En.Citatepedia^®.ro

My Flippers

My flippers are small,
My flippers are light,
My flippers can crawl,
My flippers are white.

My flippers go back and forth,
My flippers go up and down,
My flippers go round and round,
They take me to the town.

My flippers are furry,
My flippers are flappy,
My flippers serve curry,
My flippers are happy.

My flippers go swish and swoosh,
My flippers can wipe the plate,
My flippers like chocolate mousse,
Yeuck, that's not chocolate!

poem by Sebastian Seal
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Evolving thoughts

Maybe it's because we're so obsessed with property,
real estate, that we assume
this 375-million-year-old fossil yearned
to make it from the sea to golden sands
and further earthly joys? That's assuming
that it thought like Darwin anyway?

Maybe a refugee from
the Garden of Eden
who thought seaside holidays
were more fun?

Maybe it just tired of pursuing fast food
which it could never catch on land
with those pathetic flippers, and
reckoned there was more food out there
that might swim into Mr BIgmouth!

Remember, even you got tired
of watching Baywatch on a hot
summer's day, when the
surf's up? And did you notice
that fossil's built
like a surfboard?

No contest.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Victims

When Mother divorced you, we were glad. She took it and
took it in silence, all those years and then
kicked you out, suddenly, and her
kids loved it. Then you were fired, and we
grinned inside, the way people grinned when
Nixon's helicopter lifted off the South
Lawn for the last time. We were tickled
to think of your office taken away,
your secretaries taken away,
your lunches with three double bourbons,
your pencils, your reams of paper. Would they take your
suits back, too, those dark
carcasses hung in your closet, and the black
noses of your shoes with their large pores?
She had taught us to take it, to hate you and take it
until we pricked with her for your
annihilation, Father. Now I
pass the bums in doorways, the white
slugs of their bodies gleaming through slits in their
suits of compressed silt, the stained
flippers of their hands, the underwater
fire of their eyes, ships gone down with the
lanterns lit, and I wonder who took it and
took it from them in silence until they had
given it all away and had nothing
left but this.

poem by Sharon Olds
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Judge Not

They don't judge, these animals
With four legs, fur and tail.
Nor yet the fish within the sea,
With flippers who set sail,
Upon the turbulent seas of life
With courage and with vigour,
Their journeys whether long or short
Completed with such rigour.
They give to us with e'er a smile
Our hearts to surely gladden
Accompanying us along the way
And cheer us when we sadden.
Qualities unique they humbly carry
No ego and no pride
And when we have need we can just call
And they are by our side.
But where are we when they are crushed down.
When their body is frail and weak.
When they look with imploring eyes at us,
No ego; trusting, and meek?
We are not there in their hour of pain,
When the world has against them turned
Shame on the humans who walk away,
Leaving our animals spurned.
No they don't judge, these animals
With feather fur and tail.
They give to us without a thought,
And ever them we fail.
So listen close my human friends.
If you never listen again.
Ask yourself just who is there
When your life is full of pain.
Then turn around and see the truth
That the qualities animals bear
Will never for we humans be
For to have them, means you care!

poem by Rosi Caswell
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First Child ... Second Child

FIRST

Be it a girl, or one of the boys,
It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois,
It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician
Have possibly been a lobstertrician?
His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory,
But how's for an infantile inventory?
Here's the prodigy, here's the miracle!
Whether its head is oval or spherical,
You rejoice to find it has only one,
Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son;
Here's the phenomenon all complete,
It's got two hands, it's got two feet,
Only natural, but pleasing, because
For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws.
Furthermore, it is fully equipped:
Fingers and toes with nails are tipped;
It's even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut;
When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut,
When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed
And the presence of lungs can be deduced.
Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder,
This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder.
A staggering child, a child astounding,
Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding,
Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed,
A child to stagger and flabbergast,
Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn,
And the only perfect one ever born.

