On the Cape

Though some New Yorkers find it odd
To take vacation on Cape Cod
Due to miles in such profusion,
I don't jive with that conclusion.

Yes, it's hours away to reach
And you can find a closer beach,
But it's unique in all its charms,
Embracing guests with open arms.

The stately homes of weathered gray
Gaze out on ocean, sound and bay;
And oh, that chowder! Ah, that fish!
Yum, that ice cream! All delish!

Wander in the cutesy stores.
Gather shells on sandy shores.
Watch the frolic of the seals,
Fighting seagulls for their meals.

Listen to the waves that crash,
A sound to savor and rehash.
Those who seek a true escape
Should look no further than the Cape.

P.S. Here's a helpful tip
To travelers who plan this trip:
If Cape Cod figures in your plans,
Just beware of Red Sox fans!

The Hardware Store

The hardware store's a dying breed
As big box stores invade.
They used to have just what you'd need,
Each item U.S. made.

But now they face a growing threat
'Cause though they're down the block,
Most people hit their cars to get
A wider choice of stock.

You need a hammer and some nails,
A spatula or strainer,
Home Depot's got it - never fails;
To most, it's a no-brainer.

The old and dusty hardware store,
Which passed from dad to son,
Might rate a look-around before
The day there will be none.

Barbecued Swan

Bored with burgers, ribs or chicken?
Want a treat to feast upon?
I can recommend you sample
Breast of Windsor Castle swan.

There are two hundred to choose from - 
Better make that one-nine-nine;
For it seems somebody caught one
And decided he would dine.

There's a law against such killing - 
It was once considered treason -
'Cause these swans are all protected;
They're the Queen's, of course, the reason.

Even if they weren't royal,
They don't seem to fit the bill
Of creature you would marinate
And toss upon the grill.

There's been no official comment
On this swan, whose life was wasted,
But Elizabeth, like all of us,
Must wonder how it tasted.

A Cheerful Poem

It’s time to write a cheerful poem,
Of sunshine and the sea
To banish all the gloom that seems
To swirl inside of me.

The sky is blue and filled with kites.
The flowers nod their heads;
And Mother Nature’s sewing,
Using iridescent threads.

As children race along the shore,
Their sticky faces gleam
And everything’s as perfect as
A Margarita dream.

For readers need a happy poem
That’s filled with joy and hope
And then they can return to life
With lots of cause to mope.

Lurking

Dementia genes may lurk inside
But since there is no cure,
I wonder what’s the benefit
Of finding out for sure.

Would knowing change the way you live
And spur some foreign travel?
Or would it plunge you to the depths
Where fear makes minds unravel?

Perhaps you’d contact long-lost friends
To help provide support;
Or take up brand-new hobbies
So that pesky plaque you’d thwart.

Quite possibly, you’d join a club
For Alzheimer potentials;
Or start a journal or a blog
Confirming your credentials.

If something’s hiding in my brain
Prepared to drag me low,
My overwhelming wish for now
Is I don’t want to know.

Erased

I write my poems in pencil,
An eraser close at hand,
An older version of “Delete”
To follow my command.

With one quick rub, or maybe two,
The words just disappear;
A ghostly hint remains beneath,
A first draft souvenir.

I like those subtle tracings
Which remind me, looking back,
How rare it is to nail a thought,
Above all, at first crack.

It’s much the same in life, for though
Apologies are made,
The hurt that caused their utterance
Is just a lighter shade.

For if you look quite carefully,
You’ll get a little taste
Of feelings that were first to flow,
Not totally erased.

My Dad

He drank too much at parties
And his antics roused the crowd.
His pitching arm was famous
And a strikeout made him proud.

He worked too many hours
Selling kids’ and ladies’ shoes;
Then he watched a game on Sunday
When one beer would make him snooze.

When waking him, you had to poke
Then jump out of the way;
In sleep, he was in World War II,
With enemies at bay.

The slightest thing would make him gag –
From blood down to a worm.
A baby spitting up would be
Enough to make him squirm.

He hated being late and so
Was early as could be.
I smile at this, for just as well,
This is describing me.

Apologies were not his thing
But if he’d blown his stack,
A visit to my room to chat
Would get us back on track.

He dreamed of his retirement
In Florida some day,
Convinced he’d win the lottery
He so much loved to play.

My father was a funny guy.
He’s thirty-two years gone;
But in my heart, his handsome face
Forever will smile on.