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.

You need some gas? We'll, step right up
And pump it 'til you've had your fill
Unless you're in New Jersey, where
You best make sure you know the drill.

For it's the last remaining state
Where pumping gas is not allowed
Except for paid attendants and
Of this New Jerseyans are proud.

So even if you're in a rush,
You must sit in your car and wait
Until a service station guy
Can bother to accommodate.

And if you try to speed him up,
You'd better learn to zip your lip,
For then he'll wash your windshield,
Slowly, hoping to procure a tip.

When questioned why this law exists,
Which out-of-towners do detest,
A local politician said,
And I can just assume in jest:

Perhaps our Jersey diet
Full of greasy food's to blame;
Therefore, if we pump the gas ourselves,
We'll burst right into flame!

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.

Other poets write of love
Or beauty, anguish, death;
Of yearning, angst or pity
Tangled up in every breath.

Other poets use their words
As weapons or as shields,
Gauging by reactions
All the power writing yields.

Other poets elevate
Their subjects way up high,
Seeking truth or explanations,
Answers to their aching “Why?”

I, though, on the other hand,
Just write what I observe –
The daily challenges in life
We do or don’t deserve.

Other poets’ lofty thoughts
May, more than mine, be read,
But I’ll continue rhyming
Like I always do, instead.

I wonder, as we near the 4th of July,
If the British take note, with a sonorous sigh,
Regretting the fact of the colonies lost
All those long years ago at a terrible cost.

In light of political forces today,
I think it’s more likely that what they would say
Is, “Whew! We were lucky we cut off those ties
And we thought that their accents were all to despise!”

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.

The railroad ride was smooth as silk
Though it was ten degrees.
The train was just a minute late –
No time to feel the freeze.

We passed through towns of snow-topped homes
While sitting warm and snug,
The ticket taker’s attitude
As friendly as a hug.

But at Grand Central, we got off
And had to make a switch
To ride the city subway;
Let’s enumerate each glitch:

The crowded platform packed with people
Cursing the delays;
The trash-strewn tracks accruing more
On which the rats will graze.

Announcements stating that all trains
Are locals, not express;
Yet finally, we cram on board
As all those bodies press.

We go one stop and then the doors
On certain cars won’t close.
We’re ordered off and stumble out –
Well, that’s the way it goes.

We grab a cab and make it home
And think of those two trains –
Whatever calm the rail provides,
The subway quickly drains.

I like a peanut with a shell,
A cherry with a stem;
A church clock with a tolling bell,
A crown that's all a'gem.

I like my coffee steaming hot,
My bottled beer ice-cold;
A sharpened pencil set to jot,
An anecdote well-told.

I like a bed that's neatly made,
A day when breezes blow.
A tree with leaves providing shade,
A place where flowers grow.

I like to see a flock of sheep,
To hear a tinkling chime;
And most of all, I like to keep
My thoughts lined up in rhyme.

Number 261* ran a pretty good race.
Though she couldn’t have won it, she set a fine pace.
Her hat hid her hair but if you’d seen her face
You’d have realized she wasn’t a guy.

The year – ’67, a marathon run
In Boston, and soon after it’d begun
Officials decided her racing was done
And her gender the answer to “Why?”

For the course was for men; anyone called “her”
Had to skip it or hide who they really were.
K.V. Switzer she signed as, so they’d infer
That a male was the one to apply.

She resisted attempts to drag her away
And completed those miles, ignoring the fray.
Yet it took 5 more years, quite a lengthy delay,
‘Til the rule-makers had to comply.

Now at 70, Switzer, still true to form,
Ran in Boston, to welcomes both loud and warm.
Her gutsiness once took the world by storm
And her triumph no one can deny.

*Kathrine Switzer’s Boston Marathon number
  in both the 1967 and 2017 races

Nestled 'neath an overpass
A homeless guy camps out.
I pass his tent each morning
On my exercising route.

