Topsy-Turvy

The world is topsy-turvy

And from what I can observe,

There’s so much that can unnerve me;

Every pitch thrown is a curve.

 

So much time I spend conversing

Focuses on things adverse.

In despair I keep submersing

And it just keeps getting worse.

 

Yet today, the sun is shining

And I’m feeling fit and fine,

So I’ll take a break from whining

And I’ll stick to the benign.

 

There is music, there is reading;

There are pathways to proceed

And if hope is what I’m needing,

I can find some, guaranteed.

The New Yorker

The New Yorker is having a birthday –

It’s made it to one hundred years.

With each story, cartoon, poem or essay,

It’s jump-started many careers.

 

Despite what it’s called, you can buy it

At newsstands or else go on line

And subscribe – since my brother did try it,

He gets his in the mail before mine!

 

Colorado is where he is living;

We both read it and then we discuss

All the articles that it keeps giving

To curious people like us.

 

I have some complaints – sometimes writing

Prattles on many pages too long

And most poems, instead of delighting,

Make no sense and I don’t think I’m wrong.

 

Yet I’m happy for every arrival,

With a crossword to tackle, as well,

And I hope its continued survival

Will outlast those whom truth would dispel.

Not Fancy

To tickle my fancy,

I like places plain.

From fancy environments,

I must abstain.

 

The same goes for clothing

And housewares and food.

For anything showy,

I’m not in the mood.

 

I sometimes like funky

And whimsy is cool,

But gaudy or flashy

I would overrule.

 

I don’t want things boring

Or sterile or bland,

Yet there’s lots of room

Between tepid and grand.

 

I thrive in the middle,

For deep in my gut,

I’m far from a pedigree,

More like a mutt.

Morons

At the auction house, I wandered

Through the rooms where, on display,

Were the artworks to be sold to those

Who can afford to pay.

 

One that made me laugh by Banksy,

Whose identity’s unknown,

Was a screen print titled “Morons,”

Which somebody soon will own.

 

It depicts a fancy auction,

Based on one that sold Van Gogh,

But instead of flowers in a frame,

A message lets us know:

 

“I can’t believe you morons

Really pay to buy this shit.”

(For rhythm’s sake, I’ve altered it,

But just a little bit.)

 

It will likely sell for millions;

The collectors all can thank

Banksy for his humor, as he laughs

The whole way to the bank.

What's My Line

My husband and I watch a show

Which was aired quite a long time ago –

In 1955;

(Were you even alive?)

Think of all that those folks didn’t know!

 

For a panel of four had to guess

Occupations, so they would address

Guests with questions for clues

About topics they’d choose

To be answered with “No” or with “Yes.”

 

Certain jobs were exotic back then,

Like “psychiatrist” (strictly for men)

Or a skunk-breeding guy

Or a worm raiser (why?)

Which led up to the big moment when…

 

It was time for the mystery guest,

Who would leave everybody impressed;

So the panel was masked

For, of course, they were tasked

With a name-that-celebrity quest.

 

In the days before Google and such,

Which today is a much-needed crutch,

Simple games could be played

And intelligence weighed

In a manner with which we’ve lost touch.

Between the Pauls

Between the Pauls, there were some laughs

From some with valued autographs

And glimpses of the former staffs

Of Saturday Night Live.

 

Some old routines brought up to date,

Including some just second-rate,

Performed to help to celebrate

What’s managed to survive.

 

Paul Simon started with a song

To which we all could sing along

And with a voice no longer strong,

For harmony he’d strive.

 

Sir Paul, the final singing guest,

In dapper shirt and jet-black vest,

Despite his lessened pipes, impressed,

The audience alive.

 

For fifty years of SNL,

We’ve watched careers it helped propel

And since this wasn’t a farewell,

We hope it long may thrive.

The Gulf

To visit the Gulf of America,

In case you get the notion,

You might fly over what’s now called

The Mar-a-Lago Ocean.

 

Be sure to click your seatbelt,

For when using this portation,

(The “trans” has been removed)

You’ll pass a bright red once-great nation.

 

Get your brand-new passports ready

For the agents are quite brusque

And you might just get deported

To a planet now named Musk.

 

What once was Mars is filled with

Crowds of migrants (oh, such noise!),

Lining up to use the bathrooms

Clearly labeled Girls or Boys.

 

There’s a huge arena filled with

Those with polio or mumps,

For there are no more vaccines,

Which Junior argued were for chumps.

 

While back on earth, the military

(Minus gays and gals)

Is patrolling Mar-a-Gaza,

Filled with Donald’s kiss-ass pals.

 

And in Congress, the Republicans,

With joyfulness, cavort,

Knowing that, no matter what,

They’ll have the backing of the Court.

 

For those of us remaining,

We can mutually mope

Or reclaim the Gulf of Mexico,

With just a thread of hope.