A building used to stand where now
A vacant lot exists,
Each scattered brick a remnant
Of the past that still persists.

Inhabitants were once ensconced
Within the phantom walls,
Who climbed the stairs each day and
Trudged along in dim-lit halls.

Aromas of assorted meals
Would waft from twice-locked doors,
Occasionally drifting
Up and down to different floors.

The blare of old-time TV shows
Would mingle with the noise
Of conversations or the thumps
Of raucous girls and boys.

But all is still and quiet now;
The vacant lot’s been sapped
Of all the lives that it once held,
Their joys and worries scrapped.

It bides its time, for very soon
Construction will begin
And walls will rise exactly where
The former ones have been.

I am a curled up comma
When I sleep, so give me pause.
I’m sentenced to insomnia
Which grips me in its clause.

I’m subject to a poor night’s rest;
That’s predicated on
The fact that I have tossed and turned
Each night that’s come and gone.

Don’t question if I’m in control
Or I’ll get out of joint
And answer very forcefully
With exclamation point.

The night’s a restless period
And though I barely sleep,
My colon and its semi-friends
My secrets somehow keep.

Sitting on a shady bench,
I watch the people pass -
Every shape and color,
Strolling sweatily en masse.

Shirtless daddies, many fat,
With bellies hanging out,
Arms and legs and backs tattooed
(And other parts, no doubt).

Moms deciding where to go,
Cajoling tots in line;
Babies, toddlers, school-age kids
In every stage of whine.

Heat pours down and patience frays.
Wait! Here's a parade.
Cookie Monster, Ernie, Bert
And Oscar make the grade.

Then it's back to water slides
And one more carousel.
Squeals and shrieks of joy erupt -
It's fun! (or can't you tell?)

Hungry! Thirsty! Feed me now!
Nacho stand is closed.
See the stress within the smiles
Of pictures poorly posed.

Still, the fam's together
And we're mostly having fun.
I check my watch - 6 hours left
Until this day is done.

This is how you write a poem:
Let your feelings flow.
Follow what your mind pours out
Wherever it may go.

Choose your words most carefully;
Try to not repeat.
Watch the rhythm but don't fret
About iambic feet.

Rhyme if rhyme is what you love
Though dangers sometimes lurk;
If your rhyming words sound forced
Your poem will just not work.

Anyone can write a poem;
Trying has no cost
But reality assures
We're not all Robert Frost.

My husband bought some skinny jeans,
The kind **** Jagger’d wear,
Which cling real tight from ankle
To the thigh and derriere.

They came today, from Amazon;
He couldn’t wait to try them,
Especially to prove me wrong.
(I’d told him not to buy them.)

I must admit that they look great
And so I couldn’t scoff
But it was pretty funny
When he tried to take them off.

It took a few attempts with lots of
Tugs and yanks and wiggles,
Providing me with quite a bout
Of told-you-so-type giggles.

I’m sure to him he’ll get rewards
In compliments a’plenty,
But he would have it easier
If he were more like 20!

Obama makes a speech and earns
Four hundred thousand bucks.
Of course he is entitled but
The whole world sighs and clucks.

I frankly don’t think anyone
Deserves that kind of dough
But obviously that’s the rate
For people in the know.

It saddens me a little bit
For such a fee seems greedy,
Especially for someone who
Once championed the needy.

Ideally he should give his talk,
Accepting what they pay,
Then find a worthy charity
And give it all away.

I’m riding the subway (the 4)
Where you never know what is in store.
A character stood
Ranting loudly he should
Have a seat, which I tried to ignore.

His ravings got louder until
Someone rose to accede to his will.
Though he sat with a plop
His harangue didn’t stop
And we passengers’d all had our fill.

But the woman who sat to his right
Started cursing with all of her might,
Saying either he’d quit
Or she’d have such a fit
That she’d slice him to bits in a fight.

A Samaritan did intercede
So we never saw anyone bleed.
When the doors opened wide
He stepped quickly outside
With the ranter, a very cool deed.

The female, though, kept up her shtick;
Her anger was what made her tick.
I questioned the stars
Thinking, with all these cars,
Why was this one the one I did pick?

We teach our children not to stare
But human nature bests us
For seeing someone not the norm,
Despite our efforts, tests us.

The wheelchair-bound, the little folk,
The scarred and the tattooed;
To all who differ from the rest,
Our eyes get drawn and glued.

Of course, we quickly turn away
(Except the rude, who don’t)
But even just that little glance
Reminds us that we won’t

Be able, from our fragile perch
Upon the status quo,
To understand how life must feel
When people view you so.