He has a lovely river view
And has no rent to pay,
Although it isn't quite the place
Where I would like to stay.

I rarely see him, but today,
Unfortunate for me,
I caught him as he emptied out
His half-full jug of ***.

If ever you are tempted
To enjoy a river swim,
Heed my advice and find
Another venue for your whim.

This river's reputation
(Not a great one) stays intact
With this daily contribution
From a urinary tract!

Watch the rock and rollers
With their bellies and their wigs,
Playing songs performed at
Oh-so-many early gigs.

The keyboards and guitars still sound
Real good, though maybe slower
Yet their voices simply cannot reach
The high range or the lower.

Blown-up photos from the past,
Not meaning to, are mocking
Their current selves who do their best
To do their roll and rocking.

The audience, all old as well,
Belt out, with zeal and passion,
The lyrics they remember
From when tie-dye was in fashion.

The music bubbles in my blood;
I watch and I’m transported,
But find it sad attempts to bring
The past to life are thwarted.

*Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

The Justices are back to nine
According to the planned design.
It should have happened months before
But those in power slammed that door.

So now we’ll have to wait and see
For there is just no guarantee
When hearing from the nine Supremes
That what is real is what it seems.

Things may turn out as we believed
Or maybe we will be relieved.
In any case, the deal is done;
A brand-new era has begun.

While waiting for my MRI
And nervous, I will not deny,
The techies then guessed
That a music request
Might calm me, so I did comply.

I naturally chose rock & roll
Since being absorbed was my goal.
With my eyes tightly closed
All the words, I supposed,
Would keep butterflies under control.

So the clanging began, as it must
But the music helped, as we’d discussed
Though the very first song
Made my panic prolong –
Queen’s “Another One (me!) Bites the Dust.”

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.

If Washington came back to life
I wonder how he’d feel
To be pictured on a quarter
And a dollar bill – surreal!

Abe Lincoln, too, would bust a gut
If he became alive,
To see his visage plastered
On a penny and a five.

And Alexander Hamilton,
If he could live again,
Would love the play about him
And his picture on the ten.

Had Andrew Jackson ditched his grave,
He’d likely argue plenty
About his image front and center
On our nation’s twenty.

Ben Franklin, though, would be real proud
If he came back to earth,
To find out that a hundred dollar bill
Proclaims his worth.

McKinley’s portrait graces
Money that we rarely use.
(I’ve never even seen that bill –
Five hundred smackeroos!)

Poor Jefferson, despite his wealth
And all he got to do,
Unfortunately got his mug
On the elusive two!

The pictures on our currency
Have long been set in place.
Thank goodness or our current prez
Would swap ‘em for his face.

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.

When traveling, the lives I see
Are different from my own,
The choices made unlike the ones
That I have ever known.

It's really not a question of
What's better or what's worse,
Though if you questioned others,
They might answer the reverse.

To me, I think our journeys,
Whether minuscule or long,
Encourage us to gravitate
To where we best belong.

So when I'm someplace else I note
The lovely things I see,
But know the lifestyle that I chose
Works perfectly for me.

I wish that I could just erase
The lines and wrinkles on my face
And also all that sagging skin
That proves which decade I am in.

When women crow, so smug with pride,
About their age, which they won’t hide,
I think, “Yeah, right! I’m really sold
On how much you like looking old!”

I won’t get face-lift surgery
And it would not be perjury
To say that Botox ain’t my thing,
Despite the smoothness it would bring.

So I will bear my aging mien,
Accepting that the senior scene
Is where, at my age, I must be,
But I’d prefer it mirror-free!

In London, the crowds got to swoon
At a 20-foot orange balloon
Of a baby, quite plump,
Looking very like Trump
As he often appears – a buffoon.

His huge mouth is agape with a scream,
Surely spouting a foul-sounding theme
And his little hand grasps
What inspires some gasps –
That’s his phone, with its Twitter-type stream.

