The Humbling of a Potato

she sheds her camouflage piece by piece,
relenting to the force of nature.
now she looks unlike the others in their shades

except for red sneering welts,
she is naked. she has nothing to hold
but a fraction of momentary awareness.

as if hexed by a charmer
she twists and grovels toward a clearing
where, against her will, she docks her fears again.

the fowls, how strong are their noses!
they smelled blood that's yet to trickle
while she ushers their welcomed hunger.

and the fowls claw at her body;
they pick at its red welts
while she relishes the agony they feed her

their dribbling slaver burn like acid
and leave bluish-purple lacerations.
what candy-like appeal to a fowl's eye!

she feels how each wound will nourish her
how each sharp piece will nurse her back
to the wings of halcyon.

when the fowls exit the clearing
she will be fresh and soft
for the sun to harden once more.

then her skin will be like the others' again ---
taut, and shiny, and motley-hued ---
invisible on the vivid earth.

then her head will bow to the ground
that has always possessed her.


Potatoes think weird.

Hormones

they are furious inside,
they are shouting orders
like tyrants
and we follow them

we are puppets willing
to move and kick
at the yank of strings

they are raging inside
and we are thin-skinned;
we too, we smolder and churn
at each prickle

they are powerful beings
that grow stronger than us
for a week

they are furious inside,
they are shouting orders
and we shout their orders
like tyrants.

Potatoes have hormones, too.

The Penitent

The woman, she kneels deep with her gauzy
black veil sweeping the altar floor;
could she look him in the eye, she asks.
She detests her sins, she regrets them, now
she's waiting for his word,
she strains to hear his voice,
she bends to see his sign.
And would she then obey?

Potato Shouts: Be Real for Mother Earth

false teeth

man, she's sick of wearing your false-teeth
she cannot complain, she doesn't speak
open your eyes though,

sans chewing, she'll swallow you whole

as the water boa devoured the bathing elephant

take off your apathy, your complacency as well

open your eyes to the fragile nature of your kind

there in silence lies a vindictive adversary

man, your false-teeth bite holes into her cheeks

she doesn't need dentures to cover the gaps you make

man, dispose your false-teeth fast

-if you can't wear it yourself.

Just reminding you. April 22 is Earth Day.

Potatoes care for the environment.

Mashed Potato

Pain is a blistering summer sun
first rolling, rolling
from my gut to my heart
where it bobs up and down --
turning into a silver ball
that reeks of sweaty socks

the ball melts
into a wriggling, slithering
noisy blob, hissing what-ifs to my brain
and disappears through windows.

That's what I thought. But pain doesn't disappear as easily as that. A potato may cry her eyes out, still pain will be there, bobbing up and down, drilling holes in the guts and the heart. How is it going to get out? When? Can somebody please tell me?

Potatoes suffer.

Potato Ego

Sometimes, potatoes are weak. Their belief may waver. Sometimes, they give in to their weaknesses and let their ego do the work. Potato egos are not very reliable things. They can be manipulative and are often self-centered, always focusing on gratifying themselves.

When egos work, they believe that they can be self-reliant. When they get to know the truth, that they are in fact weak, they seek reliance on other beings - people, things. Sometimes, they may even force you to splurge your very puny salary to nothingness. That's because they find strength in these external beings.

What egos often forget is that there is a Being on whom they can fully rely. There is a Being who doesn't give them illusions of security or love. There is a Being to run to. There is a Being with whom you can just be your weak potato self.

May I share with you a few lines on this.

conversion

(for the Being)

no longer do i wear my chain mail
my shield and my sword
the bruises and cuts of battles
we fought i reveal unabashed

they think i hide in the length of my hair
but this too i have offered to you
as my secrets are unknown to me
i do not dread their flight

together we can always let them go
in the rivers, in the sky
unlike molten mails, and shields, and swords
by your hand, my nakedness protects me

entirely i give up my wounds and smiles
to the harshness of this earth
yet we do not heed, for your heart
is eternally boundless.

Potatoes learn day after day.

A Potato Prayer

let me not want for more
these blue waters are enough
the salty breeze alone
quenches my thirst

i will never squint at the sun again
for your sky has cleared my sight
and my heart now beats knowing
that you see me, even at my most invisible

let me not want for more
because i am warmed, i am refreshed
the mountains and forests
are your arms that embrace all

let me thus spread your love,
speak your love,
seek your love
for it alone suffices.


*This was written when Pope John Paul II died in 2005.

God loves potatoes.

Hash browns

Confession: I had an affair with Pablo Neruda, the great Chilean poet.

Proof:

teach me your tongue, Pablo
and together we'll explore
untold truths of your land

let me follow your tongue, Pablo
let me follow the exquisite ripples
of reflections curved by your tongue

inspire me with your tongue, Pablo
and i will not hear your truths
and tales by second hand

let me speak your tongue, Pablo
let me taste the untainted splendor
of the music you've woven by time.

Hush, potatoes.