Ok Bacon Nation,

By now, we hope you are all aware that Baconfest Chicago 2015 will happen on April 17-18 at the UIC Forum featuring 170 chefs from Chicago’s unrivaled restaurant scene.  All are gathering to showcase their bacon-prowess in support of our long-time charity partner:  The Greater Chicago Food Depository.

As of this writing, there are still some tickets available for the Friday and Saturday Dinner Sessions. Visit our Eventbrite ticketing page:  to get yours!

For those of you who want to WIN FREE TICKETS, here is another opportunity:

We are pleased to announce The Bacon Poetry Contest!  Submit a poem to be considered for the 2015 BEST POEM ABOUT BACON award!

What does this mean exactly?  Whatever you want it to mean.  We want to read some poems about Bacon, why you love it, why you just can’t get enough, why it haunts your dreams… you get the idea.  There are a million odes about love, but so few about Bacon.  Let’s fix that.  As we say every year:  Channel your inner Chaucer, friends, and let Bacon be your muse.

Email submissions to (one submission per e-mail address allowed).  Deadline:  Monday March 30th at 5pm.

The winner of this contest will get 2 tickets to Baconfest Chicago, compliments of the Baconfest Chicago Literary Board and the opportunity, nay obligation to read their winning poem aloud at Baconfest Chicago.   We’re ready to have our poetic minds blown.  Send us your poems!!

NOTE:  Your poems must be made available for on-line publication at – and you must grant us permission to use your poem in our forthcoming publications, ODES TO BACON volumes 1 and 2  (Baconfest Chicago Poetry Contests 2009-2015).

Finally, NO Haiku Poems are allowed unless written in Japanese like this entry from 2013:

A Japanese Bakon Haiku
© 2013 by Susan Klingman





Bēkon watashi no hontō no ai Bēkon sekai de mottomo kanpekina Sūpāfūdobēkon

bacon my true love
bacon the world’s most perfect
superfood bacon

This is THE Baconfest Poetry Contest, not some middles school writing assignment you are trying to dodge.  NO HAIKU.

Need some inspiration?  Below is a look at the winning entries from Baconfest Chicago 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013 and 2014 written by Bridget Fallon, Joel Chmara, Ryan Myers, Steve Nordin and Angela Allan.

Bacon Nation, SEND US YOUR POEMS!!

Andre Von Baconvitch

Hot Streaks
© 2010 by Bridget Fallon

It ain’t made out of turkey, that ain’t natural
Keep the poultry in the pasture lookin’ pastoral
It ain’t pounded out of tofu or dried, dyed soy
Those processed freezer strips strip away all joy
It ain’t Canadian-just gonna call that out
As one more thing to feel sorry for them about
Bacon is pork belly, crisp and cured
The best part of breakfast, rest assured
Not limited, however, to those uses
It’s nearly impossible to find abuses
Go with the gut-it never leads you astray
In cupcakes, in ice cream, in peanut satay
If your food’s in a rut, there’s always one sure way
To juice up your weary S-A-L-I-V-A
So we gather to glut our appetites today
With bacon, real bacon, in so many a way!


© 2011 by Joel Chmara

When strips of pork Godliness dance-crackle-curl on the pan,
I will be there,
puffing my chest
accepting pops of grease on my shirt
like a Deputy Ditka badge.

Garments perfumed with slight bacon splatter is no call for stain-lifter.
Nay, it simply ensures that one will carry the greatest foodstuff essence
for the rest of the day.
Take heed dear readers,
to love bacon is to carry the smokey scent with you
as an am-bad-ass-ador of the fine piggy belly brine.

I am that breed of bacon lover
spreading its virtues
as Johnny Baconseed.
Baconology mentored to friends
of how to incorporate it into every dish.
Caramelized, Hickory Smoked, Peppered, Mapeled
Sweet or Savory
Lardon or in Bits
I can baconate any menu
for the better of humankind.

When the final bite of a bacon treat
crunches in my mouth
leaving the perfect salty smoke sensation
I whisper to no one in particular,
“That’ll do pig. That’ll do.”

The Quantum Dance 
© 2012 by Ryan Myers

All a waste of my precious time.
Every minute I spend away from my porcine mistress, agony.
The experience of the human condition is merely what one must endure between bacons.
I am Schrödinger’s diner, caught in a superposition of states, always simultaneously eating bacon, and not.

I dance the pork belly ballet.

She calls to me, my pancetta princess.

She calls to me, from beyond the vegetable veil.

I hear her. I long for her salty, smoky embrace.
To live without bacon, is not to live.

I love you, bacon.

Winter vs. Bacon (WINNER of the 2013 Bacon Poetry Contest)
© 2013 by Steve Nordin

Winter in Chicago.
You know what that means.
It is so cold that the air seems to stick to your skin,
Frosting your bones, icing your blood.
Helplessly we plunge through
The windy days, the biting nights
And take comfort in what we can.
There is food. Hot food.
But there is one in particular
That offers refuge like no other.
Bacon on a cold night.
Bacon on a chilled morning.
Bacon on bread, in the middle of the day.
I bite down and my mouth fills with the warm
Smokey flavor, like boots crunching down
Through crisp fall leaves.
Suddenly the hollowed out surrounding winter
Is alive.
It is a simple solution.
A pan, a package of thick hard-wood smoked bacon,
And a plate.
That is all.
Add whatever you want
But it is the bacon that makes the meal.
It is the bacon that soothes your insides
And fills you with a satisfying warmth.
The grease will splatter
As the long fatty pieces sizzle up into browned crinkled bits.
Your hands might be slapped
By the sputtering oil.
But you know by now
That it is worth it.
Outside there is nothing but snow and wind and cold
But here, in your kitchen, things are just as they should be.

Bringin’ the Bacon Home

©  2014 by Angela Allan

A piece of bacon took a pen
To write a little poem
About the way it feels to be
Accepted, loved, at home.
At first he wrote: “I am at home
When I am on a pig.
Within its belly, near the mud
It’s quite a pleasant gig.”
The bacon paused, then crossed this out
It sounded like a lie
To act as if he felt at home
Inside a dirty sty.
And so he wrote: “There is one place
That makes me feel fantastic
It’s when I’m in a person’s fridge
Tucked into shrink-wrapped plastic.”
The bacon paused, then crossed this out
And said, “That just won’t do.
For though it rhymes quite nicely
I don’t think it’s strictly true.”
And so he wrote: “I am at home
When I am in a pan.
Sizzling hot and spitting fat
I feel like I’m the man.”
The bacon paused, then crossed this out
It didn’t sound correct.
“Who knew,” he thought, “that poems
Would be so tiresome to perfect?”
And so he wrote: “I am at home
When I am on a tongue.
Within a human mouth, I feel
Invigorated, young!
For though I die as I am chewed
I know, deep down, I should
Because I sacrifice myself
To reach a greater good.
Indeed, I am a martyr
And when eaten, I dispel
All worry, fear and tragedy
All agony and hell.
I give, for just a moment,
The experience of bliss
I am the springtime robin’s song,
The long-lost lover’s kiss.
And to those who condemn me
And declare I’m not nutritious
I say, “What’s home? More vitamins?
Nay. Home is what’s delicious.”
The bacon dropped his pen; he smiled
And said, “Now that’s a poem!”
And moments later, he was cooked
And gently taken home.