Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day 2017 Challenge #18. Theme: Good for Nothing



They were good for nothing,
till she went Paleo crazy,
turning them into a brownie base,
for dark chocolate dispelled
their sinfully-funky taste.



Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day 2017 Challenge #14. Theme: Traditional form poem (limerick)


It Melted

Here lies Gino Spumoni Supreme,
whose wifey thought he’d eaten all the ice cream.
When she peered into the freezer twice,
finding it puddled behind the Italian ice,
she went off the beam with an ice cream scream.


Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day 2017 Challenge #2. Theme: Disguise


An Anti-Ode to the Raisin

When the worried little grape
was chewed out of its chocolate shell,
it realized how much it was loathed
for masquerading as a chocolate chip.
Though it was not spat upon,
it was spat out,
often buried, picked out
of mounds of peanuts and M&M’s,
and tossed in the trash.
So, it used chocolate coating
as its collagen,
but no one with any taste
could be fooled.

It was still a damn grape.


Poem-a-Day 2017 Writer’s Digest Challenge #14. Theme: Pick a Popular Saying (and make that the title of your poem)


That Was Just the Way Her Cookie Crumbled

When Blondie Brown—
a not-so smart cookie—
made her chocolatey chipper cookies,
they wouldn’t make it home
before dust, but
when she went down South,
through word of mouth,
she discovered butter
(and kicked margarine to the curves).


Poem-a-Day Writer’s Digest Challenge #19. Theme: Commonplace


The Book of Common Fare

Somewhere, in the warm hearth that is Grandpa’s house,
where cooks and non-cooks gather round,
is Grandma’s recipe book—
nestled in with the spices,
smelling of cloves,
the pages yellowed and crisp with age,
like apples dried in the sun.
The slip of the paisley-printed,
cloth-covered book is beginning to show,
like a naughty woman whose mystery remains unsolved.
There are no glossy, full-color photos,
but little handwritten notes in script like hieroglyph
about moments long forgotten—
snippets of time left in an old scrapbooking box
like bits of ribbon or bobs of yarn.

It is a diary of love for all things molasses,
a legacy of labor consumed,
for every time one of her grown granddaughters
cook one of her recipes,
her presence once more felt,
and it’s like she’s come back for a Christmas visit
with her thousand-carat fudge,
a Thanksgiving gathering
with her cornbread chestnut dressing,
always served on Wedgwood blue like it was the finest feast.

They didn’t stack their food like Jenga back then
or smear this thing called “coulis” on the plate
or cook with this abomination called “margarine”.
Twas was all simple fare from a complex woman
who learned not from the likes of Julia Child,
but from her mother,
who learned from her mother;
she learned by doing,
not by watching,
and every time someone cooks one of her recipes,
the aroma goes straight up to heaven,
and she smiles like the sunbeam
that used to brew her summertime tea.