Lint

There are things in life that are
Mysterious to me.
Maybe they'd be clearer
If I had a PhD.

One involves the laundry
So I'll give a little hint -
Won't someone explain to me
The origin of lint?

Clothes come from the washer
And the dryer claims them next.
Nothing's hanging off of them,
So I am quite perplexed.

For when they're done, I clean the trap
Where lint is piled up high.
That stuff has somehow formed
Between the wet stage and the dry.

If there's a person out there
With an answer to my query,
I think that explanation may
Just rival Einstein's theory!

March Madness

There is some truth that madness
Has presided over March,
Though I’m not talking basketball,
Still full of pep and starch.

No, what I am referring to
Is, like a failed exam,
The fact that March forgot
To exit like a little lamb.

We all know what the adage says
And so I was relyin’
On March beginning, as it should,
Like some ferocious lion.

Instead, it tiptoed quietly
And lulled me to believe
That it would stay that way
With nothing hiding up its sleeve.

But now some freezing temperatures
And snow! are on the way.
It’s mean to treat the flowers thus,
So newly on display.

I guess we shouldn’t trust in sayings
Blurted by old wives.
Our senses will alert us
When the proper time arrives.

Go Fly a Kite

This is the season
For flying a kite.
Succumb to the wind
And indulge in delight.

Release enough string
So it rises with ease
And watch how it dances
And dips in the breeze.

With tail all a’flutter,
It tugs at its tether
To frolic with glee
In this blustery weather.

I don’t understand
In the midst of a fight,
Why someone will tell you
To go fly a kite.

It’s meant as an insult,
To vex and annoy,
But kite-flying always
Engenders such joy.

I guess some expressions
Fall far out of style,
For flying a kite
Is a path to a smile.

Smartphone

My husband has a smartphone,
As do many of my friends.
They fiddle with their apps;
What they can learn just never ends.

A subway stop? The weather?
The location of a store?
The range of possibilities
Just leaves you wanting more.

Pictures of the grandkids?
Here’s a gallery to view.
Ding! There’s a reminder
That your dental visit’s due.

Check your e-mail, send a text,
Thumb a Twitter tweet.
Use your smartphone all the time
To make your day complete.

We’ll all have smartphones someday
But until that day has come,
I’ll be left out in the cold because
The phone I have is dumb!

A Tugboat Named Mary

A tugboat named Mary
Was towing a barge.
The tugger was little;
The tuggee was large.

They glided on past
As the sun hit the river,
With engines a’chugging,
A load to deliver.

I marveled at Mary,
So cool and in charge,
Using all of her might
Just for hauling that barge.

It doesn’t much matter,
I’m sure you’ll agree,
If the strength and the stamina
Stem from a “she.”

Proud Mary is out there
To prove without fail
That for fortitude, one
Doesn’t have to be male!

I'll Never

I’ll never get to Africa
Or China or Peru;
And climbing up Mt. Everest
Is something I won’t do.

I’ll never surf or skydive
Or ascend in a balloon.
I do not plan to water ski
Or clamber up a dune.

I’ll never buy a fancy car
Or splurge on jewels or gold.
I will not get a facelift,
Though its virtues are extolled.

I’ll never ride a river raft
Or take an ocean cruise.
My time on earth is limited;
I’m careful what I choose.

I’ll never do a lot of things
That others find appealing.
We each have limits and we must
Respect each wall and ceiling.

I’ll never be the person
That I sometimes wish I’d be;
But underneath it all, I guess
I’m happy to be me.

Nature's Rewards

I planted bulbs in autumn
And buried them real deep,
Where they remained all winter,
In hibernating sleep.

They slipped my mind completely
As leaves fell from the trees,
And Nature brought her changes,
To varying degrees.

A wave of warmth descended
To usher in the spring,
Erasing winter’s palette,
Replacing it with zing.

And right where I’d been digging,
The result of which I’d doubted,
A burst of yellow let me know
My daffodils had sprouted!

Who knew back in October
When I scooped that rock-filled soil
That I’d reap a splash of color
As the payment for my toil?

