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!

Once in a while I wish I could dial
The day back to right where it started.
I’d then reconcile with things that did rile
And left me despondently-hearted.

It isn’t the norm but some days just swarm
With episodes rank and annoying
And in such a storm, it’s hard to transform
A dejection into something buoying.

Still, all things must pass and greener the grass
We will spot on our side of the fences.
We’ll relinquish the crass and begin, smooth as glass,
With a fresh start when morning commences.

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.

Anyone can write a poem
And think that it’s fantastic
Though often others may be slightly
Less enthusiastic.

For inner critics sometimes fail
To note that something’s missing
And few admit their efforts
Might, in fact, be worth dismissing.

And so the world is filled with poems,
Most internet-inspired,
Where talent is an asset
Neither looked-for nor required.

Of course, since I am one who writes,
You may think I’ve concluded
That I’m just like all the others
But then you would be deluded!

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

Today the Queen of Soul has passed
And all the fans she has amassed
Feel saddened by this latest news,
Since she was one we hate to lose.

As listeners, we did rejoice
When hearing her distinctive voice
And she's the person, I suspect,
We think of with the word "Respect."

For R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Shouted out, we'd all agree,
Says it all, what we all need
In life, in order to succeed.

Aretha sang it loud and strong.
She made an anthem of that song
And no one has improved it yet;
In tribute, we will not forget.

We took a risk; it worked out fine
But not without some stressing,
For everything in life requires
A fair amount of guessing.

Without such chances, we remain
Upon an even keel,
A little bored, perhaps, but hey,
Quite safe – that’s the appeal.

I’m usually risk-averse
But sometimes I get shaken
From my comfort zone and afterwards,
Feel glad it was forsaken.

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.

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.

We get there with the kids asleep,
Too early for the sun.
We have some coffee quietly,
To not wake anyone.

When Hadley wakes, my husband goes
To scoop her if she cries.
I hear her giggle with delight
From tickles he supplies.

But Henry, ever since the time
He moved into a bed,
Gets up and lifts the shades to greet
The day that lies ahead.

He flips the light switch, turns the ****
And opens up his door,
Then sits himself right by the stairs
Upon the hallway floor.

He knows on Fridays I’ll be there
But doesn’t make a sound,
Just sits and waits most patiently
Until I come around.

Of course, I listen carefully
To hear a telltale clue,
So he’s not waiting long before
We both come into view.

His face lights up and so does mine;
I scamper up the stairs.
We share a great big hug-a-mug;
Nothing else compares.

The time will come, as Henry grows,
And much to my regret,
That he will tire of this routine
Though I will not forget.

Yesterday I was in Rome,
The end of a vacation.
Today, though, I awoke at home,
All thanks to aviation.

I tracked my flight upon the map,
The little arrow moving
And didn’t take a single nap,
The choice of films improving.

They served two meals, a snack as well,
Plus drinks for our imbibing.
The hours slipped by, as you can tell
From what I’ve been describing.

The flight was smooth, the hassles few;
No turbulence or rocking,
Though sure enough, and right on cue,
Some jet lag’s come a’knocking.

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.

Berlin's a place that contradicts -
It's vibrant, but it's haunting,
The paradigm of hipness, with
A history most daunting.

The damage done in World War II
Reduced it to a rubble
And then the famous wall went up,
Which led to years of trouble.

You can't forget (and never should)
The **** reign of terror.
Memorials abound atoning
For that awful era.

Yet everything has been restored.
You won't see ancient buildings,
But modern takes of what was lost,
Replete with domes and gildings.

This is a city worth a trip,
With coolness overriding,
Defiant that to all the world
Its past will not be hiding.

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!

A terrorist’s a criminal and also a fanatic
Who gets his kicks by killing and creating quite a panic.
His hatred makes him dangerous but fear’s his only goal
And crowded places let him play a tragic leading role.

Our president, in his attempts to be a tough accuser,
Must think he sounds impressive with the label “evil loser”
But loser is an epithet from junior high school days
And such a term deserves derision, though he’d longed for praise.

The world will turn to leaders in a horrible event
In hopes that their response will calm things down and thus prevent
More dread and malice from their ranks, with words that will inspire,
Yet “loser” is the best to which our ruler can aspire.

Some folks follow all the rules;
Others like to bend 'em,
Feeling like it's only fools
Who staunchly would defend 'em.

Which way that you lean begins
When you're just out of diapers.
Followers fear that their sins
Will make them pay the pipers.

Benders, though, might get a rush
From tempting fate and winning,
Even if they have a brush
With blame at the beginning.

We each know where we belong
When rules are in our faces
And since we all hate being wrong,
We never will change places.

Going to a wedding -
We will watch them tie the knot.
It’s nice to know that younger folk
Still give this thing a shot.

I’ll get myself all gussied up
(That word is proof I’m old),
Although I’m not the dress-up type
Most times, if truth be told.

The ceremony’s out of doors,
A garden the location
And then we’ll head inside to dine
And dance in celebration.

Originally weathermen
Predicted it would rain.
The sun decided otherwise,
The worries all in vain.

