Rusty

My garden planter's turned to rust
And I am slightly vexed 
For outdoor items should, I trust,
Not leave me so perplexed.

If they are meant to be outside
You'd think that would imply
That what they're made of could abide
When weather's not quite dry.

My "outdoor" ceiling fans, as well,
Have rusted and look bad. 
Though they still work, the fact they sell
For "outdoors" makes me mad.

I guess in Mother Nature's realm
We have to be resigned 
To knowing when she's at the helm 
She'll leave some rust behind.

Federer

At Wimbledon, all dressed in white,
Is Federer, still at the height
Of tennis genius, a delight
To watch when he's in action.

Against opponents he will fight,
Displaying his athletic might.
His cool demeanor will not bite
At any slight distraction.

On Centre Court, in day or night,
His playing will the crowd ignite
And win or lose, he's most polite, 
Which adds to his attraction.

Hey, Scott Pruitt!

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, “Screw 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

Fourth of July

For every burger we consume,
Each hot dog we are chomping,
We should remember on this day
The Redcoats we were tromping.

For every icy beer we chug,
Each ear of corn we're biting,
We have to thank the colonists,
Who sacrificed by fighting.

If independence wasn't won,
We'd be on different footing,
Enjoying Shepherd's pie, perhaps,
Or maybe Yorkshire pudding.

My Muse

I’m staring at my notebook
Whose pages I’ve perused
To double-check a topic;
My muse is quite bemused.

For lately I’ve been empty
Where always I’ve enthused.
I don’t know why poetic themes
Have slowed and barely oozed.

My confidence is sagging;
My ego’s slightly bruised.
I need a jolt of energy
To somehow be infused.

But meanwhile as I struggle,
Where once I blithely cruised,
My muse just sits there mocking
And I’m really not amused.

The Way People Are

People do the things they do
From “normal” to bizarre
Because, as often is observed,
“That’s just how people are.”

But lumping them together,
Even though some traits are shared,
Implies that those who give
And those who take can be compared.

We all have things in common
Yet it’s surely not a fact
That because we’re human, there’s
A certain way that people act.

My Pencil

My pencil is illegal
And not because it’s lead,
But stamped upon its body
It says “NY Bd of Ed.”

When I retired from teaching,
I took some pencils home
For they’re just perfect when it’s time
To write my daily poem.

I taught for 30 years and thus
A lot of things I’ve learned,
Among them is that pencils “borrowed”
Need not be returned.

So if they come arrest me
For property I’ve poached,
I’m sure they can find others
With more cause to be reproached.