
And blissful therefore.
We worry,
For wronging the righteous,
That our luck will eventually run out.
But the potato cares not,
Potato, Potatoe, Pootatoe.
Many faces, one man,
The benevolent, kind face of one who cares.
The potato is not a god,
Nor a ruler,
But a servant,
Humble to those he feeds.
And yet,
We pay homage him,
He of lower rank,
Just a dumb, ugly bulb.
Maybe to you,
An outside to the world of potato,
But not to us,
His worthy followers.
But it was not always remember our roots,
Of Ignorance,
Of cover-judging,
Of hatred,
Potato, Potatoe, Pootato.
We were blind,
But not anymore.
Looking back
We see our paths clearly,
And our faults highlight themselves.
Imagine now,
How we were blind to such taste,
Such beauty,
And to think,
What we are blind to right now.
Ode to the Carrot - Sam Markelon
The carrot
Waits patiently
In the brown earth.
Only the green sprout
Forces its way above
The soil.
The earth is
Like a cocoon.
It protects the carrot,
As it eagerly
Waits to be excavated.
The carrot
Matures and matures.
Finally,
One day,
Juan comes along.
He spots the tender
Carrot in the ground.
He plucks it hastily
From its cocoon.
The carrot is now a sword
Drawn from its earthy
Sheath.
The carrot, resembling,
A lava burst
Pike, is placed
In a bag among others
Like him.
This bag contains an
Entire armory of
The delicate pikes.
The fiery colored
Vegetable is at home,
Among his brothers,
In Juan's bag.
At last Juan
Reaches his mother's
Kitchen.
The kitchen
Speaks to the carrots.
It invites them in.
The kitchen knows,
It needs them to
Complete its quest.
This quest being
The most noble
Of all quests.
That of feeding a family.
On the counter,
Sits a delicate salad.
Cauliflower, Broccoli,
And Macaroni conglomerate together,
In a harmonious medley.
All that is needed is
The carrot to
Complete this quest.
The lava burst rod
Will deliver the
Final piece that
Completes the work.
The carrot,
Is chopped into
Charming chunks.
A sweet and
Tantalizing
Aroma is
Released with each slice.
Finally, the carrot,
Is ready to join its brethren.
The chunks are poured,
And stirred into the medley.
The carrot caresses the other crisp,
Vegetables and compliments.
The soft Macaroni.
It is a true asset,
As its sweetly mild flavor,
Completes the salad.
And its crunchiness,
Adds the perfect texture.
When the salad,
Is eaten,
The Carrot
Is a nurturing, calming
Force that the salad needs.
Truly the most important,
Piece to the kitchen's Quest.
The carrot
Waits patiently
In the brown earth.
Only the green sprout
Forces its way above
The soil.
The earth is
Like a cocoon.
It protects the carrot,
As it eagerly
Waits to be excavated.
The carrot
Matures and matures.
Finally,
One day,
Juan comes along.
He spots the tender
Carrot in the ground.
He plucks it hastily
From its cocoon.
The carrot is now a sword
Drawn from its earthy
Sheath.
The carrot, resembling,
A lava burst
Pike, is placed
In a bag among others
Like him.
This bag contains an
Entire armory of
The delicate pikes.
The fiery colored
Vegetable is at home,
Among his brothers,
In Juan's bag.
At last Juan
Reaches his mother's
Kitchen.
The kitchen
Speaks to the carrots.
It invites them in.
The kitchen knows,
It needs them to
Complete its quest.
This quest being
The most noble
Of all quests.
That of feeding a family.
On the counter,
Sits a delicate salad.
Cauliflower, Broccoli,
And Macaroni conglomerate together,
In a harmonious medley.
All that is needed is
The carrot to
Complete this quest.
The lava burst rod
Will deliver the
Final piece that
Completes the work.
The carrot,
Is chopped into
Charming chunks.
A sweet and
Tantalizing
Aroma is
Released with each slice.
Finally, the carrot,
Is ready to join its brethren.
The chunks are poured,
And stirred into the medley.
The carrot caresses the other crisp,
Vegetables and compliments.
The soft Macaroni.
It is a true asset,
As its sweetly mild flavor,
Completes the salad.
And its crunchiness,
Adds the perfect texture.