Nature is mysterious,
A trickster in disguise.
It’s lovely when our efforts
Are rewarded with a prize.

Stolen Bouquet

Early morning in the park,
I see a woman leaving.
What she’s clutching in her hand,
I’m not quite believing.

A lovely bunch of flowers,
Colored purple, yellow, pink:
Some daffodils and others,
Maybe hyacinths, I think.

She’d obviously picked them
From the gardens newly sprouting.
I’m sure she did it sneakily,
Of that there is no doubting.

I wanted to confront her
With a hearty “J’accuse!”
But realized all I’d gain would be
Some fury to defuse.

And so I walked right by her
Feeling angry and resigned,
To gaze upon the flowers
That she’d kindly left behind.

Solving the Day

Every day’s a puzzle
And we contemplate the clues.
The blanks are right in front of us;
We either win or lose.

We cannot know if we’ll succeed
When we rise up from sleep.
The crossword boxes wait for us,
Their secrets veiled and deep.

Some days we sail right through and solve
Each riddle, quick and fast;
While others leave us stymied,
With some traps we can’t get past.

The challenges are little tests
And sometimes, we might fail;
But if we don’t give up, perhaps
We’ll possibly prevail.

When nightfall comes we check the page
To see what we’ve completed.
We might feel satisfied and smug
Or tired and depleted.

No matter what the outcome,
If we’re high or in the tank,
Tomorrow is another day
And all the boxes blank.

Pregnant Pause

In springtime all the bellies pop
Of pregnant moms-to-be.
Their clingy, stretchy t-shirts
Advertise maternity.

When long ago, I was with child,
We wore our clothing loose.
Our bellies were kept hidden,
Our condition no excuse.

But nowadays, such clothing
Women all would be rejecting.
They want to flaunt the fact
That yes, indeed, they are expecting!

Some preggies take another step
And when they’re at the ocean,
They wear bikinis, slathering
Their bulge with suntan lotion.

I guess I’m just old-fashioned
But I think it best, perhaps,
If a woman near her due date
Keeps her belly under wraps!

If I'd Been a Boy

If I’d been a boy when I was young,
I would have put caps in my gun.
I might’ve dug worms up to scare the girls,
And laugh as they’d squeal or they’d run.

My bicycle spokes would have baseball cards
Wedged in tight so they’d snap as I rode;
And I might’ve mixed chemicals in the sink,
Just to see if by chance they’d explode.

I’d bother my sister, undress all her dolls;
Draw a mustache on some of her heroes.
In school, I’d act stupid and horse around,
Getting punished with glares or with zeros.

I’d revel in sports and I’d run real fast
In my cool PF Flyers or Keds;
And if my report card had D’s or F’s,
I’d hide it or rip it to shreds.

If I’d been a boy, I’d have had a blast
As a mischievous brother and son;
But alas, as a girl, I was sweet and good
And I guess I missed out on the fun!

Anti-Climactic

When winter hammers us with snow
And sleet and freezing weather,
We anxiously hope Nature
Somehow gets her act together.

We count the days ‘til spring arrives
With breezes soft and mellow,
And wait to see the daffodils
So in-your-face with yellow.

This winter past, where I reside,
Broke every rule created.
We didn’t have a drop of snow,
Which we’d anticipated.

Instead the flowers poked their heads
Before they were expected,
And heavy winter jackets hung
In closets, quite neglected.

Officially, on calendars,
Today we welcome spring.
In prior years, we’d celebrate
The joy this date would bring.

This year, however, somehow spring
Is lacking in appeal.
Without the winter climax,
It’s just not a real big deal.

Let’s hope this season lasts a while
‘Cause it would be a bummer
If there’s another letdown and
In April we start summer!

Half the Story

Someone stormed off in a huff.
Poof! She up and quit.
Facts like those are not enough;
Must be more to it.

When the story’s cut in half
You’re left out on a limb.
Information from the staff
Won’t help you sink or swim.

Rumors fly, conjecture reigns;
Puzzle pieces scatter.
Often nothing quite explains
What really was the matter.