SECOND

Arrived this evening at half-past nine.
Everybody is doing fine.
Is it a boy, or quite the reverse?
You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.

poem by Ogden Nash
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Malaysiana - Leatherback Turtle

coconut leaves rustle,
running with the wind
at at least 20 km per hour
waves surge at an
equally frantic speed -
patriotic hands that
repeatedly hold onto
the beach with a roaring
and thunderous voice to
match their claim

a giant turtle slowly emerges
in the water, a dark shadow
accenting the night with its
rare mound and strenuous flippers
the final touchdown in a
thousand mile comeback

each stride and lug forward
reflects a firm belief in the land
that it belongs to

it is the first comeback after
many many years at sea
and now for the noblest of chores

in less than two hours,
at least a hundred
ping pong size eggs
have gone into a hole it has dug
a hole large enough to hold
all its love for the land

and you should see how tears
keep rolling down its eyes
as it thanks god it still remembers
its way back to shower its gratitude
to the land that had given him birth

the giant turtle remembers how years
ago it had crept out of its egg, shoveled away sand
and without another thought made its
precarious way to the freedom of the sea

despite the brief encounter, it never never
forgot the land it originated from, its smell, its winds,
its sounds and has logged every inch it had swam
to make that triumphant return today

the hundred eggs hold its hundred wishes
that this tradition be kept for as long
as leatherback turtle exists

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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An Offer Of Marriage

Once I 'dipt into the future far as human eye could see,'
And saw-it was not Sandow, nor John Sullivan, but she
The Emancipated Woman, who was weeping as she ran
Here and there for the discovery of Expurgated Man.
But the sun of Evolution ever rose and ever set,
And that tardiest of mortals hadn't evoluted yet.
Hence the tears that she cascaded, hence the sighs that tore apart
All the tendinous connections of her indurated heart.
Cried Emancipated Woman, as she wearied of the search:
'In Advancing I have left myself distinctly in the lurch!
Seeking still a worthy partner, from the land of brutes and dudes
I have penetrated rashly into manless solitudes.
Now without a mate of any kind where am I?-that's to say,
Where shall I be to-morrow?-where exert my rightful sway
And the purifying strength of my emancipated mind?
Can solitude be lifted up, vacuity refined?
Calling, calling from the shadows in the rear of my Advance
From the Region of Unprogress in the Dark Domain of Chance
Long I heard the Unevolvable beseeching my return
To share the degradation he's reluctant to unlearn.
But I fancy I detected-though I pray it wasn't that
A low reverberation, like an echo in a hat.
So I've held my way regardless, evoluting year by year,
Till I'm what you now behold me-or would if you were here
A condensed Emancipation and a Purifier proud
An Independent Entity appropriately loud!
Independent? Yes, in spirit, but (O, woful, woful state!)
Doomed to premature extinction by privation of a mate
To extinction or reversion, for Unexpurgated Man
Still awaits me in the backward if I sicken of the van.
O the horrible dilemma!-to be odiously linked
With an Undeveloped Species, or become a Type Extinct!'

As Emancipated Woman wailed her sorrow to the air,
Stalking out of desolation came a being strange and rare
Plato's Man!-bipedal, featherless from mandible to rump,
Its wings two quilless flippers and its tail a plumeless stump.
First it scratched and then it clucked, as if in hospitable terms
It invited her to banquet on imaginary worms.
Then it strutted up before her with a lifting of the head,
And in accents of affection and of sympathy it said:
'My estate is some 'at 'umble, but I'm qualified to draw
Near the hymeneal altar and whack up my heart and claw
To Emancipated Anything as walks upon the earth;
And them things is at your service for whatever they are worth.
I'm sure to be congenial, marm, nor e'er deserve a scowl
I'm Emancipated Rooster, I am Expurgated Fowl!'

From the future and its wonders I withdrew my gaze, and then
Wrote this wild unfestive prophecy about the Coming Hen.

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Vi'lits

I wus pickin' gipsy vi'lits fer to try an' square Doreen.
We 'ad words . . . about pianners - fer she wants one awful keen
'Igh words, about 'igh-toned idears - an', like a love-sick fool, 'Ere I'm pickin' gipsy vl'llts when the kid come 'ome frum school.
'E started school a month ago, an' ain't got very far;
But, judgin' be the scraps 'e 'as, 'e's takin' after Par.

I tips there's somethin' wrong, the way 'e sneaks around the 'ouse.
An' then I seen 'is eye. Oh, strike! 'E 'ad a bonzer mouse!
A reel black-eye, that, in me day, I would 'a' worn wiv pride.
But I'm a father now, an' sez, ''Ere, son, you git inside
An' show yer mother that there eye. 'Ow did it come about?'
Sez 'e, 'A big bloke gimme that. I knocked the beggar out!'

