Ode to Chocolate

I entered this into an “Ode to Chocolate” poetry contest and won! A whole bunch of chocolate!

Ah, but how to repay the debt I owe to chocolate?
Milky, nutty, fruity or dark,
My sweet-toothed soul sister, my culinary heart partneress.
Chocolate, even the word falls sweetly from the mouth, silken edible poetry.
And how can the world repay their debt to chocolate?
She brings fondue friends together over fruit and melted bliss, lovers intimate, children’s faces smeared with cocoa-laden joy –
She is the sweetened glue of lives held together with lip-smacking satisfaction.
She is the vibrant reds, yellows and oranges of the pods pulled from Theobroma cacao trees,
She is the pungent artistry of pulp fermenting beans while sweltering heat waves the air,
She is the taste bud tangible beauty of nature who rears her,
And she is mine – for a price.
A price I am always willing to pay to unite chocolate and I in holy consumer matrimony.

Ode to Commas

They had both gone to the store, that day.
Both unsure, looking for something, scanning the aisles, skimming the titles.
They passed each other in the condiment aisle, unnoticed.
They passed each other in the canned goods aisle, unseen.
Their footfalls, muffled by elevator equivalent grocery store music, were unheard.
Little did they know,
Little, did they know,
They were both headed, to the exact same place.
Playing, playing, playing that jingle in their heads,
Having heard commercials, burned into their psyche,
They needed, so needed, to get some for themselves.
This aisle, of all aisles, they did not pass each other.
The met, right in the middle.
Hands reached,
Hearts soared,
Pulses climbed,
They collided, abruptly, in front of one unsuspecting item.
The last box, the very last box of Mini Wheats.
“Oh,” she stammered,
“Oh,” he stuttered,
Hands withdrew,
Hearts plunged,
Pulses dipped,
“You go ahead,” this time in unison.
They both bolted, thinking this time, just this time, was not the time.
Dejectedly, “next time,” this time the Mini Wheats.

Bodywide War

At some point on Christmas Day, I caught something from my little niece or father. Toddlers in daycare are little buckets of nasty. Did a little playful writing on the subject to alleviate my mental symptoms, since the physical ones are clearly sticking around.

Going up against the Great Wall of China that is my throat,
The bacteria marches –
It knows:
The wall may be tall,
And we may be small,
But we’ve the combined forces of all.
The cantankerous
viral
spiral
into…
… Chamomile.
The tea I like least.

In this particular war, I want my mama.