So the “welcome” the planners conceived
And that Londoners thereby achieved
Was a slap in the face
Bringing Donald disgrace
And the chance to see how he’s perceived.

Right before a suicide
Might something have been said
To keep that person on this side
Of life, instead of dead?

We hear about the famous ones
Who seemed to have it made,
Yet even they succumbed despite
The talents they displayed.

Inside each person’s head there is
A privileged domain
Which holds a private treasury
Of suffering and pain.

I guess that when it overflows
Its owner cannot cope
And suicide is what takes place
When anguish crushes hope.

The corner store across the street
Was known for all its cuts of meat
But also it sold milk and bread
And other things you’d need instead.

On Friday mornings folks would flock
To sit on chairs among the stock
To hear the music on guitar
Of Uncle Junior (TV star).

The owner’s lived at my address
For more than forty years, I’d guess.
As neighbors we would nod and chat
Of Yankee games and this and that.

Today, in shock, while walking by,
An empty storefront met my eye.
I’d heard the rent went through the roof
And there before me was the proof.

Though times must change, it makes me sad
When touchstones that we’ve always had
Just disappear and are no more;
Farewell, my friendly corner store!

Sometimes an image just sticks in your mind;
Try as you might you can’t leave it behind.
One I’ll relate didn’t happen to me
But hearing about it sufficed, as you’ll see.

A colleague of mine who had students in need
Sometimes paid a home visit to get up to speed,
For meeting the parents at home would provide
Information that they might be tempted to hide.

On one such occasion, who came to the door
Was the mother, whom he’d not encountered before.
She loomed there, obese, very much in command,
With a full stick of butter she clutched in her hand.

“Come in,” she insisted, and seemed quite at ease
Though what happened next near brought my friend to his knees.
It wasn’t the home’s disrepair, but the sight
Of that mom with her butter stick, taking a bite.

Whatever he thought of the mom and her kid
Doesn’t matter today, but I’ll never be rid
Of that image – the mother, the butter, the chew
And I’ll bet now that picture will stick with you, too.

Hey, Scott Pruitt!
We all knew it
Soon would come to this.

Rumors flew; it
Seemed you blew it.
Truth you would dismiss.

Anger’d brew; it
Looked like, “***** it!”
Were the words you’d hiss.

You’d pooh-pooh it
As on view it
Seemed you were amiss.

How’d you do it?
Breeze right through it,
Seemingly in bliss?

Well, Scott Pruitt,
Now boo-hoo it!
You we will not miss!

Trump’s head of the EPA

At Newark Airport, Christie* tried
A quicker way to get inside,
Expecting they would let him slide;
Alas, though, entrance was denied.

The V.I.P. line he’d once used,
When cockiness from him just oozed,
Was blocked by police, but Christie mused
That he was just a bit confused.

For when the “mighty” tumble from
The lofty place from which they’ve come,
To our derision they succumb;
And sympathy? Not one small crumb.

*the former governor of New Jersey

The blood that’s coursing through our veins
We see in random drops,
But most of it flows on its paths
Until the day it stops.

The neurons firing in our brains
Send information on,
Accomplishing their duties
‘Til the moment we are gone.

The muscles that each bone sustains
Enable us to move,
Though as we age, they slow things down,
With nothing left to prove.

The organs, set in their domains,
Perform without a pause.
They pump and filter, that despite
The damage that we cause.

Our bodies work through stress and strains
Without our even knowing
And when we die we never pay
The debt to them we’re owing.

Which train will come, I’ll try to guess
But that won’t really help my stress.
It’s building up as crowds surround
Creating quite the urban mess.

The tourists all must think we’re nuts
To cram on platforms where such gluts
Of humans stream without an end
To pack so tight we’re touching butts.

Announcements say the train is near.
We crane our necks; no lights appear.
Then suddenly the rumble sounds
Of braking by the engineer.