I looks fer 'arf a second at the fambily disgrace,
Then I picks another vi'lit so 'e couldn't see me face.
I wus grinnin' most unfatherlike, an' feelin' good inside.
'You show yer Mar that eye uv yours. I'm 'shamed uv you!' I lied.
I watch 'im creep inside the 'ouse, an' 'ear 'is mother's yell.
An' then I straightens up me face an' goes inside as well.

'Twus raw beef-steak an' vinegar, an' tears, before she's done.
An' the sort uv look she gimme sez, 'Yeh see 'ow 'e's begun!'
I don't disturb the rites excep' to give some kind advice.
In younger days I've caught black-eyes, an' give 'em once or twice.
'That big boy should be punished,' sez Doreen, ''oo 'it our Bill.'
I pats the 'ero's bandages, an' answers 'er, ''E will.'

That ev'nin', down be'ind the shed, near where the scrub grows dense,
I gives young Bill a lesson in the art uv self-defence.
I teaches 'im an uppercut that Ginger Mick tort me
In ole days, down in Spadger's Lane. I gits down on me knee
To show 'im 'ow to time 'is 'it. 'E sneaks beneath me guard
Quite sudden, while I'm yappin', an' 'e cracks me one reel 'ard.

Did it please me? Wot do you think? Strike! That kid 'as got the knack!
An' it pleased me all to pieces 'ow the ole game all came back:
Left-swings an' jolts an' short-arm jabs - the 'ole dash box uv tricks,
Sich as we used down in the Lane when we wus short uv bricks.
I'm showin' 'im a fancy 'it, a reel ole ding-dong clout,
When the murderin' young savage tries to knock me front teeth out!

Uv course, 'e 'urt 'is little 'and, an' fetches out a yell
That brings Doreen down double quick. An' then - it wus merry 'ell.
She grabs the kid up in 'er arms, an' gives me sich a look
As I ain't seen since years ago, when I done - somethin' crook.
'You'll 'ave 'im like you wus!' she cries. 'I'd sooner see 'im dead!
You want to make'im . . . ' 'Don't,' I sez. 'We'll take the rest as said.'

It 'urt to see 'er shieldin' 'im as tho' I wus a plague.
An' ain't 'e mine as much as 'ers ? Yet, I seen, sort o' vague,
The woman's way she looked at it, the picters that she 'ad
Uv young Bill goin' to the pack, an' follerin' 'is dad.
I tries me 'ardest to ixplain, an' made some fool ixcuse;
But I'm marri'd to a woman, an' - Aw, wot's the flamin' use ?

I tells 'er if we'd 'ave young Bill keep up 'is end at school
'E will 'ave to use 'is flippers; but I sez it like a fool.
I sez it like I wus ashamed to 'ave 'im learn to fight,
When all the time, down in me 'cart, I knoo that I wus right.
She just gives me another look, an' goes in wiv the kid.
An' me? I picks them vi'lits up, not knowin' wot I did.

I 'as them fool things in me 'and when I lobs in the 'ouse,
An' makes bets wiv meself about the chances that she'll rouse.
But 'er, she comes the calm an' cold. Think's I, ''Ere's where I fall
Fer a forty-quid pianner, if I want to square it all,
Goo'-bye to forty lovely quid - time-paymint, fifty-three -
Then all at once she smiles an' sez, 'Did you pick those fer me?'

'Did you pick those fer me,' she sez. 'Oh, Bill!' 'an then, 'Oh, Bill!'
I 'ints I 'ad idears to leave 'em to 'er in me will.
She grabs them dilly vi'lits, an' she 'olds 'em to 'er nose.
'Oh, Bill!' she smiles, 'You alwus knoo 'ow fond I wus uv those!
Oh, Bill! You dear!' She 'ugs me then, jist in the same ole way.
'Struth! I'm marri'd to a woman, an' . . . I'll learn young Bill some day!

