For all of those who make a point
To comment
on my rhymes,
No matter if
it’s only once
Or very many
times,
I want to
let you know how much
I treasure
your support,
Since even
though in other poems
I’ve managed
to purport
That all my writing’s
just for me
(And mainly,
that is true),
It’s such a
lovely boost to hear
From readers
such as you.
Now most of
you I’ve never met
And likely
never will,
But please
accept my thanks and know
The joy you
do instill.
My phone dinged a reminder,
The subject
of this poem,
A simple
message and it said:
“9:30 Flying
home.”
See, I had
planned to be away
Upon a river
cruise.
My husband,
though, had gotten sick
And so, for weeks,
my views
Were of the
buildings I can see
Within my
neighborhood
Instead of
little charming towns
As I had
hoped I would.
We canceled
all that we had booked –
The flights,
the room, the tours
And waited ‘til
at last, my husband
Ventured out
of doors.
He’s better
now, but never could have
Done the
things we’d planned.
I’ve put it
all behind me, but
My phone can’t
understand.
In the crazy world of sports,
A player’s
age reflects,
On varied
fields or surfaced courts,
What everyone
expects.
For athletes
in the 40’s range
Or those
soon closing in,
Will likely
see a subtle change
In what they
need to win.
Perhaps
their bodies just don’t move
As quickly
as before
And even if
they find their groove,
It’s tougher,
now, to score.
In much of
life, our wisdom grows
And elders,
we are told,
Should be
revered, but in the pros,
The young
ones earn the gold.
There’s an outbreak of a bad disease
Right in my
neighborhood,
My zip code
being one they’ve named
And that
just isn’t good.
It’s spread
when there’s bacteria
In cooling
towers, where
They infiltrate
and form a mist
That’s sent
into the air.
If places
are identified,
Which
testing can decide,
A disinfecting
protocol
Can peace of
mind provide.
As numbers
of the sick increase
(And
treatment seems to work),
I glance at
buildings, wondering
If that’s
where germs may lurk.
When you’re down in the dumps
And life’s
giving you lumps,
It’s so nice
to have lunch with a friend;
For occasional
slumps,
Like a log’s
many bumps,
Make it hard
with a smile to pretend
All is dandy
and fine.
Sometimes
problems combine
With the
natural ways that you cope
And your pal
throws a line,
Which you
take as a sign
That you’re
not at the end of your rope.
So you sit
and you eat,
Which itself
is a treat,
And compare
what’s been driving you nuts.
Though you
do not compete,
Each admits
to defeat
By not
climbing up out of your ruts.
Still, a
heaviness lifts,
One of
friendship’s best gifts,
(Which can
also take place on the phone).
Though the
stuff that resists
Cheering up
still exists,
You, at
least, feel a lot less alone.
The days drift by at summer’s pace,
Too insubstantial
to embrace.
Without a
goal that I can chase,
In neutral I
am stuck.
Though I am
home, most any place
Would seem
the same, with just a trace
Of novelty
to help me face
A way out of
the muck.
No matter
what, in any case,
The passing time
might grant some grace,
My lethargy
conceding space
To welcome
back some pluck.
At Wimbledon, on Centre Court,
The players,
dressed in white,
Run back and
forth across the grass,
To spectators’
delight.
Of course,
in the United States,
The court
called Arthur Ashe,
In honor of
a tennis great,
Is where
opponents clash.
If it did
not have Ashe’s name,
It might be
Center Court,
But note the
“e” and “r” reversed,
Which U.S. guides
support.
The U.S. Open
doesn’t mind
What color
players wear,
Unlike
Britain’s rules of “colour”
With a “u”
that’s stuck in there.
I realize
(yes, I use a “z,”
Not “s,” as
do the Brits)
That language
often changes after
Factions
call it quits.
It’s
fascinating, really,
How our
long-ago “divorce”
Somehow took
the centre of the land
And moved it
off its course.