When the salad,
Is eaten,
The Carrot
Is a nurturing, calming
Force that the salad needs.
Truly the most important,
Piece to the kitchen's Quest.
Ode To Radish - Heather Williams
A summer day,
Warm sun
From above,
Giving strength
To the mighty radish.
In the ground,
Misjudged
By size,
A truly magnificent
Vegetable.
Everyday,
It sits and waits,
Until fully grown and
Ripened.
Removed from
The Earth,
The produce is
Exported,
And embarks upon
It's journey.
It walks into the crate,
Ready to enter,
A new adventure for the
Rest of it's life.
The radish arrives
At the market,
Sits for days,
Until chosen
By the right person.
Alongside the bright
Red apples,
The powerful radish
Blends right in,
And waits for it's
Departure.
Marina picks up the
Latin veggie,
Examining the
Apple red color,
And adds it to the basket.
It enjoys it's never-ending
Journey,
Throughout the aisles
Of a new and confusing
Palace.
Upon entering the home,
The radish examines
It's eerie environment.
The large bowl,
Full of greens,
And an assortment
Of salad toppings.
The vegetables,
All lined up on
The counter,
Are prepared to
Meet their
Inevitable fate.
Sliced and chopped,
The produce
Is thrown into
The bowl.
The mighty radish,
No longer in
The ground,
Reaches the
End of it's
Career and
Tranquility.
A summer day,
Warm sun
From above,
Giving strength
To the mighty radish.
In the ground,
Misjudged
By size,
A truly magnificent
Vegetable.
Everyday,
It sits and waits,
Until fully grown and
Ripened.
Removed from
The Earth,
The produce is
Exported,
And embarks upon
It's journey.
It walks into the crate,
Ready to enter,
A new adventure for the
Rest of it's life.
The radish arrives
At the market,
Sits for days,
Until chosen
By the right person.
Alongside the bright
Red apples,
The powerful radish
Blends right in,
And waits for it's
Departure.
Marina picks up the
Latin veggie,
Examining the
Apple red color,
And adds it to the basket.
It enjoys it's never-ending
Journey,
Throughout the aisles
Of a new and confusing
Palace.
Upon entering the home,
The radish examines
It's eerie environment.
The large bowl,
Full of greens,
And an assortment
Of salad toppings.
The vegetables,
All lined up on
The counter,
Are prepared to
Meet their
Inevitable fate.
Sliced and chopped,
The produce
Is thrown into
The bowl.
The mighty radish,
No longer in
The ground,
Reaches the
End of it's
Career and
Tranquility.
Ode to the Boniato - Parker Nye
The root
growing
for weeks
on end
struggles to survive
until it's
flawless.
It's pulled
on that fateful day.
The dirt is flicked off
And the potato is snatched
from the garden
to be used for
lunch,
dinner,
desert.
A fresh fragrance
fills the kitchen and
the Latin potato is
rinsed under the
cold, rushing
waters from the tap.
The true color
glistens through the
fallen dirt and
pink, brown, gray
suddenly emerges.
The texture
is a volcanic land
on a forgotten island.
The water is like lava
flowing through every crevice
and the potato screams
for pity
as the water burns
into the rough,
flavorful flesh.
Finally, the "Boniato"
falls to the counter top
squealing and screaming
waiting to be seasoned
by fresh
herbs and spices.
The chef grasps a firm grip
on the vegetable
and throws it onto a
butcher board
strapped down
like a prison
in a jail cell.
In its peripheral vision,
the helpless vegetable can see
the stains on the white plastic
from previous cuts
resonating,
orange,
green,
red.
A shadowed figure
hovers over
like a hawk stalking its prey.
Guillotine.
A radiant knife,
held firmly
within the
metacarpals
of the chef,
falls and splices
the skull of the root.
The heart stops.
The skin is confiscated.
It's anxiety is gone.
The once white day
turns into a pink afternoon,
then into a red dusk
as sauce,
spices,
and seasonings
fill into the sizzling pan.
Garlic, oil
salt and pepper
and maybe
just a hint of salt,
to taste.
A masher pummels
the personality of the
powerless potato.
Twisting and turning
beating it
as if it was a punching bag.
And we take everything,
everything it worked for,
for granted as it slithers
down our throats
and cries for help.