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Chicago [1920's slang]

Left my dump, off to the [Gourmet Cafe]
Ankling it, no need for a hack
I'm a johnnie walker
Stopped a bit to jaw a little
With two wiseheads [Jess] and [Carrianne]
Before work
As we discuss how one of their coffee-and-donut doble
Keep klunking out on them
When I arrived
I poured me a cup of joe
Then took a powder
To find me an ameche
To arrange a get together for tonight
With my tight squeeze
I get back and drink the joe
Shortly afterwards I get jingle-brained
Then I threw a joe
I wake to find me in this heap
Someplace in a back of alley
And was being pulled out by three goons
I recognize [Daniel], [Bob] and [Dain]
Once they get me inside their hideout
I'm still jingle-brained
I realized I drunk a mickey finn
Now I'm in a jam
I recognize the butter and egg man
As the baddest gangster in upstate New York
His name is [Don Levy]
I also recognize the rest of the chopper squad
They are [Thom], [Josh] and also [Dan]
Who I use to drink out of the same bottle with
Don sends one of his hatchmen to get the seventh
Which he refers to [Engelhardt]
Each one of these numbers were well-heeled
With Chicago typewriters
Couple of them had dinchers in there kissers
Another asks for one of their ciggies
Mr. Levy who comes off as a nance
Tosses his deck to him and tells him to pipe down
Then he slaps my lid of my keyster
I know I'll be grilled about dust I know about
I can see by their get-ups
They have heavy sugar
The hard-boiled gimp tells me to level with him
He thinks I know alot the couple I'm working with
He mentions they're his biggest rival
Who don't want to play ball with him
All I am is a pearl diver in their restaurant
I don't know their potatoes of capers
I tell him he's tooting the wrong ringer
'All I do is wash dishes.'
They don't seem to be in that type of racketeering
Then two bins ankles in
Den tells them '[Terese] and [Carole] get in the back
Few minutes later two skirts arrive
This time he says
'Annie and Mary go in the back'
'Keep those other two company'
'This is business'
He tells me once he was left holding the bag
He never got his dib from my big cheese
My big cheese according to Don
Gave him the Chinese squeeze
He apparently became my big cheese's patsy
And refered him as a smooth
Need to bring this chin to a conclusion with me still intact
At this time, the gals in the back were giggling
Maybe this joint is wet with giggle water
Mr. Levy then says
'I'll have one of my goons sock your scnozzle, savvy? '
He wants me to rat out
If there were anyone planted on the inside of his operations
As if a pearl diver, like myself know anything
Then a dish with a pretty pan enters
Don then asks her
'Why do you gals always come when I'm doing business
He takes out his bank roll
Which seems to be at least a pai of Cs
Or possibly more
He places some lettuce in her hands
Then suggests she take the other gals out and dry up
She has these big bubs
Which i'd like to put my flippers on
Just then she puts her lips upon his
Then i realize she's his moll
Knowing I shouldn't get dizzy with this dame
I tell him don't get ing bing
Then confess ish kabibble
About neither his nor his rival's bee's wax
Well Jeepers Creepers
It's not getting duck soup
In convincing him I know nothing
I believe soon he'll be gashouse with me
Sure enough he put his paws upon my pipes
Which sent my pump to leap out of my pipes
From the heebie jeepies
He pours himself some yack yack bourbon
And then takes a snort of it
He says 'Says you'
'Now start singing, tell me who's the inside guy'
'Or I'll have one of my goons put the broderick on you'
I've remembered I've had sap poison upon my head before
He orders one of his goons to sock my peeper
I get dry gulched
It was so hard I know I have a goog
One of the fellas asks
If he should take me for a one way ride
Then I see Mr. Levy jerking a nod
Just then a Chicago pineapple flys through the window
I think I'll be out of this dump in a Chicago overcoat
One of the goons grabs the Chicago pineapple
Tosses it out of another window
They all begin to burn powder
I duck to stay out of the Chicago lightning
I see lead smashing into everything in sight
One of the fellas takes a shiv to me
Once the Chicago lightning ends
Mr. Levy and his goons are nowheres to be seen
I take to the air
Covering up the Harlem sunset
With a rag that was by the door
Today hasn't been much of a cat's pajamas
I get outside find myself in front of an old hash house
Across the street from [Caffe Lena]
Then I hear 'Grab a little air'
I look around and see buttons
Waving their buzzers at me in one hand
And the other their pieces

poem by R.K. Cowles
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Chocolate Is A Food Group

I love chocolate.
So should you.
Milk chocolate,
Dark chocolate.
It's good for you, too.

Chocolate cake,
Chocolate candy,
Chocolate pie.
Take away my chocolate
And I might die.

