Moving Out

When I moved from my parents’ house,

I really couldn’t wait 

To start my life; the leaving was

A cause to celebrate.

A memory occurs to me:

When I approached my mom

To tell her of my plans to move,

I’d not expected calm.

I’d practiced in my head the things

That I had planned to say

When she would protest, practically

Demanding that I stay.

Instead, she offered me my bed 

And dishes, pans and pots.

To realize she was ready, too,

Well, just connect the dots.

I liked my folks; we got along,

Yet it was time to split.

I had a job and never

Second-guessed things, not a bit.

Today it seems that, more and more,

Kids don’t renounce their claim

On their childhood homes and that, to me,

Is really quite a shame.

Handy Randy Redux

If you’re very lucky, you may find

The type of handyman

Who can take care of the problems

That you now no longer can.

Climb a ladder to the roof? No prob -

It’s what he likes to do 

And while up there, he will clean

The cloudy skylights, just for you.

Clogged up gutters? With some gloves

He’ll scoop out leaves and dirt and gunk,

Staying cheerful through it all.

(I know that I’d be in a funk.)

When he’s finished, he will lowball

What he thinks that you should pay.

Do you know of anybody else

Who’d act in that same way?

Handy Randy is this person

Who is capable and fair 

And reliable and really nice,

These attributes so rare.

My Hedge Clippers

I do not have a garden

And my thumb is far from green.

The plants I’ve managed not to kill

Are few and far between.

But when I’m at my country house, 

Where things grow out of whack,

I take my trusty clippers

And I cut the darn things back.

Unwanted weeds and bushes

Get their branches quickly snipped,

Unprepared for the attack by that

With which I am equipped. 

The next time I am here, I’ll have to

Do it all again,

But at least I made a little dent

Until I don’t know when.

A LEO

If your birthday’s in August,

Your horoscope sign 

Might turn out to be Leo

And that would be fine.

But that isn’t at all

What this poem is about,

For my LEO at breakfast,

Without any doubt,

Really jazzed up my morning

And if you’ve no clue 

What I’m talking about,

I’ll explain it to you.

There’s an acronym here 

And the L is for lox,

Which is salmon that’s cured,

Found in most deli stocks.

Now the E is for eggs,

Scrambled just to my taste

And the O is for onions,

Sautéed without haste.

Not all people will like this,

I’m not gonna lie,

But if it’s on the menu,

Please give it a try.

A Phone Call

What used to be simple’s

No longer the case,

With AI and tech leaving

No human trace.

 

A phone call reverts to

The state of “On hold,”

The music appalling,

And not ‘cause I’m old.

 

The customer rep keeps

Repeating each fact,

But sends you an email

He failed to enact.

 

So after an hour,

Which soon becomes two,

You hang up the phone

And you haven’t a clue

 

If he did what you asked

To provide what you need

And you have no idea

Just how you should proceed.

 

I miss the old methods

Of making a call,

When a pencil and paper

Recorded it all.

For Jeff Spurgeon

 For years our radio’s been tuned

To 105.9.

The music, for the most part,

With our preference does align.

Jeff Spurgeon is our morning guy

And, with his soothing voice,

He’s just the host we’d choose ourselves 

If we had had the choice.

From Know-It-All-New-Yorker

To his daily repartee,

We wouldn’t want to spend our mornings

Any other way.

When QXR announced that Jeff

Would take his final leave,

We must admit to feeling sad,

But know he will receive

The accolades that he deserves

From all his loyal fans,

With hopes that he finds joy

In all his many future plans.

We’ll miss you, Jeff; nobody will

Connect with us so well

For, except when you played opera,*

At your job you did excel!

*just never got into it…

My Great Grandmother’s Parrot

It’s rare to hear a story

That you haven’t heard before,

Especially when memories

Seem locked behind a door.

But yesterday I heard about

A parrot who could talk

And when my dad came home from school,

It would begin to squawk,

“Georgie’s home!” repeatedly.

My aunt, who told the tale,

Said that’s the only name it yelled,

Each school day, without fail.

I don’t recall my father

Ever mentioning this bird.

Perhaps it was a memory 

That somehow got deferred.

Yet as my aunt recalled this,

She laughed hard and so did we,

The image of a boyhood George

As clear as it could be.