Nobody is there.
The root
growing
for weeks
on end
struggles to survive
until it's
flawless.
It's pulled
on that fateful day.
The dirt is flicked off
And the potato is snatched
from the garden
to be used for
lunch,
dinner,
desert.
A fresh fragrance
fills the kitchen and
the Latin potato is
rinsed under the
cold, rushing
waters from the tap.
The true color
glistens through the
fallen dirt and
pink, brown, gray
suddenly emerges.
The texture
is a volcanic land
on a forgotten island.
The water is like lava
flowing through every crevice
and the potato screams
for pity
as the water burns
into the rough,
flavorful flesh.
Finally, the "Boniato"
falls to the counter top
squealing and screaming
waiting to be seasoned
by fresh
herbs and spices.
The chef grasps a firm grip
on the vegetable
and throws it onto a
butcher board
strapped down
like a prison
in a jail cell.
In its peripheral vision,
the helpless vegetable can see
the stains on the white plastic
from previous cuts
resonating,
orange,
green,
red.
A shadowed figure
hovers over
like a hawk stalking its prey.
Guillotine.
A radiant knife,
held firmly
within the
metacarpals
of the chef,
falls and splices
the skull of the root.
The heart stops.
The skin is confiscated.
It's anxiety is gone.
The once white day
turns into a pink afternoon,
then into a red dusk
as sauce,
spices,
and seasonings
fill into the sizzling pan.
Garlic, oil
salt and pepper
and maybe
just a hint of salt,
to taste.
A masher pummels
the personality of the
powerless potato.
Twisting and turning
beating it
as if it was a punching bag.
And we take everything,
everything it worked for,
for granted as it slithers
down our throats
and cries for help.
Nobody is there.
Ode to Garlic - James Loyot
Garlic
Family to
onions,
shallots,
and leeks.
But it's not them
that I want,
it's
you.
In the spooky season
you are
protection
against vampires,
werewolves,
and demons,
For 7,000 years
you have been
protection to people
as medicine.
An antidote
an antibiotic
against colds, sickness,
and scurvy
back
in the pirate days.
Roasted
and
toasted,
raw
or
sauteed.
You
are
delicious.
You bring
joy
to boring,
and
bland
dishes.
Pasta, bread,
meat,
and vegetables,
and
a lot more.
Thanks
garlic,
purple,
porcelain,
silver-skin,
for bringing taste
to my
tongue.
Garlic
Family to
onions,
shallots,
and leeks.
But it's not them
that I want,
it's
you.
In the spooky season
you are
protection
against vampires,
werewolves,
and demons,
For 7,000 years
you have been
protection to people
as medicine.
An antidote
an antibiotic
against colds, sickness,
and scurvy
back
in the pirate days.
Roasted
and
toasted,
raw
or
sauteed.
You
are
delicious.
You bring
joy
to boring,
and
bland
dishes.
Pasta, bread,
meat,
and vegetables,
and
a lot more.
Thanks
garlic,
purple,
porcelain,
silver-skin,
for bringing taste
to my
tongue.
Ode To Mini Tomato - Trent Millum
Sitting,
Ruling and watching
Fiery and powerful
like a peaceful king
A king that watches over its people
The carrots dressed in armor,
The peppers raising their shields
The pumpkins
big, robust, and greedy however,
not as powerful
as the king
the guardian,
protector
defender
preserver.
Wearing its crown
a sign of power.
glowing brightly
like the sun
shining down
for all to see.
their is greed
hatred and feud,
battle and war.
the tomato,
the only one,
called on to
wear the crown,
fighting to stay king
shining down its authority.
the greed
the desire
to devour this king
to take its fire and eat it up.
It's not easy being king.
Dangers await
unimaginable dangers
the knife and
the salad
to be devoured by the human
the tomato
throw into the fiery pit
king no longer,
slain
with his companions
the pepper
the carrot
the pumpkin
all given up
in to the pit of greens.
The tomato
the king,
feeling dead
a plant
who has received too much rain.
The tomato
only able to help
assist
aid.
Never
has it done wrong
treachery
to deserve defeat
in such a way,
defeat
that cannot be conquered.
Death,
by devouring
tearing up,
ripping to pieces.
However,
a peaceful death
one of pride
dignity, and honor
A king it was,
and a king
it will leave.