White chocolate,
Hot chocolate,
Even chocolate soup...
Any chocolate lover knows
Chocolate is a food group.

poem by Rich Reitz
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Chocolate Milk, Chocolate Syrup, Chocolate Cup

chocolate milk, chocolate syrup, chocolate cup
when im putting in chocolate syrup i put too much
i wish i had a chocolate pup in a chocolate cup
in a chocolate world!

but that would be alot to eat
for just one little girl!

if chocolate was a talent
Id be the chocolate master!
chocolate storms and tornadoes are natural chocolate disasters!

there would be chocolate houses and chocolate apartments and chocolate hotels for rent!
People eating chocolate all day without paying a single cent!
All their money would be in chocolate banks w chocolate robbers
Chocolate dinners like chocolate spaghetti and chocolate covered lobsters!

Chocolate chocolate chocolate BOOO!
(and no vanilla)
Drew

poem by Drew Bailey Golden
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Afternoon Tea

As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches -- got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em," and he sprang to the head of the men.
Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . .
Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "Damn!"
And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain,
And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain.
'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea);
I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free.
Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws,
Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was.

So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own,
And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone;
With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap;
And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap?
Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash;
We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash.
My fellows -- Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell,
Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags, -- nothing much left to tell:
A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live;
Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve.

The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show,
And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe.
So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again,
Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain.
Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank,
And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank."
He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes,
As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums.
So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats;
Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats.
'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range,
With someone you saw to go for -- it made an agreeable change.

And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt,
And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt".
Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran,
On to the second line trenches, -- that's where the fun began.
For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about,
And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out.
Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?"
And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair;
And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot!
(I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?)
My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten;
So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men,
And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right;
I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight.

But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things:
The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things,
So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must.
We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust;
And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now;
And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row;
And my chaps -- well, I just couldn't hold 'em; (It's strange how it is with gore;
In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.)
Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they COULDN'T be calmed,
So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned.
Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all;
The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal.
Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head,
And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red.

I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too,
Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do".
As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea,
I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me;
I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right,
And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight.
And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then:
They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men.
And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive --
So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five;
And four of 'em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game,
And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same.
A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell,
So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell.
And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that Hun;
He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done.
So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt,
And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt".
And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away;
Let's talk of the things that matter -- your car or the newest play. . . .

poem by Robert William Service
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I Love Chocolate

I love chocolate, oh yes I do.
Eating chocolate is a must too.
I love chocolate, how about you?
They say dark chocolate is now good for you too.
I would eat chocolate while watching Mr. Magoo.
I would eat chocolate instead of dodo.
I like a good chocolate candy bar.
I would even eat chocolate from a jar.
I want to eat chocolate all day long.
Eating too much chocolate may be wrong.
They need to write about chocolate in a song.
Some people eat chocolate just to belong.
I would even eat chocolate in my Froot Loops
I would even eat chocolate with a big group.

poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
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The Dark Temptation

When the sweet dish
just melts in one’s mouth
one then tends to cherish
the tasty chocolate mousse

When one drinks milkshake
especially the chocolate one
one says, ”What a tasty make! ”
and asks” How was it done? ”

When one eats a chocolate cake
they say, ”The cake was damn good”
they ask”Please tell us how it was baked
So that we can make it if we could”

But what is the main ingredient
in these superb deserts?
“Its chocolate”- THE BRILLIANT
that adds magic to these deserts

the dish then due to chocolate
becomes a temptation
and even though one is not hungry to eat a plate
he cannot undergo any restrictions

As just the sight of chocolate
makes one’s mouth to water
one is just then unable to stop oneself
and eats it like a mad-eater

It’s the taste, the taste that makes it different
the taste that’s beyond description
Hence chocolate is and will be and will always be meant
to be:
THE WORLD’S GREATEST TEMPTATION

poem by Hansika Subramanian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chocolate Festival

There is nothing that is better
Than an array of chocolate treats
Delicious more than anything
So creamy, soft and sweet

Dark or light we have it all
Molded into ducks and little pigs
Some are rather small and delicate
And some are amazingly big

Of course the bigger the pieces
The more you get to eat
Just fill your plate, folks
Then go and grab a seat

There is music playing
Bluegrass is the sound
Enjoy this chocolate festival
It’s the best for miles around

So if you want to celebrate
The chocolate holiday
Grab your coats and meet us
For this huge chocolate array!

poem by Marilyn Lott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chocolate!

