Doing Nothing

The flowers are potted;
The feeder's been filled.
(If I saw a hummingbird, 
I would be thrilled.)

The crossword is finished;
My email's been read.
It's hours too early
To think about bed.

So I am relaxing,
The radio playing,
Enjoying the breeze
And the trees it is swaying.

The city still courses
In all of my veins
But sometimes it's time
To pull back on the reins...

And soak up the silence 
And yield to the chance
To do nothing with nobody
Looking askance.

His Type

The president denied the charge
As just a lot of hype
Because the one accusing him
Was clearly “not his type.”

He’s used this reasoning before
To put down someone’s looks,
Implying only gorgeous gals
Are worthy of his hooks.

But I can’t be the only one
To see what his words lacked;
Is beauty what determines
Who’s the target of this act?

It sounds like he’s admitting
That he’d only cross the line
With a woman who’s attractive;
Then the molestation’s fine.

The Sprinkler

On a hot hot day, the sprinkler shoots
Its droplets in the air.
For little kids, there is such joy
In running under there.

They dash right in and, dripping wet,
They turn and dash back out,
Each darting trip accompanied
By giggle, gasp or shout.

When watching kids at sprinkler time
I'll never sport a frown 
For unlike at a swimming pool,
There's no way they can drown.

Steeplejack

Today I met a steeplejack
By chance, while on the street.
In New York City, that’s not someone
You are like to meet.

His van announced his occupation
So I stopped to ask
Exactly what might be a simple
Steeplejacking task.

“We’re tradesmen who do lots of things,
Especially on high –
Repairing spires and steeples;
I’m a jack-of-all-trades guy.”

I thanked him for explaining
And the knowledge I did reap.
Who knows? Perhaps tomorrow
I will meet a chimney sweep!

O Linden Tree

O Linden Tree
Were I a bee
I’d buzz around you endlessly.
Your perfume’s key,
On street or lea,
To lure with much intensity.

But as for me,

Sincerity
Demands the truth, so golly gee,
I’d love to see
A linden tree
With blossoms that are fragrance-free!

Links

In a box in the closet,
Beneath lots of shoes,
Was a bundle of greeting cards;
All did effuse

With good wishes, congrats
And excitement galore
For the birth of a baby
A short time before.

I read every card;
Some had names I don’t know
For they all had been written
A long time ago.

That baby, my son,
Now has kids of his own.
At 38 years,
He’s officially grown.

No need to hold on
To these links to the past.
I took a deep breath
And I ditched them at last.

The Jabberers

Those who have a lot to say
Make sure that they get heard
And even if discouraged
They are often undeterred.

While those who rarely speak their mind
Find quiet is preferred,
Yet sometimes in their silence
They are granted the last word.

The jabberers who bloviate
May splutter, rage and roar
But the more they prattle, we will find
Them easy to ignore.

Good Doggie

The doggie did his duty
And he earned his master's praise:
“You’re such a good good doggie!”
But his eyes began to glaze…

For he only did what Nature
Had intended him to do –
Nothing special or heroic,
Yet perhaps that doggie knew…

That his owner’s pure excitement
Over excrement was weird
‘Cause each time he had to go,
It made him more and more endeared.

To dogs, we humans are bizarre
For while the pets are pooping,
Their owners dole out compliments
The whole time they are scooping.

Good for your Head

It’s good for your head
And it’s good for your heart
To surround yourself, much as you can,
With the people who spread
So much joy that you start
To believe it’s all part of a plan.

But it isn’t, for you
Are the one in control
And are therefore the person to choose
Only those people who
Bring a smile to your soul
And all others feel free to refuse.

For who needs to feel stuck
Like an unwanted thorn
Who’d be better off set to the side?
All it takes is some pluck;
It’s not worth it to mourn
Time with negative feelings supplied.

Disguised

Summer's wearing a disguise
Which sunshine lovers do despise 
For, though we welcome it today,
The raindrops seem prepared to stay.

According to the news reports,
It's also way too cool for shorts
And jacket wearers get a boon
'Cause they've been needed all through June.

Though muggy weather's not for me 
And it's been great without A/C,
Since summer season's now begun,
Ditch that disguise and show some sun!

Diagnosis

A column in The New York Times
(In Sunday’s Magazine)
Is something that I love to read,
A part of my routine.

It’s titled “Diagnosis”
And each time presents a case
Of someone sick with who-knows-what
And so begins the chase.

The docs confer, some blood is drawn
And then a slew of tests,
Thus ordered by the specialists,
If all goes well, suggests…

A diagnosis which will match
The symptoms and assure
The proper treatment leading to
Relief, perhaps a cure.

A happy outcome’s what I like;
At times, that won’t pan out
But to many readers, I am sure
There isn’t any doubt…

That this column should appear each week
(It’s not that often now)
For it’s fascinating learning of
The why, when, where and how.

Past My Bedtime

The concert, a singer who’s great,
Is all set for a not-too-far date.
I am sure that the show
Will be wonderful, though
It won’t start until sometime past 8.

