Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese!

“Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese” wrote G.K. Chesterton, and I’m not about to alter the situation as I’m not a poet, but I have been known to string a rhyme or two together in the course of my hobby-turned-career.

I’ve mulled this statement over in my mind for many, many years and wondered exactly why cheese was seemingly such a taboo for the poets to do. There are so many famed, and wonderfully named varieties of cheese that I felt that, with ease, I could come up with verse that just couldn’t be worse than the typical rhymes that we hear all the time.

So here are two offerings from me. One of them is semi-autobiographical, and the other is wholly autobiographical.


A man whose abode was not roomy
Developed a taste for Haloumi
He put on such weight
That he had to vacate
For he never would say, “That’ll do me.”


I only buy my Brie
When it is close to free,
Well past its sell by date
When some would say, “too late!”
My family tends to rue
When it smells worse than blue.

Harpocrates – a Poem for Harpo Marx


 How do I love Harpo Marx?
My word, the ways are many!
(Though words can’t tell the worth of him,
Who never needed any.)

 His language was a woman’s wig,
A pocketful of pasteboard –
That coat concealed a horn, a fish,
Three hundred knives, a washboard.

 His heart revealed his love for wife,
For life, for fun, for fairness,
For family, friends, for four bless’d kids:
All full of love’s awareness –

That every noise he made was smart
And every thing he touched was art.
Groucho wept when Harpo died,
But when he played, the angels cried.

by Marjorie Cardwell

A poem for Harpo Marx


Harpo Marx of The Marx Brothers playing his favorite instrument, the harp.

When Harpo plays his harp…