The subway’s stuffy, cramped and late.
It does its best to aggravate
But all that we can do is wait
And that is what we do; we wait.

(apologies to Robert Frost)

The tix are free so people wait
For hours, sitting on the grass,
But we are old; to compensate
There is a bench to plop one’s ***.

By half-past eight, the benches filled,
The ticket-seekers settle in
While late arrivals, not too thrilled,
Allow the side-show to begin.

They make us move so they can squeeze
Their bodies on a proper seat,
Without the courtesy of “Please”
(Ticked-off, no doubt, at their defeat).

A flutist sets his stand and plays;
A grouchy woman bids him cease.
He grumbles when nobody pays,
His music, though, a sweet release.

The conversations ebb and flow.
We people watch (the pickings fine).
I bond with folks I do not know;
That happens on the senior line.

The hours pass; we get our tix.
We’ll meet again when it gets dark
To share in summer’s yearly fix
Of seeing Shakespeare in the Park.

This poem doesn’t want to get written.
It’s fighting with all that it’s got.
Apostrophes, commas,
Their daddies and mamas
Are joining to give it a shot.

I’m dragging each word that’s resisting
And plunking it down on the page.
So every letter
I’ve forced, with a fetter,
To take its place up on the stage.

This poem didn’t want to get written.
Its protests were ***** and loud
But the pencil I wield
Made hostilities yield
For the poet’s compulsion’s unbowed.

Dear United, tell me why
You will not let my peacock fly.
I’m really quite a worry wart
And Dexter gives me such support.

He also can do double duty
Gracing others with his beauty
When, because he is a male,
He spreads his most amazing tail.

It isn’t true, as some have said,
That if he’s spooked, his feathers shed
Or that he might get in the way
Of drinks you’re serving on a tray.

Now peacocks really are unique
And if we could hear Dexter speak
I’m sure that he would plead his case
And your concerns he’d thus erase.

However, if you don’t concede
To give me what I surely need,
My other pet can fit in coach –
It’s Fred, my hissing cockaroach!

a little poetic license on the spelling

A movie’s like a novel
With a vista to explore
Which, assuming it’s a good one,
Leaves you wanting even more.

Yet I’ve recently discovered
Something else that quite transports –
It’s a genre that at film fests
Is referred to as “the shorts.”

Several films are shown together
For an hour and a half,
An assemblage that’s so varied
You may cry or scream or laugh.

Every subject matter’s different;
All the settings are, as well
And each film’s uniqueness feels
Like the director’s cast a spell.

Yet just like a full-length feature,
Each short gem seems quite complete
And, when viewed as a collection,
It’s a cinematic treat.

You’re teaching a class
And in someone barges.
You want to protect
Both yourself and your charges.

So what do you do?
Grab your bucket of stones
And soon the intruder’s
A bucket of bones.

Your students can help
If they each grab a rock,
Assuming they aren’t
Immobile with shock.

Just think how effective
Such tactics can be!
We all can join in
On a stone-throwing spree!

Of course, if the trespasser’s
Wielding a gun,
The pupils (and you)
Might be tempted to run.

For certainly studies
(Most likely) have shown
A bullet’s more lethal
Than any thrown-stone.

And let’s not forget
There’s a lot here at stake.
An innocent guest
Could be ****** by mistake.

This foolish idea
A school district condoned.
Makes me wonder if they
Were in other ways ******.

Where we live and what we do
Are choices made without a clue
If we will thrive at home or work;
We cannot know what problems lurk.

Decisions made when we are young,
Some based on plans to which we’ve clung,
May work out just the way we’d hoped
Despite some pitfalls never scoped.

Yet other picks may not pan out
And leave us filled with dread or doubt.
Of those selections, most will curse them;
It takes courage to reverse them.

Age makes hindsight crystal clear
So regrets may thus appear,
But since magic we do lack,
There simply is no going back.