On the outside, who can tell
What caused the final rift?
Curiosity is hell,
But veils might be a gift.

Lottery Lesson

Six men bought a lottery ticket;
They trusted one buddy to pick it.
            They’d done this for years
            While sharing careers;
Their system was always quite cricket.

One day all the numbers came in.
As millionaires, life could begin.
            But the buyer, a creep,
            Without losing much sleep,
Hid the fact that the ticket did win.

He quit work with a flimsy excuse
And decided that he should vamoose.
            But the news quickly spread
            So the friends went ahead
And got lawyers to fix the abuse.

The case found its way into court
And the jury, I’m glad to report,
            Made the man share his prize
            ‘Cause they did recognize
His excuses and lies all fell short.

There’s a moral right here to be learned.
It applies to all people who’ve yearned
            To get rich – it’s a must
            To watch out who you trust
Or one day you may find yourself burned!

Irish

For today, the world is Irish
And we’ll all be dressed in green.
There’ll be bagpipes, plaids and Bailey’s
Where the celebrants convene.

We’ll drink Jameson and Guinness.
There’ll be marching bands galore.
We’ll see kilts and Tam O’Shanters
Like we’ve never seen before.

We’ll hear “Danny Boy” a’playin’
Sung with lovely Irish brogue;
See a sea of thick white sweaters
Like they’ve always been in vogue.

On St. Paddy’s day we’re Irish
And if someone doubts your claim,
Introduce yourself but add
The letter “O’” before your name!

                                    Ilene O’Bauer

Luck

A show called “Luck” on HBO
Has just been given the heave-ho.
It deals with gamblers at the track
But now it won’t be coming back.

The acting’s strong and so’s the writing;
All the racing’s so exciting.
Yet three horses somehow died;
PETA protests won’t subside.

It’s a shame – the show was great
From its first burst out the gate.
It had moxie, guts and pluck;
What it didn’t have was luck!

Terrace Envy

How I wish I had a terrace!
I’d be out there every day,
Just relaxing with my crossword,
Letting hours slip away.

I’d step out to check the weather
In the snow or sleet or rain;
Though I’d gladly risk a soaking,
I would probably refrain.

But in weather not inclement,
I’d have breakfast there outside,
With a breeze as my companion
And the sunshine as my guide.

In the afternoon or evening
There’d be sustenance and wine;
I’d survey all my surroundings
From that aerie perch of mine.

Since I live within the city,
I might lack a lovely view;
But I’m not so very greedy
That a cityscape won’t do.

When I notice other balconies
I wonder why folks choose ‘em;
For unlike the way I know I’d be,
They never ever use ‘em!

Howdy Doody

I’m sitting by the river.
It’s a warm and sunny day.
It’s lovely to be out here
Just relaxing in this way.

My jacket is unzipped,
My brand-new book is on my lap,
When suddenly a dog squats down
And takes a mushy crap.

The owner was right next to him;
The dog was on a leash.
I shook my head and silently
Admonished with a “Sheesh!”

His little pile of doggie doo
Was inches from my feet.
It wasn’t what I’d hoped to see
To make my day complete.

Although the owner scooped up
All the product of his shitting,
With just one tug they could have moved
Where no one else was sitting.

A gorgeous day can suffer from
A blot upon its beauty
When someone inconsiderate
Ignores her civic duty!

Color Blind

Certain colors fit your face;
Other shades just don’t.
When I shop, I often buy
The hues that simply won’t.

The shirts I own in olive green
Make me appear quite ill.
I shouldn’t buy this tint again
And yet, I’m sure I will.

Some people look their best in black
While others need pastels.
The perfect color whispers;
The discordant one just yells.

When looking in the mirror
You should always trust your gut.
If the color doesn’t flatter,
There’s no “if” or “and” or “but.”

For each time you'd wear that garment
You’d be perfectly defined
As a prime example of a person
Likely color blind!

My Brother's Smoothie

My brother lives a health food life
In Colorado, with his wife.
Breakfast is a smoothie shake.
(I eat bagels, scones or cake.)