Sitting,
Ruling and watching
Fiery and powerful
like a peaceful king
A king that watches over its people
The carrots dressed in armor,
The peppers raising their shields
The pumpkins
big, robust, and greedy however,
not as powerful
as the king
the guardian,
protector
defender
preserver.
Wearing its crown
a sign of power.
glowing brightly
like the sun
shining down
for all to see.
their is greed
hatred and feud,
battle and war.
the tomato,
the only one,
called on to
wear the crown,
fighting to stay king
shining down its authority.
the greed
the desire
to devour this king
to take its fire and eat it up.
It's not easy being king.
Dangers await
unimaginable dangers
the knife and
the salad
to be devoured by the human
the tomato
throw into the fiery pit
king no longer,
slain
with his companions
the pepper
the carrot
the pumpkin
all given up
in to the pit of greens.
The tomato
the king,
feeling dead
a plant
who has received too much rain.
The tomato
only able to help
assist
aid.
Never
has it done wrong
treachery
to deserve defeat
in such a way,
defeat
that cannot be conquered.
Death,
by devouring
tearing up,
ripping to pieces.
However,
a peaceful death
one of pride
dignity, and honor
A king it was,
and a king
it will leave.
Ode to grapes - Jack Nepomuceno
Small orbs
Purple, red, or green
Little or big
Small are sour
Large are juicy
They burst
With flavor
Similar to
A burst of joy.
Each has
Own taste
Versatile,
Wine,
Pie, jelly,
Jam
Juice
Raisins and more
Bound together
Like a family.
Grow and die
One by one
All form
The same vine,
The same family
soft colored skin
Is a membrane
That hides the
Small seeds.
The human hand
Harvests,
Washes,
Serves,
Eats.
One by one,
They see their
Brothers and sisters die.
Small, but
Large in numbers.
Thousands of grapes
Grow along
The vine.
Connected
By a stem.
All related,
Different purposes.
The grapes explode
With flavor
No matter how
It is used.
The grape fills
Kitchens
Across the world. Universal food
Enjoyed by millions.
The grape,
A symbol,
Of family,
Connection,
Bonds.
But also
A symbol of
Wealth,
Abundance,
And power.
The ancient fruit
Dates back
Many centuries.
The grape is everywhere
Appreciated for
Its service to humans.
They burst
With joy after
Every bite.
Content with
Their fate,
They die
Happy.
The connectivity
Of the family,
Is tastefully
Appreciated by
Everyone.
A grape,
Much more
Than just a grape.
Small orbs
Purple, red, or green
Little or big
Small are sour
Large are juicy
They burst
With flavor
Similar to
A burst of joy.
Each has
Own taste
Versatile,
Wine,
Pie, jelly,
Jam
Juice
Raisins and more
Bound together
Like a family.
Grow and die
One by one
All form
The same vine,
The same family
soft colored skin
Is a membrane
That hides the
Small seeds.
The human hand
Harvests,
Washes,
Serves,
Eats.
One by one,
They see their
Brothers and sisters die.
Small, but
Large in numbers.
Thousands of grapes
Grow along
The vine.
Connected
By a stem.
All related,
Different purposes.
The grapes explode
With flavor
No matter how
It is used.
The grape fills
Kitchens
Across the world. Universal food
Enjoyed by millions.
The grape,
A symbol,
Of family,
Connection,
Bonds.
But also
A symbol of
Wealth,
Abundance,
And power.
The ancient fruit
Dates back
Many centuries.
The grape is everywhere
Appreciated for
Its service to humans.
They burst
With joy after
Every bite.
Content with
Their fate,
They die
Happy.
The connectivity
Of the family,
Is tastefully
Appreciated by
Everyone.
A grape,
Much more
Than just a grape.
Ode to Lemons-Nate Virovoy
Sitting out
From the rest,
Individual,
Unique,
Sourly succulent
Overloaded with inconsolable ions
It is not its fault,
Full of acidic atoms.
Yet as bright
As the sun,
Yellow;
Like the stripes
Of a bumblebee.
Its skin
A yellow jacket,
Waterproof,
Firm,
The jacket inescapable
But it is content.
For its beauty
Is on the inside,
Among its juices
Plentiful,
And pushing
Against its constrictions
Of the jacket.
