Ode on a Bowl of Oatmeal

I never did think that I would feel

toward a weekend breakfast

such profound zeal.

Each morning meal I know will last,

will warm my belly and fill my needs

for true nutrition and body fuel.

With berries blue  from fields of weeds,

friends, this is a meal, not some thin gruel!

I top it off with the seed of the walnut tree

and unrefined cane sugar, brown,

then cook with milk, I feel such glee.

When I travel I can’t wait to get back to town

to get my body back on track.

Oatmeal, oatmeal, you keep my weight loss in the black.

Yeah, I just composed a sonnet to oatmeal.  In case you lost track, it’s a Shakespearean ababcdcdefefgg form.  My iambic pentameter, however, is way out of practice.

Seriously, I look forward to my weekend oatmeal all week.  I mean, the Cheerios and frozen blueberries, I love those.  But my weekend oatmeal, man.  That’s good stuff.

I remember talking to a friend many years ago who was in the midst of kind of a crash diet.  I remarked on how excited he was about his caesar salad with plain grilled chicken.  He told me – deadpan – “You have no idea how good plain chicken tastes if  you’re starving yourself.”  To this day I don’t know if he was kidding.

I’m manifestly not starving myself, but I kind of know how he felt.  There’s no other good reason for me to be so excited about my weekend oatmeal.

Thanks for reading.  Don’t be shy about forwarding this to friends!


One response to this post.

  1. […]  Ode on a Bowl of Oatmeal  Poetry and breakfast, all rolled into one.  Call me […]


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