I do not like onions. It's so funny because I am probably one of the least picky eaters ever. Pretty much any type of new food, I'll try it, I'll eat it. But onions, and pork. Pork and onions.
quote by Stacie Orrico
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mrs Bryces Onions
mrs bryces onions
Unmentionable as from today
They say, they're turning grey
Once proud shiny roundy
To be foundy in most fertile groundies
Now rotten to the core
Mrs bryces onions are corrupted
DEAD
They are no more!
Withered battered shattered
cheated and defeated
by the flux of ever changing climes
No more the darling of affections
Left off from vegetable selections
In the glitzy superstore
Laid low and easily forgotten
Cos they're stinky black and rotten
Festering within the plot land
Mrs Bryces ONIONS, are no more!
poem by Yvette Smith
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Poetry AWOL
Poetry deserted me
with metaphor and simile.
So the rain fell like.......rain.
And onions were just onions.
No response in Lost and Found.
I miss them now they're not around.
poem by Fiona Lochhead
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Onions And Ginger
I am on it!
I am sitting on it;
But, use onions and ginger to prepare my food,
For, i am still searching for the letters.
Across the skies!
Across the waters,
Across, the seas,
And across tha land;
But, i am still searching for the letters,
So, use onions and ginger to prepare my food.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Sometimes
Sometimes,
The onions
Come to my rescue.
Sometimes, the
Choking on the food.
Sometimes, the smoke
From the firewood.
The tears in my eyes
Just wouldn’t stop
And I know the reason
Why.
But have to hide them
From my children.
If they ask me why,
I can’t tell them why.
Sometimes, hiding
Doesn’t work.
So if they see it,
They wonder why…
Then I tell them
Stories of how
Invisible particles
Prick my eyes.
So now, they just guess
It could be the onions,
The smoke, the particles
Or the choking that plagues
Mummy sometimes,
Don’t know why…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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The Battle
Dames should be doomed to dungeons
Who masticate raw onions.
She was the cuddly kind of Miss
A man can love to death;
But when I sought to steal a kiss
I wilted from a breath
With onion odour so intense
I lost my loving sense.
Yet she was ever in my thought
Like some exotic flower,
And so a garlic bulb I bought
And chewed it by the hour;
Then when we met I thrilled to see
'Twas she who shrank from me.
So breath to breath we battled there,
To dominate each other;
And though her onions odious were,
My garlic was a smother;
Till loth I said: 'If we would kiss
Let's call an armistice.
'Now we have proved that we are true
To our opinions,
My garlic I'll give up if you
Give up your onions.'
And so next day with honey sips
How sweet her lips!
poem by Robert William Service
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Market Women’s Cries
APPLES
COME buy my fine wares,
Plums, apples and pears.
A hundred a penny,
In conscience too many:
Come, will you have any?
My children are seven,
I wish them in Heaven;
My husband ’s a sot,
With his pipe and his pot,
Not a farthen will gain them,
And I must maintain them.
ONIONS
Come, follow me by the smell,
Here are delicate onions to sell;
I promise to use you well.
They make the blood warmer,
You’ll feed like a farmer;
For this is every cook’s opinion,
No savoury dish without an onion;
But, lest your kissing should be spoiled,
Your onions must be thoroughly boiled:
Or else you may spare
Your mistress a share,
The secret will never be known:
She cannot discover
The breath of her lover,
But think it as sweet as her own.
HERRINGS
Be not sparing,
Leave off swearing.
Buy my herring
Fresh from Malahide,
Better never was tried.
Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard,
Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard.
Come, sixpence a dozen, to get me some bread,
Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Meat to Eat
To care is too disastrous for me now,
I die, I die, and I did try this night
To stay alive, from warmth and anyhow,
Like supper; like them and then start to bite.
The steaks do taste with juice, like a melon,
But of the earth, of one small animal,
They happen in an instant - abandon!
One animal will be this abysmal.
I fry the onion, on a bright flame,
I eat those bagels as the little fool,
May seasons take a flame as a small game,
The onions, the onions are tool.