It watches,
As its friends,
Are seized from the refrigerator;
Chose
For their sweetness
Making it realize,
That it is only safe
Because of
The sour.
But then it comes,
The hand
Of destiny.
I am grabbed,
Torn
From my home
In the cold,
Into a new world
That is so very warm.
The time has come,
My life nears
Conclusion;
Lemonade,
Lemon meringue pie,
Lemon pepper.
Oh;
The spectrum of products
That I could become.
The hand
Grabs a knife,
Descends
Tears into my jacket
Cutting through
My flesh,
And in my final moments
I see
My juices dripping
Down the blade,
And I know,
That the end is not the end.
Rather it is a new beginning in which I shall become
The smile
On a hot summer's day,
And the pucker
On a child's lips.
For I am the citrus monarch,
And I will always live on.
Sitting out
From the rest,
Individual,
Unique,
Sourly succulent
Overloaded with inconsolable ions
It is not its fault,
Full of acidic atoms.
Yet as bright
As the sun,
Yellow;
Like the stripes
Of a bumblebee.
Its skin
A yellow jacket,
Waterproof,
Firm,
The jacket inescapable
But it is content.
For its beauty
Is on the inside,
Among its juices
Plentiful,
And pushing
Against its constrictions
Of the jacket.
It watches,
As its friends,
Are seized from the refrigerator;
Chose
For their sweetness
Making it realize,
That it is only safe
Because of
The sour.
But then it comes,
The hand
Of destiny.
I am grabbed,
Torn
From my home
In the cold,
Into a new world
That is so very warm.
The time has come,
My life nears
Conclusion;
Lemonade,
Lemon meringue pie,
Lemon pepper.
Oh;
The spectrum of products
That I could become.
The hand
Grabs a knife,
Descends
Tears into my jacket
Cutting through
My flesh,
And in my final moments
I see
My juices dripping
Down the blade,
And I know,
That the end is not the end.
Rather it is a new beginning in which I shall become
The smile
On a hot summer's day,
And the pucker
On a child's lips.
For I am the citrus monarch,
And I will always live on.
Ode to Lime-Justin Neal
Lime
the
likable
Lime
with skin so fine,
your wisdom
surpasses all.
The orange,
the lemon
and the clementine.
They're citrus,
which makes them
alright, but
have you seen
one such as this
with taste unique
and flavor so
grand.
But, it is lonely
many can't
take its flavor,
can't comprehend
its wonder.
Have you seen
it in a salad
or a soup
or a drink?
On rare occasions
you can see
it eaten elsewhere.
The lime is a
genius.
They don't see
as he
they can't
understand
why it's so great.
Only the lime
would know
with sour suppressed
its savory
goodness,
sweeter than
cakes of
kings and queens
or the finest of sugars,
the richest of chocolates,
and so much more.
But when eaten,
people pucker
in disgust
like fish
out of water.
So sad,
they can't taste
the taste
some can taste,
who have conquered
the dark of
the Lime
and reached
the light,
so right,
the taste
of the best
of fruits.
The lime,
willing to share
while none
would care.
Oh Lime,
the likable lime
with taste
so fine,
the ultimate
divine.
Lime
the
likable
Lime
with skin so fine,
your wisdom
surpasses all.
The orange,
the lemon
and the clementine.
They're citrus,
which makes them
alright, but
have you seen
one such as this
with taste unique
and flavor so
grand.
But, it is lonely
many can't
take its flavor,
can't comprehend
its wonder.
Have you seen
it in a salad
or a soup
or a drink?
On rare occasions
you can see
it eaten elsewhere.
The lime is a
genius.
They don't see
as he
they can't
understand
why it's so great.
Only the lime
would know
with sour suppressed
its savory
goodness,
sweeter than
cakes of
kings and queens
or the finest of sugars,
the richest of chocolates,
and so much more.
But when eaten,
people pucker
in disgust
like fish
out of water.
So sad,
they can't taste
the taste
some can taste,
who have conquered
the dark of
the Lime
and reached
the light,
so right,
the taste
of the best
of fruits.
The lime,
willing to share
while none
would care.
Oh Lime,
the likable lime
with taste
so fine,
the ultimate
divine.