Chocolates, Chocolates, Chocolates,
Milk- chocolate, Mint-chocolate and semi-sweet,
Yummy dark chocolate is such a treat.
Chocolate yoghurt, sauce and chips,
And the chocolate dips,
One can have lot of sips.
Some are hard, some are smooth,
But at times give you saw-tooth,
Chocolate-shake, Hot chocolate are some drinks,
Which makes you wink.
Chocolate to express your love,
Which makes you feel above,
Chocolate to say sorry,
And then no worry.
So is chocolate healthy?
Or is just a mystery?
Or is chocolate a delight?
But, chocolates are just so right.

poem by Anju Addanki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Feelings: Well Worth It

Feeling bad for
chocolate and sweets
and all things
nice, but curry?

not worth pain
for a taste mundane -
you wanted curry
it's not reasonable

to inflict it on me
knowing the sequel; I
can’t eat it, and now
the pills don’t work

I’m stuck in pain,
should you make curry
again, I’ll settle
for a big Chocolate cake

and then when I
die inside,
it will be
Well Worth It!

poem by Margaret Alice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chocolate Fever

It all started this morning,
When I was craving something sweet.
Hey how about some candy,
Wouldn't that be just the treat?

And that morning...
Creamy
Tasting light in my mouth
Tummy turning chocolate feeling heavy in my belly
Hit me
like
a BOMB

And now you see... I'm addicted
I can't keep your taste off of my mind
I just crave for more
Of my astonishing find

I have it every hour,
Every second of the day,
I can't even share this sacred feeling
To have some you have to pay

So pay up, pay up, HURRY!
Before I eat it all...
Oh...woops I'm sorry... It's Gone!
Hypnotizing delight and all

That night,
I dreamt of chocolate rivers,
Chocolate fountains,
Chocolate Buildings
Chocolate mountains,
Chocolate cities

Chocolate, Chocolate
Where art thou? ? ?
I miss you...
I need you...

You’re gone
And I crave you night and day,
Please Please come back...

I promise I'll pay.

poem by Gurkamel Gill
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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5. Chocolate

Chocolate made of yummy stuff
We taste it with delight
The more we eat the more we want
Some say this isn’t right

Chocolate looks so harmless
A smart smooth creamy block
With lots of little chunks to eat
All gone well that’s a shock

Chocolate does melt quickly
It runs between your fingers
Until you lick it all away
No fear it never lingers

Chocolate tries to temp us
In its many coloured pack
It tries to cause addiction
Being sure that we go back

Chocolate’s simple pleasure
Enjoy it while you can
With waistlines now expanding
We’ve installed a chocolate ban

poem by David Threadgold (2008)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ever Had a Nine-course Meal?

Ever had a nine-course meal to set you on your way?
Perhaps to start, a glass of wine aside a cheese soufflé.
The second dish could be of fish, so how about Paella?
Check with Chef to see it's cooked – you don't want salmonella!
Now for the third we'll hot it up with spicy beef kebab –
You know we wouldn't want the feast to feel a little drab!
Before the fourth, you'll need a lager – taken from the keg.
And in this cooling interlude, enjoy a chocolate egg
Before the launch of number five: a roaring Indian curry –
And since our table's near the loo, you'll have no need to worry!
But now to take the heavy stuff: a whopping great lasagna;
However, this is rather special – a recipe from Romania!
Risotto makes the seventh course with red Italian wine,
Then you'll benefit from dessert, with chocolate mousse divine!
Oh - and afterwards a stretcher as we serve course number nine!

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009

poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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O Chocolate, My Chocolate!

O chocolate, my chocolate!
thou art truly the food of Gods
with tempting shapes and flavors
thy center a gooey warm paradise of caramel
that maketh my heart melt and brain joyous
filled with endorphins and all things nice

O chocolate, my chocolate!
Thou doeth tease me
blanketing strawberry mousse
and cherry cream
with liquor for added pleasure
giving me surprise when I sink my teeth
in thy glorious chocolateness.

O chocolate, my chocolate!
can there be any other that gives me comfort
as thou?
on a rainy dark night,
no other keeps me warm and quenched
than a warm cup of thick chocolate
to drink and to dip from

O chocolate, my chocolate!
bonbons and toffees
bars and liquid
powder and chips
doeth it matter what form you take?
like water and air
one form need not be taken
to share the happiness you bring

O chocolate, my chocolate!
from Kit-Kats to Mars bars
Twix and Snickers
Hershey's to Godiva's
to the cocoa beans that were
blended in spices by
bloodthirsty Mayans
thou has pledged and won
a place in my heart
and taste buds.

With my love,
An ardent and hungry fan.

poem by Anne Bonny
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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