Should you want to join his ranks,
This is how – I need no thanks.
Place these items in the blender:
(You’ll be healthy, fit and slender.)

Start out with some chard or kale;
(Spinach, too, if it’s on sale.)
Add an orange (peeled, of course),
Pollen from a beehive source,

Lemon peel, some grapes, a peach,
Mango, kiwi – one of each,
Pineapple – just one fresh ring,
Some acai to add some zing.

Can’t find all the fruits he’s chosen?
Use some berries that are frozen.
If you have a real ripe pear,
Toss that in to give some flair.

One last item from your stash –
Spirolina, just a dash.
What that is, I have no clue;
But I’ll bet it’s good for you!

Press the button – your machine
Will mix it up and turn it green.
Drink it up, just like you should;
My brother swears it’s really good!

As for me, I think I’ll pass
On drinks that look like fresh-cut grass.
Also, other reasons lurk –
Making one is too much work!

A Baker's Dozen

A baker’s dozen is thirteen - 
You get an extra bagel;
But don’t expect it other places
Though you may finagle.

A dozen roses gets you twelve,
A dozen eggs the same.
If you need thirteen candles,
Then expect a smaller flame;

Unless you buy a second box,
For each one carries twelve.
It’s only bakers who into
This mystery can delve.

If you request a baker’s dozen
When you’re in the bank,
They’ll call the guard and throw you out,
Like every other crank.

The postal service, too, won’t know
Exactly what you mean.
“A baker’s dozen stamps!” you’ll say,
But you’ll pay for thirteen.

There aren’t many places where
We get something for free.
In this respect, a baker is
The Gratis V.I.P.!

Two Steps Forward...

Any time somebody wants to improve
There’s no shortcut to take to get better.
You do what you have to and make sure each move
Follows protocol down to the letter.

Perhaps you’ve been sick and you hope to get well
Or you might want to learn a new skill,
The road may be pot-holed and after a spell,
You’ll realize you’re slogging uphill.

Your progress is slower than you would expect
Though resolve’s not a trait that you lack;
But despite the desire you hope to project,
You step forward two steps and one back.

It’s frustrating, bothersome, vexing, unfair!
Advancement should be sure and steady;
But when there’s improvement, you’d better beware
For it doesn’t quite mean that you’re ready.

“May I?” we would ask, long ago, in a game,
“Take two giant steps forward? May I?”
“Yes, you may,” we were told, but it’s really a shame
That that answer was really a lie.

Venetian Blinds

I wonder if the homes in Venice
Have Venetian blinds;
Or if their window panes are topped
With shades of different kinds?

Are English muffins eaten
By the British with their tea?
Would Parisians recognize French toast?
I doubt they’d answer “Oui!”

If, in Amsterdam, I told you
That our meal would be Dutch treat,
Would a local understand we’d split
The cost of what we’d eat?

I’d be curious, in Leningrad,
If folks would start to sweat,
If I pulled a gun, suggesting
That we play Russian roulette?

In Istanbul, perhaps they’d think
That I was rather daffy
If I visited each candy shop
In search of Turkish taffy.

To Americans, such adjectives
Are charming and unique,
But I wonder if, to foreigners,
They might seem tongue-in-cheek.

Philosophy Stew

If knowledge is power,
Or so it is said,
Our strength could be measured
By what we have read.

Suppose that our readings
Were slanted and sick;
A warped sense of wisdom
Would make our minds tick.

Of course, we gain insights
By other means, too.
Observing and listening
Add spice to the brew.

We stir it all up,
Let it simmer a while;
Then we gingerly sip,
As we update the file.

But it’s never complete,
This philosophy stew;
For the more that we learn,
There’s much more to review.

And the hope is that evidence
That we collect
Gives us reason to question,
To pause and reflect.

For the power of knowledge
Is not absolute;
If it’s choked or corrupted,
That power is moot.

The Bum Rush

Mr. Limbaugh, such a clown,
Insensitively struts
Within his old-time universe
Where women all are “sluts.”

Contraception is an option
Used by all who need it.
Health care givers must comply;
The law has guaranteed it.