Ode to the Mini Tomato-Taylor Lebel
Filled,
filled with juice.
Small seeds, but
a big heart.
Cute and
innocent,
like a newborn
pup.
It sits
on the windowsill,
staring, and
waiting.
Soaking up
the summer's rays,
relaxing and enjoying.
Then,
it's picked up and
held tightly,
Toss, Toss!
Up, up
in the air,
like a weightless cloud.
Its orange cheeks
blush brightly.
It's put down,
back where it has rested.
A baby,
crying and unwanted.
Its mother,
standing proud
and strong,
bigger and
better.
A twinkling,
tasty tomato,
picked up,
not knowing
its true meaning.
Sliced,
its body broken
into two.
Its blood pours out,
dignity along
with it.
Soon,
it will meet
its soul mate,
king
of the bowl.
It isn't anything
without its
partners in crime,
together they are
unstoppable.
First, the lettuce,
king of the bowl,
sticking together
like a pack
of wolves,
then, the carrots,
and lastly,
the mini tomato,
scared and unsure.
Without its
other half,
it is
dead.
Boom!
Thrown into
the bowl,
mixed up,
and topped
with a rain
shower.
Then, it is stabbed
by a fork,
and before
it can say
its goodbyes,
the mini tomato
is gone.
Filled,
filled with juice.
Small seeds, but
a big heart.
Cute and
innocent,
like a newborn
pup.
It sits
on the windowsill,
staring, and
waiting.
Soaking up
the summer's rays,
relaxing and enjoying.
Then,
it's picked up and
held tightly,
Toss, Toss!
Up, up
in the air,
like a weightless cloud.
Its orange cheeks
blush brightly.
It's put down,
back where it has rested.
A baby,
crying and unwanted.
Its mother,
standing proud
and strong,
bigger and
better.
A twinkling,
tasty tomato,
picked up,
not knowing
its true meaning.
Sliced,
its body broken
into two.
Its blood pours out,
dignity along
with it.
Soon,
it will meet
its soul mate,
king
of the bowl.
It isn't anything
without its
partners in crime,
together they are
unstoppable.
First, the lettuce,
king of the bowl,
sticking together
like a pack
of wolves,
then, the carrots,
and lastly,
the mini tomato,
scared and unsure.
Without its
other half,
it is
dead.
Boom!
Thrown into
the bowl,
mixed up,
and topped
with a rain
shower.
Then, it is stabbed
by a fork,
and before
it can say
its goodbyes,
the mini tomato
is gone.
Ode to the Lime - Ashley Doyle
The lime,
That filled the
Woven basket
Was sitting on
The red,
And white checkered
Picnic table,
It flew across
The arrangement,
And was accompanied
By a lemon.
The lemon was
As bright as the sun,
Happily resting
Against his brother,
The loving lime.
This dark green
Sphere showed
It's bruised
Battle scars.
It is almost as
The taste
Resembled its appearance.
A sharp
Silver object
Approached the
Citrus.
It sank
Through the
Tough lively skin
And through
The juicy inside.
It was then as
Equally parted
As the red sea.
The knife
Repeatedly
Ruptured
The
Bitter fruit.
Its treasure
Awakened the picnic
Adding flavor
Within the air.
Ploop.
The lime
Swam through
The granulated crystals
Of lemonade
The scuba diver
Examined
The sweet and sour
Liquid.
Once a sphere,
The lime was
Transformed
From within
It's natural
State
To something
Magical.
It danced with
It's brother the lemon
And filled
The transparent
Cup
With joy and
Happiness.
This
Bright,
Bold,
And beautiful
Symphony
Harmonized
Together
Like an
Orchestra,
And the lime
Knew it
Was the star.
The lime,
That filled the
Woven basket
Was sitting on
The red,
And white checkered
Picnic table,
It flew across
The arrangement,
And was accompanied
By a lemon.
The lemon was
As bright as the sun,
Happily resting
Against his brother,
The loving lime.
This dark green
Sphere showed
It's bruised
Battle scars.
It is almost as
The taste
Resembled its appearance.
A sharp
Silver object
Approached the
Citrus.
It sank
Through the
Tough lively skin
And through
The juicy inside.
It was then as
Equally parted
As the red sea.
The knife
Repeatedly
Ruptured
The
Bitter fruit.
