Mark Twain's House

Mark Twain's house befits the man
Who wrote his famous writings.
Wish I could have been a guest
At his renowned invitings.

Recently I did the tour
And ambled room to room,
Imagining his essence
Which the house may yet entomb.

His library was furnished with
A charming reading nook,
Where he created bedtime tales
Not seen in any book.

His lucky daughters tapped his brain
Then bid their dad goodnight,
Retreating to the children’s quarters
Up a staircase flight.

The billiards room, one floor above,
Was where his stories flowed,
His back turned to the table
When engaged in writing mode.

I loved my time inside his house
Though it was bittersweet,
Since I live now and he lived then;
No way the Twain shall meet!

Gymnasts

Gymnasts on the balance beam,
Poised and in control;
Somersaulting, toes a'point -
Gold their longed-for goal.

Dusted hands for surer grips,
Hair slicked back from faces;
Ready to perform what they've
Perfected through their paces.

Eyes like lasers, bodies taut,
They spring and bolt and leap,
Doing the routines they've practiced
Even in their sleep.

One false move, though, poof! it's gone -
The years and years of training.
Through the smiling mask, we see
The hope so quickly draining.

Still, we must applaud their skill.
They've made it to the dance,
And thought they may not medal there,
At least they had the chance.

London Olympics

The games are on in London!
All the athletes are prepared.
I hope they brought their brollies*
For their trainers** won’t be spared.

Security is spotty,
As Mitt Romney had to blurt;
But Cameron was reassuring,
Though quite miffed and curt.

For Londoners, the traffic jams
Are nightmarish and wrong.
To them, the games are going on
A week or two too long.

Competitors must all be psyched
With stomachs, though, like jelly;
The rest of us will watch at home,
In comfort, on the telly***.

* umbrellas  ** sneakers  *** television

Toilet Paper

One-ply, two-ply, three-ply, four:
Whether you are rich or poor,
This is something that you need.
Substitutes won’t do, agreed?

Extra soft or without rolls,
Every brand has matching goals –
Do the job and help us wipe.
We don’t need the extra hype!

One conundrum makes folks nuts;
They won’t stand ifs, ands or buts.
(Pun intended) – This harangue
Regards which way the roll should hang.

Is the next-to-follow strip
On the top for you to rip?
Or perhaps it’s lying under
Waiting to be torn asunder?

Everyone thinks his way’s best.
Please comply if you’re a guest.
When you’re on another’s bowl,
Use his method to unroll.

One last thing I’d like to mention –
This is one superb invention;
For without its grand debut,
I can think of one word – EEW!

An Inner Push

The other day I did some chores
That I’d been putting off.
It made me feel so good
But hear me out before you scoff.

They weren’t monumental things –
They’d languished on my list;
Yet every time I'd thought of them,
My brain had them dismissed.

So finally, I ordered lenses
For my months-old frames.
I had some papers notarized
For certain health care claims.

I bought a bunch of greeting cards
For birthdays coming soon.
I splurged and got some brand-new clothes;
The time was opportune.

I stopped in at the drug store
And the market, not exciting;
But then I found a shady bench
To work on some new writing.

Sometimes it takes an inner push
To get the basics done.
It’s easier to tackle more
As long as you’ve begun.

A Word I Hate

I hate the word "retarded;"
It’s uttered with contempt
By those who wrongly think
From lack of brains they are exempt.

It’s never spoken kindly
Either as a joke or curse
Or merely a descriptive,
Which to me is even worse.

The same applies to “retard.”
By making it a noun,
It’s venomously aimed and used
To put somebody down.

We can’t help what we’re born with,
Be it size or hair or brain;
But we control the language
That can cause somebody pain.

When I hear that word bandied,
All my blood starts boiling, but
I realize it’s a losing cause
And keep my big mouth shut.

The Suspect

The suspect, looking like a clown,
Sat quietly in court.
His face was frozen in a frown;
He offered no retort.

Some victims’ relatives were there;
In anguish, they all glared.
The shooter, acting unaware,
Impassively just stared.

I wonder what’s inside his mind –
Accomplishment and pride?
Or does his memory rewind
And think of those who died?

Right now it’s still a mystery,
His motives tightly hidden;
But looking back at history,
Some flaunt what’s been forbidden.

We’ll never really understand
What makes this person tick;
But millions all across the land
Feel sorrowful and sick.