Yet when someone makes her case
Where access is denied,
Rush attacks and publicly,
A woman’s vilified.

He called her “slut” and “prostitute,”
Then took it up a notch –
Said she should post a sex tape
So that everyone could watch.

The world is filled with pompous fools
Whose ignorance astounds,
But someone has to shut them up
When they go out of bounds.

                                 

My Cup of Tea

My cup of tea is coffee;
My friend likes Diet Coke.
Our preferences are personal
And never should provoke.

My cup of tea is writing;
My daughter favors voice.
We cultivate what’s in us –
There isn’t any choice.

My cup of tea’s not opera,
But classic, jazz or rock;
Though you may hate my music,
It isn’t nice to mock.

My cup of tea in politics
Is liberal and blue,
Though I have friends and relatives
Who do not share that view.

If everyone would sip from
His private cup of tea,
Accepting what the others drink,
How lovely that would be!

An Empty Apartment

An empty apartment,
The floors bare and rough,
Once covered with carpets
And decked out with stuff,

For years housed a tenant
Who filled it with pride;
Not a thing now remains,
For she recently died.

All her chairs and her tables,
Her curtains, her bed
Have been carted away
Since their owner is dead.

All the food in the pantry,
The pots and the pans –
For death likes to visit
In spite of our plans.

Her relatives came
And they cleared the place out.
They divvied possessions - 
Of that, I’ve no doubt.

Now everything’s gone;
All the cupboards are bare.
The workmen come in
And they start to prepare.

I think for that tenant
And all of her stuff
The lease on her life
Wasn’t quite long enough.

On the Mend

It’s strange when you are on the mend.
You’re not yourself – you can’t pretend.
You feel much better than before;
But still, more healing is in store.

How much to push? How much to rest?
It’s hard to know which way is best.
The answer isn’t real clear-cut;
I guess you have to trust your gut.

So every day, as you improve,
You’re just a bit more in the groove;
And then at last you comprehend
That you are really on the mend.

Chopsticks and the Moon

I learned to eat with chopsticks
From my spouse, on our first date.
It added something magical
To everything I ate.

He also taught me how to tell,
By looking at the moon,
Whether it was getting bigger
Or would disappear real soon.

I told him that I understood,
Thought often I would guess.
Was it waxing? Maybe waning?
Just one answer would impress.

But after years together,
He’s convinced I really know.
It’s one of his accomplishments
Of which he likes to crow.

He’s very wrong when he insists
That sums up all he’s taught;
For waxing moons and noodles are
A speck of what I’d sought.

Since marriage is a partnership,
There’s so much give and take;
And to think one person’s given more
Is sometimes a mistake.

I’ve been lucky on the getting side
Despite my husband’s doubts,
For the treasures I have reaped
Have far exceeded any droughts.

When I reminisce I can’t forget
Those moments opportune
And the charming way it all began -
With chopsticks and the moon.

Two Typos

While checking out a website
Where my poem appeared in print,
I had to do a double-take,
My scrunched up eyes a’squint.

For there before me were my words,
Which everyone could see,
But one phosphorescent typo
Sat there looking back at me.

I’d read it over, checked it twice,
Like Santa’s song suggested;
But somehow I’d mistyped a word
And nobody’d protested.

I made a fast correction
And removed the extra letter.
As soon as I was done, I felt
Miraculously better.

Until a different poem of mine
My temper did ignite,
For a single noun was used
When only plural would be right.

Just a measly “s” was missing
But it set me in a tizzy,
For a typo is a message
That your mind is just too busy.

Once again, it was amended
So I really should stop fumin’
‘Cause, to paraphrase the Bard,
To make a typo’s only human!

Hackneyed

She’s as pretty as a picture
And as quiet as a mouse.
He’s as blind as a bat
And as fat as a house.

She’s as stubborn as a mule
And as sly as a fox.
He’s as wise as an owl
And as strong as an ox.

She’s as skinny as a toothpick
And as slow as a snail.
He’s as sharp as a tack
And as large as a whale.

I could keep this up forever
But you know what they say:
Nothing ruins someone’s writing
Like an overused cliché!