Revive the art of conversation

Sarah Lea Stories

I’d never heard of “found poetry” until I took a college-level poetry class.

I began finding (if not looking for) poetry in unlikely places. Being a dark chocolate lover, I noticed the cute little sayings inside the Dove candy wrapper foils and thought, I could do something with these, so I began posting these short poems on Instagram.

It was perfect. I already had the graphic—I just had to provide the text.

Revive the art of conversation

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Micropoetry Monday: Yummies & Yuckies

When Walnut Fudge
cross-contaminated with Pecan Divinity,
each believed they were
the signature Christmas candy,
but when they crossed paths
with the often overdone upper crust—
with their “nanas” instead of “grannies”
& their preference for truffles,
with all their fancy-schmancy finishes,
nestled in scalloped paper shells—
Fudge & Divinity realized
that despite their differences,
they’d take being nutty anyday
over being infused with booze.

He was savory cheesecake,
she, sweet.
When they tried to make
beautiful dinner music together,
she had no use for his spooning
when she needed to be forked
a tine or two
(being quite forkable),
any more than he had for her
egging him on while
being totally baked.

When Oatmeal Raisin Cookie
met Chocolate Chip Cookie,
it was sweet love at first sight,
so they decided to open a cookie emporium,
after dozens of cakeholes & pieholes
had claimed it was easy as a piece of cake.
So, these not-so-smart cookies conceived & baked
the Oatmeal Raisin Chocolate Chip Cookie,
who turned out to be a clusterfudge,
for those who loved chocolate hated raisins
& those who loved raisins were allergic to chocolate.
Thus, the biz burned up belly-up,
with Brownie,
who knew what worked,
being a Thin Mint entrepreneur,
telling them that was just the way the cookie crumbled.

Micropoetry Monday: Life in these United States

outer-page

An Englishman
a Frenchman,
& an American
walked into an eatery.
The Englishman left an impolite word,
the Frenchman, a bad review,
& the American,
a tip.

She lived a life of mystery,
he, of transparency.
When they met over coffee & bagels,
she found herself longing for a simple life,
he, a scintillating one.
When they fell in love—
she, with his all-around nice guy persona
& he, with her essence of intrigue—
they compromised for a life in the burbs,
surrounded by all the displaced yuppies
with their big little lies.

Ninah Fiver had been counseled not to burn bridges,
but she dared to glare back at the witches,
with their real plastic & fake smiles,
who had tried to suck her back in with their fakery & toxicity
& cast upon her their spells of rotting, garden-variety bitchcraft.
Knowing that these hoes who were loved (but not beloved) by rakes
would soon be sweeping over,
she sprayed her territory with AquaNet & lit a match,
so that these ladies with the invisible pointed hats
went out in a blaze of glory,
even as Ninah blazed the trail for other office workers
who suffered from first-world PTSD
& an unhealthy obsession with Post-It notes.