Let one of us so eat the plate in time,
Then share, then share with us, without a rhyme.
poem by Naveed Akram
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It was dog food. Beef livers with onions in a can. You open it up and it looks like vomit.
quote by Tom Sizemore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Sandwich
as you take that sandwich
i remember 1971
the ham, and mayonnaise
the purple sliced onions
and cucumber
that you slip between
a big sandwich which you
say is too delicious
that is not how i saw it in the 70's
you were too young then
to know the connotation of the word
or the metaphor of being sandwiched
between two warring forces
who wanted to win by killing each other
they were all civilians mind you
sandwiched between the armed and dangerous government
and the armed and more dangerous rebels
the ham, and mayonnaise
the purple sliced onions
and cucumber
that you slip between
a big sandwich which you
say is too delicious
in the 70's they were not delicious at all
they were maimed, and bloody, killed on the streets
and public plazas bombed and brains scattered
on the hot cemented pavements
people kept in hog wires and secret
detention places
brothers all but so insensitive to the
the roots of humanity
Cains and Abels
the ham, and mayonnaise
the purple sliced onions
and cucumber
that you slip between
a big sandwich which you
say is too delicious
when all i need is simply a bitter tasting coffee
without the sugar and cream
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blocked Out of Memory and Stopped
You want to be nasty?
You want to be despicable?
You want to inflict upon me your revenge?
You can take that bitterness...
And heat it with onions for all I care.
I don't know what makes you think,
Your attacks upon me I find attractive.
I am going to watch your craze burn itself out!
And 'then' when and IF you come to your senses.
You will discover you have locked yourself,
Into a madness witnessed!
And everything about you from my point of view,
Has been blocked out of memory and stopped!
You want to be nasty?
You want to be despicable?
You want to inflict upon me your revenge?
You can take that bitterness...
And heat it with onions for all I care.
You have made me aware of your uselessness,
In my life!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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What Time Do We Leave Tonight?
what time do we leave tonight?
we can start at six
i will fetch you
and take you to the place of your wanting
we shall dine
and have a lovely conversation
under the stars
by the sea on a restaurant
the open air
the one we didn't have when we were young
and always in hiding
now our white hairs speak a lot
some wrinkles
tell us of our dignity
our words are carefully chosen
woven not just by our hearts
but by our steady minds
disciplined by time
and agony
there is a lonely flower on the table
the accent of an affair long forgotten
by time
the food is served hot and spicy
white glutenous rice
and hot green tea
we do not like to eat much
we like the talk
we are like peeling
some potatoes
slicing some onions
and some tears
fall from our eyes
then we laugh
it must be the spices and the onions
not the past
now hidden, buried, and dead
the way we prefer
them now
as it is
not as they once were
unruly they all say
but really
still very exciting like the chase
of children
playing in the park one night
when the moon
was full
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pork-n-Beans
Pork-n-Beans, a favorite food of any renaissance man
Afterwards, you may want to turn on the exhaust fan
I like them hot as the capital of Sudan
I like them cold straight out of the can
Pork-n-Beans are a culinary delight
Give me great pleasure with each bite
If I could, I'd dine on them every night
Handy for the refrigerator raid at midnight
Pork-n Beans should be kept readily on hand
Nuclear fallout shelter...keep them canned
Zombie attack...snack while making a stand
In-laws visit...for a evening meal unplanned
poem by Charles Hancock
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Pork Chops are Fun
chop chop chop the pork squeals over dinner
with it's fatty bits and tasty bites
it marinates on a stick over hot coal
who will taste it first who will finish the bowl
Wow Pork Chops with red wine
then dinner will be divine
chop chop chop the pork is done
with ginger, wine and lots of fun
it's time to have with a salty bun
chop chop chop see it go in the oven my friends
it's dinner time lets eat it all
then lets sit together and have a ball
chop chop chop the pork tastes good
with the meat so tender it bloody weel should
sometimes on the pan sometimes as a roast
call your freinds for dinner it's a dish one can boast
chop chop chop the pork is done
sprikle a little wine to make things bright
then the meat put it on light
watch it burn and tremble with delight
chop chop chop my pork chops are done
poem by Anuj Tikku
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Different men have different opinions; Some like apples, some onions.
These managers all know their onions and cut their cloth accordingly.
quote by Mark Lawrenson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That was like throwing three pickled onions into a thimble!
quote by Sid Waddell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One cannot borrow a man's mouth and eat onions for him.
Gold-leaf
Gold-leaf,
My food is made up of water, salt, onions, mushrooms and pepper!
And like the flower beds decorated with your love;
But do something positive that you really love in this life always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Dynamiter
I sat with a dynamiter at supper in a German saloon eating steak and onions.
And he laughed and told stories of his wife and children and the cause of labor and the working class.
It was laughter of an unshakable man knowing life to be a rich and red-blooded thing.
Yes, his laugh rang like the call of gray birds filled with a glory of joy ramming their winged flight through a rain storm.
His name was in many newspapers as an enemy of the nation and few keepers of churches or schools would open their doors to him.
Over the steak and onions not a word was said of his deep days and nights as a dynamiter.
Only I always remember him as a lover of life, a lover of children, a lover of all free, reckless laughter everywhere—lover of red hearts and red blood the world over.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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