Since I often wake up around 5,
By the time Jackson Browne did arrive,
It would be no surprise
If the lids of my eyes
Would be closed with no chance to revive.

So most likely, I’ll pass on the tix,
Though it’s something I’m sorry to nix
But my energy tank
Isn’t shrinking – it shrank!
Sadly, aging and night life don’t mix.

Gliding

The road and river parallel
Each other as I ride
On the ferry where, with traffic
Non-existent, we do glide.

With windshield wipers flapping
In my car, I’d be real tense
But the boat ride is so calming
That it seems to recompense.

I ready my book and crossword solve
And even write my poem.
Before I know it, I’ll be back,
Relaxing in my home.

Vanilla Milkshake

It used to be served, a long time ago,
In a big metallic cup,
With soda glasses into which
You’d pour and drink it up.

Today, though, just one plastic glass
Was placed in front of me,
But it was tall and filled way up,
As fresh as it could be.

A cold vanilla milkshake, such a
Great way to indulge!
As long as it’s occasional,
There’ll be no belly bulge.

I savored every silky sip
I took between my fries.
To all you health freaks, I suggest
You try one on for size.

My Father's Signature

My father’s name was George; his “G”
Was not the cursive kind
And also, on his final “e,”
He cut the ties that bind.

That “e,” which was a backwards 3,
Stood separate from the rest.
A forger who attached it
Would have flunked an I.D. test.

I hadn’t thought about this now
For close to 40 years
Until today, when mention of
His “floating e” appears.

My brother, who’s a writer, too,
In tribute to this day
Wrote a very moving poem in which
My father’s hands hold sway.

The “floating e” allowed me
A most precious little peek
Into mem’ry’s vault to see
My father’s signature, unique.

Two Shows

Friday night – my daughter sang
Her heart out on the stage
As one of the performers
With the talent to engage.

The show was free, the costumes cool,
The audience entranced,
With iPhones capturing it all
As actors sang and danced.

This afternoon, a different scene,
A well-oiled dance recital,
With tickets ordered from a site,
Bouquets of flowers vital.

My grandchild, not quite 4, performed,
Her outfit quite expensive.
For her 2 minutes on the stage
The training was intensive.

My daughter’s peers have special needs,
Their show a proud reminder
That those who cannot see their skills
Should be a little kinder.

The ballerinas worked hard, too,
The ticket-holders knowing
That every girl up on that stage
Would get where she was going.

I sat through both and clapped the same
While knowing in my heart
That more than just the ticket price
Did keep these shows apart.

Birdseed

Some neighbors scatter birdseed 
In the driveway every day,
Encouraging the squirrels
And the birds to come and stay.

I wonder what the reasons are
For setting out this feast,
Which may attract some critters
They don't want, to say the least.

For surely birds and squirrels
Have instinctive ways to find
Worms and acorns and some other foods
Their bellies wouldn't mind.

And I've never seen the owners 
Come to watch their guests chow down,
So they're unaware the birds invite
Their friends from out of town.

Being kind to Nature's creatures
Is an empathetic trait
But a driveway open-house buffet
Is up for some debate.

O-C-T-E-T

Eight people won the Spelling Bee;
It seems that they were tied.
The winners, 12-14 years,
Were surely filled with pride.

In 20 rounds the judges couldn’t
Trip up anyone
Since prepping for this huge event
These kids consider fun.

While critics railed about their skills,
Called “useless” and “a waste,”
Such negativity appears
Both nasty and misplaced.

When athletes practice hours each day
To thus improve their game,
The spelling champs, in their own ways,
Do practically the same.

I much prefer one winner, but
These eight deserve our praise,
Possessing such abilities
That really do amaze.

Everyone

Everyone you pass each day
Was once a little child,
Who listened to the rules or else
Ignored them and ran wild.

Who played with toys or dolls
And sat in school and tried to learn,
Who pushed to get ahead or, patient,
Waited for his turn.

Who dreamed of growing up to be
Whatever was appealing
And learned to deal, in her own way,
With all that she was feeling.

It’s easy to forget that all
The people that we see
Have reasons to explain the way
That they turned out to be.

It might be helpful then, to think,
When praise or blame be sung,
That this was well-established
Back when each of us was young.

Ice Pops

Colored bright, for kids’ delight,
The ice pops on a stick
Start dripping way before they’re done,
A foolish snack to pick.

So hands and faces bear the traces
Of the colored dye
Which, too, is splattered on their clothes,
A mess they can’t deny.

An ice cream cup can fill you up
With drips in the container.
To say that is a better choice
To me is a no-brainer.

CC

When sending a copy of mail
To another, you really can’t fail
If you CC the name
Of the person you aim
To receive it; attempts will prevail.

Unless, though, your age is like mine,
CC might be tough to define
For it harks to a time
Carbon paper was prime
If to copies your work did incline.

So when CC or BCC’s pressed
And your duplicates sent by request
Take a moment to think
How this long ago link
To the typewriter has been addressed.