An Op-Ed in The New York Times,
Anonymously printed,
States that the White House mood is worse
Than what the press has hinted.

The President’s “amoral,”
And “erratic,” it declares,
With “ill-informed decisions”
Catching staffers unawares.

The author, an official
In the Trump administration,
Is hoping that what he reveals
Will jolt awake the nation.

Asserting he and others
Are resisting from within,
He wants the world to know
That what he claims is not just spin.

The President is seething now
With Tweeting calls of “Treason?”
Denouncing, too, The Times, for holding
Names back for no reason.

As speculation builds, so many
Choices would make sense.
There’s even talk the writer
May be Trump’s VP – Mike Pence.

Whoever wrote the piece, though,
Is a brave and daring soul
And hopefully, he’ll shake
Some people up, which was his goal.

A cart selling hot dogs and such
Was suddenly sharp to the touch
Because thousands of bees,
Eschewing Chinese,
Thought a frank they would like very much.

They swarmed to the top of the stand
So a cop, likely one in command,
Ordered all off the street
So the bees could retreat
But that’s not what the stingers had planned.

Thus an officer, bee-suit attired,
Soon appeared with the tool he required
And his vacuum did ****
All the bees it could pluck
With finesse that onlookers admired.

New Yorkers find stuff like this funny
And likely would bet even money
That soon that same cart,
If its owner is smart,
Would be selling you hot dogs with honey!

I watch the morning people
Freshly showered and caffeined
As they head into their day
While somewhere all the fates convened…

Deciding who would sink or swim
Or who would rise above,
Whose health or job would suffer
Or who’d find that one true love.

Each daybreak holds such promise
But as hours tick away,
We realize most of life takes place
Where we have zero sway.

I watch the evening people
Trudging slowly home from work.
There they’ll prep to face tomorrow
Where the fates already lurk.

I’m at a loss
Why Betsy DeVos
Wants money for weapons in school.
Though she is the boss
Her thoughts come across
As those (to my ears) of a fool.

For federal cash
From Congress’ stash
Is meant more for teachers and books
And guns seem to clash
With the aim of that cache,
Which should be out of reach of her hooks.

I yearn for the days
When such folly would raise
More than eyebrows in government halls,
But today there is praise
For this armament craze
And we watch as normality falls.

The year now ebbs; the clock goes tick
And I’m at home and feeling sick
So even though it’s New Year’s Eve,
There is no party up my sleeve.

We were invited to a bash
But sometimes, quicker than a flash,
Your plans go ****! and you are stuck
Out of the loop and out of luck.

I’m sure the party will be fun
And I’ll miss seeing everyone
Though I’ll veg out on “Twilight Zone”
And thankfully, won’t be alone.

For as these final hours do creep,
My hub and I will fall asleep
And maybe wake up when we hear
The countdown to the brand-new year.

Yet even if we miss the toast,
We’ll have what really matters most –
Each other and our friends and kin
To welcome 20-18 in!

You’re out to stroll or on a bike,
A lovely day, a sky of blue,
When suddenly, a terror strike
And sadly, that’s the end of you.

We hear the news; we’re stunned and shocked.
The TV shows the blurry tape.
The perpetrator’s plan, half-cocked,
Did not allow him to escape.

Investigations start, but still,
The wounded ache, the dead are gone.
We’re horrified, but know the drill –
We move along and carry on.

She stands there in knickers,
A cap on her head,
Looking tomboyish, truant and tough
And a cigarette dangles
From unsmiling lips
To warn all she’s not taking their guff.

It’s a sepia snapshot,
The 20’s, I’d guess,
The photographer long in his grave,
But the girl is my grandmother
Though I’ll admit
It’s an image she’d choose not to save.

All the years that I knew her,
So quiet and prim,
Don’t quite match with the face in the frame.
That’s the reason I treasure
This photo of old,
‘Cause both Jennys were one and the same.