Its treasure
Awakened the picnic
Adding flavor
Within the air.
Ploop.
The lime
Swam through
The granulated crystals
Of lemonade
The scuba diver
Examined
The sweet and sour
Liquid.
Once a sphere,
The lime was
Transformed
From within
It's natural
State
To something
Magical.
It danced with
It's brother the lemon
And filled
The transparent
Cup
With joy and
Happiness.
This
Bright,
Bold,
And beautiful
Symphony
Harmonized
Together
Like an
Orchestra,
And the lime
Knew it
Was the star.
Ode to Basil - Hanako Agresta
Sun breaks the night,
Dawn
Rises over
The garden.
The basil's glory
Rises
With the dawn.
It reaches
Towards the light
As a woman
Reaches towards love,
Or a man,
To success.
As delicate
Leaves unfurl,
It becomes
A refined lady
Whose fragrance
Perfumes
Her entire being.
The scent
Creates an aura
Of peace
Around her supple
And graceful
Body,
The body
Of a dancer.
It is with
Little, lithe, limbs
That the basil
Sways to
The hum of
The earth,
A salutation of sorts,
Thanking all
Which gives life.
The leaves,
Tender as
A coaxing mother
And malleable
As a newborn's heart
Bud from the
Strong,
Durable,
Sure, stem.
It pushes
Through dirt,
Leaping from the Earth
In hopes of
Glimpsing the sky.
And when it does,
A glimpse isn't enough
To soak in
All the miracles
The world offers.
The basil yearns
For something more,
A tantalizing dream
To touch the sky,
To feel the clouds,
Experience the freedom
Which only
The all-encompassing sky
Can allow for.
But that is
Not the fate
Of the basil.
It is destined to be picked,
Drowned in water,
Patted dry,
Shredded,
And consumed
With a tomato and dressing.
Until all that is left
Is a whisper of desire.
Sun breaks the night,
Dawn
Rises over
The garden.
The basil's glory
Rises
With the dawn.
It reaches
Towards the light
As a woman
Reaches towards love,
Or a man,
To success.
As delicate
Leaves unfurl,
It becomes
A refined lady
Whose fragrance
Perfumes
Her entire being.
The scent
Creates an aura
Of peace
Around her supple
And graceful
Body,
The body
Of a dancer.
It is with
Little, lithe, limbs
That the basil
Sways to
The hum of
The earth,
A salutation of sorts,
Thanking all
Which gives life.
The leaves,
Tender as
A coaxing mother
And malleable
As a newborn's heart
Bud from the
Strong,
Durable,
Sure, stem.
It pushes
Through dirt,
Leaping from the Earth
In hopes of
Glimpsing the sky.
And when it does,
A glimpse isn't enough
To soak in
All the miracles
The world offers.
The basil yearns
For something more,
A tantalizing dream
To touch the sky,
To feel the clouds,
Experience the freedom
Which only
The all-encompassing sky
Can allow for.
But that is
Not the fate
Of the basil.
It is destined to be picked,
Drowned in water,
Patted dry,
Shredded,
And consumed
With a tomato and dressing.
Until all that is left
Is a whisper of desire.
An Ode to the Radish - Kate Seelye
The dirt
Wraps you
So I can't
See you.
In the garden
You wait,
I wait.
Longing to
Pull you out,
And hold you.
Only a thin
Layers of dirt
Separate us.
Yet it feels
As though
It were
A concrete wall.
The radish
Simple in looks.
Fiery in flavor.
It feels as if you have
Blown a bugle,
And my taste buds
Are now at attention.
You peak out,
But I know you.
You are not ready.
You offer me a blossom
As a sign
That you're almost ready.
The moment is almost here.
It feels like a lifetime
Since I planted you.
Yet it was only weeks ago.
Then you explode from the soil
Like a Jack-in-a-Box.
It's here!
It's here!
I grab onto your longing arms
And pull you
Into the safety of mine.
I place you into my basket.
Your chariot of sorts.
I take you home,
To care for you.
Placing you in the sink.
Your layers of dirt start to shed,
Along with my patience.
Your red skin sparkles,
Like a ruby.
Red rushes right around.
It's all I see on you.
You're perfect.
I take off your stem,
And place you
On your sacrificial stone.