Every Square

The days fill up, ‘til every square
Has something penciled in.
Since I retired, that’s the way
It’s somehow always been.

A class, a game, a lunch with friends,
Appointments with a doc,
Some travel plans, museum tours,
A babysitting block.

At times, an empty space stands out,
But I don’t really mind
For I can then catch up with all
The chores I’ve left behind.

Retirement provides the time,
A very special perk,
To do the things we couldn’t do
When we were stuck at work.

Behavior

When someone doesn’t quite behave
The way you would prefer,
You realize you have no control
Of him or maybe her.

No matter who it is – your kid,
Your parent, sib or friend,
Nobody acts exactly in
The way you can portend.

There isn’t much that you can do
But try to understand
Behavior that’s not yours is simply
Out of your command.

Accepting other people’s quirks
Is not an easy thing
But just think of how much happiness
Their quirk-free parts can bring.

At the Mic

Each of us is given time
To read the piece we've written - 
A poem or anecdote for which
The judging group was smitten.

Though most are short, a few go on
And on ad infinitum,
Annoying to the audience
But not to those who write 'em.

But even more obnoxious are
The ones I do not like,
Who tell their whole life story 
Once they're standing at the mic.

With many readers waiting, 
Everyone should have the sense 
To present his work and then,
As Shakespeare said, to "Get thee hence!"

My Right Arm

I do not think I could survive 
Without the arm I use
To do the thousand things it does;
I guess this isn't news.

But somehow something's come along 
That means as much to me
And getting by without it
Would comprise a tragedy.

Don't judge me, for I'm pretty sure
That many can relate.
My iPhone's like a body part
That should not separate.

So when it wasn't working
Panic flooded through my soul,
Like my right arm yanked right off
And leaving just a gaping hole.

A guy at Staples fixed it.
Like a surgeon, he did catch
What the problem was, so my "right arm"
He got to reattach.

On a Plane

On a plane we sit, confined
With all our freedom left behind.
We cannot move around too much
And with our friends, can’t be in touch.

We eat what we have brought aboard
And in our carry-ons have stored,
Then turn to what we have to read
(Variety is what I need).

If seatmates shut the window shade,
The ones who sleep have got it made
But those who like to look outside
Do sadly have their views denied.

The seatbelts keep us safe, we’re told
But sometimes we get rock and rolled
If turbulence gets out of hand;
We count the minutes ‘til we land.

Distraction really is the key;
At least, it works quite well for me
For if I’m busy, I’m not apt
To ponder how, in flight, we’re trapped.

Scooters

In downtown Denver, people 
Zip around without a care
On the scooters that the city
Lets them access everywhere.

They are ridden on the sidewalks 
So whoever gets the urge
Locates one that's sitting idly 
With a battery's full surge.

They're not found in New York City, 
Where shared bikes are what folks use 
But if they make an appearance,
I think Citibikes would lose.

It's a vision of the future.
Walking, one day, won't exist
And perambulation, possibly,
Won't even be much missed.

Mandalas

Tibetan Buddhist monks create
Mandalas out of sand,
A process that, to me, 
Is very hard to understand.

For colorful designs composed
With symmetry and care 
Are made by placing grains in patterns
Quite beyond compare.

It may take hours, even days,
Until the work's completing
And then it's swept away to prove
That all in life is fleeting.

In Denver's Art Museum, near
A mandala intact,
The visitors can make their own,
On paper, though, in fact.

With colored pencils we filled in
Our complex mini wheels 
And, like the monks, perhaps we knew
How satisfaction feels.  

But one big difference - when complete,
We got to take ours home,
As proof of vision and
An inspiration for a poem.

Biblical

The skies turned dark, the thunder boomed
And lightning zagged above, 
A prelude to a celebration
Of two souls in love.

The hail poured down and bounced around
And sparkled on the grass.
We huddled in the portico
In hopes that it would pass.

While meantime, paramedics,
Several out of shape, raced past
As rumors of a passing started 
Circulating fast.

The clouds dispersed, the sun returned
And all the wet was dried 
In preparation for the vows 
Of glowing groom and bride.

We cheered and clapped and had a toast;
The bandmates entertained.
We ate and drank and soon forgot
That it had even rained.

But speculations proved correct;
A body had been found
And while we partied, in a van
The coroner came 'round.

The newlyweds, oblivious,
Began their lives as one
While yards away, a stranger's time
On earth was, sadly, done.

The day was surely biblical,
For streaming from above 
Were darkness, hail and even death,
But all eclipsed by love.

In the Mountains

My nephew's getting married
Outdoors, within a park,
Eight thousand feet from baseline
In the mountains, white and stark.

The morning's bright and sunny
With an underlying chill
Yet some clouds are drifting over
As the songbirds swoop and trill.

The weather app is warning
That some thunderstorms may strike
Just about when we'll all gather,
Something none of us would like.

Still, we'll celebrate the wedding
As to Nature's whims we'll bow 
And with any luck, the day will stay 
As sweet as it is now.