Some noises startle, jolt or jar
While others soothe or soften.
We perk up for the new but tune out
Those we hear quite often.

To locals, city sirens make
The tiniest impression
But visitors consider them
A barbarous transgression.

The hum of traffic rolling by
To urbanites equates
With cricket chirps or chickadees
In countryside debates.

The noises that surround us
Are as varied as our homes
Or the subjects and the wording
Of a plethora of poems.

I learned to type the proper way
Instead of hunt and peck,
Most often on a manual.
(Electric was high tech.)

But nowadays when texting
I’m pathetic as one comes
For I seem to be incapable
Of writing with my thumbs.

So every message I compose
My pointer finger taps,
The right one only, I should add –
No tangled overlaps.

I marvel when observing
All the mainly younger folk
As they thumb their words so quickly
While I, turtle-like, do poke.

What I enjoy might very well be
Something you despise.
The things that light me up may be
Unpleasant to your eyes.

But that’s what makes the world go round;
Variety’s the spice.
What you find unappealing
Could, to me, be paradise.

There are no rights or wrongs when you
Account for someone’s taste.
Endeavors at persuasion,
In most cases, are a waste.

It’s best for all to nod our heads,
Accepting as a fact
That what one finds repellent
May another thus attract.

It’s brilliantly sunny but blustery cold.
The branches are heartily swaying;
And though I grow older, I’m younger than old
(Though I still try to cover the graying).

There’s plenty to time left to savor the days
No matter the sky or the weather,
Though I cannot be sure if a crystal ball gaze
Might reveal myself snapped from my tether.

The future’s a question mark, there’s no debate
So I guess I should live in the now
And delight in the dance that the branches create
For as long as my time will allow.

My grandson traces in a book
To build up pencil skills.
From one car to another
Every wavy line instills

A feeling of accomplishment,
Preparing him to write.
He's like a nested fledgling
Not quite ready to take flight.

I watch him growing; with each step
That baby he replaces
And soon enough, his childhood
Will exist in merely traces.

The earth is flat. We'll never die
And unicorns exist.
Olympic athletes never cheat;
Decorum won't be missed.

The sun did shine when Donald Trump
Took office; folks all bowed
Because they formed the largest yet
Inauguration crowd.

When Colbert talked of "truthiness,"
He meant it as a joke.
When lies disguise as facts, our dreams
Will all go up in smoke.

It’s mounted in my neighborhood,
A market’s one-time lure
To coax a customer with kids
To shop inside the store.

I haven’t seen it used but once
But patiently it waits
Until it’s fed the money
That the coin slot indicates.

And then I guess the gears kick in
To simulate a ride,
Quite thrilling for the city child
Who’s happily astride.

Yet much more time’s spent frozen,
Looking lonely and forlorn,
Its fading paint a testament
To all the butts it’s borne.

A remnant from another age,
This pony was designed
To entertain the children of
An era left behind.

You see them perched in windows
Of so many types of stores
But really, they don’t blend at all
In anyone’s decors.

They range in size from tiny
To those taking lots of space,
All with the same expression – blank!
Imprinted on each face.

One waving paw moves up and down
Ad nauseam, to me,
I guess to greet the passersby
In perpetuity.

It blows my mind how such a fad
Gains traction and persists.
My hat goes off to every shop
With keeper who resists.

If I wanted a reminder
That my life is far from bad
Then I got one when I walked right by
A boy out with his dad.

He was sitting in a stroller,
Looking old for where he sat,
When his father, very gently,
Made adjustments to his hat.

It was then that I took notice,
With the parent’s tender care,
That, most likely, chemo had deprived
The boy of any hair.

How can I complain of problems
When confronted with such grief?
From another man’s perspective,
We face ours with much relief.