The gods and I ready to take you.
One slice,
Now two,
Now three.
I release layer after layer
Of your divine root.
I place you in a pan.
You begin to sizzle with excitement.
I can't wait much longer too.
I can't believe it's almost time,
Time to eat you up.
You're ready.
I place you on a bed of lettuce
So that you might be
Comfortable in your final minutes.
One bite
After another
Until you are all gone.
Placing you in the
Sepulcher that is
My stomach.
The dirt
Wraps you
So I can't
See you.
In the garden
You wait,
I wait.
Longing to
Pull you out,
And hold you.
Only a thin
Layers of dirt
Separate us.
Yet it feels
As though
It were
A concrete wall.
The radish
Simple in looks.
Fiery in flavor.
It feels as if you have
Blown a bugle,
And my taste buds
Are now at attention.
You peak out,
But I know you.
You are not ready.
You offer me a blossom
As a sign
That you're almost ready.
The moment is almost here.
It feels like a lifetime
Since I planted you.
Yet it was only weeks ago.
Then you explode from the soil
Like a Jack-in-a-Box.
It's here!
It's here!
I grab onto your longing arms
And pull you
Into the safety of mine.
I place you into my basket.
Your chariot of sorts.
I take you home,
To care for you.
Placing you in the sink.
Your layers of dirt start to shed,
Along with my patience.
Your red skin sparkles,
Like a ruby.
Red rushes right around.
It's all I see on you.
You're perfect.
I take off your stem,
And place you
On your sacrificial stone.
The gods and I ready to take you.
One slice,
Now two,
Now three.
I release layer after layer
Of your divine root.
I place you in a pan.
You begin to sizzle with excitement.
I can't wait much longer too.
I can't believe it's almost time,
Time to eat you up.
You're ready.
I place you on a bed of lettuce
So that you might be
Comfortable in your final minutes.
One bite
After another
Until you are all gone.
Placing you in the
Sepulcher that is
My stomach.
Ode to Broccoli - Hunter Fabretti
The broccoli stands
Tall,
Like it is not
Afraid,
Un-moving,
Green as grass,
A strong tree
Unable to
Fall.
The day is
Hot
Like a fire,
We are all
Hungry.
The kids are
Running,
Laughing,
The adults are
Conversing.
The broccoli smiles as it
Waits
On the cutting board
Next to
His friend the pepper,
Red with fury.
They talk
About the children's
Happiness,
Watching them
Smile,
Laugh,
Run
Wishing to be
A child.
They don't know
What's ahead.
Sadly, we must
Eat,
Dinner time
Arrives,
Everyone exhausted from
Exercising.
I drive my knife
Into the stomach
Of the broccoli,
I can hear it
Scream.
Its bushy hair stands even
Taller,
Terrified,
Unable to do anything.
Slowly dropping the
Pieces into the
Boiling water,
It bubbles.
The broccoli is
Changing into a
Bright green flower.
It is the shining star
With peppers by its
Side,
The children
Laugh,
The adults
Smile,
The broccoli displays
Sadness.
No one knows.
They are all happy,
But
Not
The
Broccoli,
The star of the meal.
The broccoli stands
Tall,
Like it is not
Afraid,
Un-moving,
Green as grass,
A strong tree
Unable to
Fall.
The day is
Hot
Like a fire,
We are all
Hungry.
The kids are
Running,
Laughing,
The adults are
Conversing.
The broccoli smiles as it
Waits
On the cutting board
Next to
His friend the pepper,
Red with fury.
They talk
About the children's
Happiness,
Watching them
Smile,
Laugh,
Run
Wishing to be
A child.
They don't know
What's ahead.
Sadly, we must
Eat,
Dinner time
Arrives,
Everyone exhausted from
Exercising.
I drive my knife
Into the stomach
Of the broccoli,
I can hear it
Scream.
Its bushy hair stands even
Taller,
Terrified,
Unable to do anything.
Slowly dropping the
Pieces into the
Boiling water,
It bubbles.
The broccoli is
Changing into a
Bright green flower.
It is the shining star
With peppers by its
Side,
The children
Laugh,
The adults
Smile,
The broccoli displays
Sadness.
No one knows.
They are all happy,
But
Not
The
Broccoli,
The star of the meal.