I’m sure it will be lovely
But the main thing that I think
Is, with all the preparation,
It’s all over in a blink.

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

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.

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!

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.

Overheard outside the store,
Mother to her son,
"If it ain't a dollar..."
That's the sentence she'd begun.

You can figure out the rest,
Knowing what would fit -
"If it ain't a dollar, well,
Then you're not gettin' it."

Was the kid upset? No way;
He'd heard that line before.
He shrugged and went to check it out
Inside the dollar store.

I guess in this economy,
There'd be no risk in bettin'
That many things for lots of bucks
A lot of kids ain't gettin'.

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.

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

While on the bus, he tapped my arm
And asked me for a pen.
I gave him one and realized
I would not see it again.

He looked to be a homeless guy;
The pen was old and cheap
And had he asked, I would have
Told him it was his to keep.

A few stops later, pen in hand,
He found another seat
And never glanced my way again,
Our interchange complete.

I don’t give coins or dollars
When a beggar makes a plea
But the pen request resounded
With the writing part of me.

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!

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!

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.

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.”

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.

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

Oh, trusty eraser,
You error replacer,
I thank you for clearing the way,
Preventing disgrace
When I cannot embrace
Words I’ve chosen which do not hold sway.

Just one swipe of your being
Gives way to me seeing
A blank where a blunder has been
So I’m once again free
To discover the key
Which will help me again to begin.

On computers, “delete”
Is a method discreet
To remove words that don’t make the grade
But eraser, you meet
All my needs as you greet
What my pencil has wrongly displayed.

Oh, to be a person who
Stays cool, calm and collected,
Instead of one whose jangly nerves
Has stressing-out perfected.

To be the one who never sweats,
Whose heart won’t race on faster,
Anticipating something wrong,
From trifle to disaster.

I’d like to feel relaxed and not
Stretched taut with fret and worry
And take my time without the need
To feel that I must hurry.

To rationally make a choice
And never second guess it;
To analyze a situation,
With no need to stress it.

Oh, to be that person!
What a joy that it would be!
The only drawback is, of course,
That it would not be me!

Plan on online purchase?
Well, just click on the reviews.
It helps to hear what people say –
What have you got to lose?

Your mind, perhaps, for you’ll find out
Opinions vary widely,
From those described most glowingly
To others penned most snidely.

The bar graph gives percentages
Of how the ratings fare
So follow the conclusions
Or reject them, if you dare.

For everyone’s impressions
Will be different and distinct
And those who thus ignore them
Will be very soon extinct.

Here’s to the mothers who sit there alone –
No flowers, no candy, no calls on the phone.
Here’s to the moms in a hospital bed
Who would rather be anyplace other instead.

Here’s to the soldier moms, hoping for smiles
On a screen or an I-phone, connecting the miles.
Here’s to the mamas locked up in a jail,
Convinced that their cards just got lost in the mail.

Here’s to all mothers and nanas and aunts
United today by just one circumstance –
They have shared in the life of a child in some way
And deserve recognition, somehow, on this day.

In Hamlet’s famed soliloquy,
“To be or” (maybe) “not to be,”
He questions life – is taking breath
A better deal than choosing death?

Another quote, among a slew,
Is this: “To thine own self be true,”
A brilliant and perceptive thought
Which few obey, though most are taught.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on”
Actors cry on stages played on,
Which refers to both the play
And also to our lives each day.

Some Shakespeare gems to celebrate
His birthday, which was on this date.
Though some believe that’s all a sham,
I don’t! Am I a fan? Iamb!

Here’s a start: a candy heart
Or long-stemmed bright-red roses;
Lingerie, to make her day
Romantic, one supposes.

Not too hard to find a card
With sentimental saying.
For a treat, go out to eat
(And naturally, you’re paying).

Better yet, go into debt
And buy a sparkly trinket.
Dim the lights, so appetites
Include champagne – then drink it.

Or, don’t fuss and be like us –
With years of love behind us,
We’ve agreed, we do not need
A token to remind us.

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.

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.

Outside the confines of our homes
The world just barrels by.
Events from news reports
Are far away and don’t apply.

We watch them from our bubbles,
Witness sorrow and despair.
The sadness fills the screen
But we are here and that is there.

Unless, of course, we’re visiting
Or living in the place
Where destruction, death and anguish
Have descended, face to face.

Only then are we reminded
That, though victims may be reeling,
Not a soul who isn’t in it
Can imagine what they’re feeling.

Two penguin parents and their chick
Are bringing people ‘round
To ogle at their lifestyle
And the happiness they’ve found.

Australians are delighted
At the airing of this tale
For the parents, Sphen and Magic,
Are both penguins who are male.

Their obvious affection
Led their keepers to decide
To entrust them with an egg
Neglectful parents did provide.

They built a nest and alternated
Sitting ‘til it hatched,
Each spending near a month, a time
No other penguins matched.

Though humans often battle
Over whether gays should wed,
They should look to Sphen and Magic,
Seeing what their love has bred.

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.