Mess

I used to have a fantasy
That when my kids were grown,
My home would be immaculate –
A neat, unsullied zone.

It’d look just like a magazine,
Each object in its place;
If someone dropped by there would be
No panic on my face.

I’d open up the door and oh,
With pride my heart would flutter;
As I’d invite the person in,
There’d be no hint of clutter.

Yet things have not worked out that way,
Despite my strong desire;
I look around, surprised to see
The piles are even higher.

My husband’s gym stuff on a chair,
The mail stacked on the table;
The clothes I’ve worn but not yet washed –
I’ll get to when I’m able.

The newspapers and magazines
In baskets overflowing;
And everywhere I look, I see
That mounds of things are growing.

I guess it’s part of DNA;
You’d know with just a swab,
That either you’re a neat freak
Or the opposite, a slob.

But when I have some company,
(Don’t tell what I’m confiding!)
They’ll marvel at the place –
The clutter’s in the closet, hiding.

All That Glitters

Most women, not all, but a large enough group,
Are alike in that each one is born
With a seed that will grow, with a nurturing hand,
To a penchant and need to adorn.

On birthdays, engagements, and other such times
The gift de rigueur still remains
An item of jewelry, proffered to prove
All the love that the giver sustains.

Whether silver or gold or with sparkling gems,
Most expensive or costing a sou,
A necklace or ring or a bracelet imparts
Permanence, like an inkless tattoo.

Of course, females don’t have to just wait for a gift;
Most often they’re out on the prowl,
And at craft fairs or counters where jewelry’s displayed,
They’re assessing, with smile or with scowl.

Oh, these earrings, so dangly, sure perk up my mood,
Or this watch does much more than tell time;
And this choker’s so special I can’t walk away –
Why, it even inspired this rhyme!

So we hunt and we look and debate on the price,
And we preen at the mirror’s reflection,
Wondering if this particular piece
Will enhance our expanding collection.

Do we need it? Of course not, that isn’t the point,
Though our reasons may seem like a mystery.
The ancient Egyptians had jewels galore;
The precedent’s right there in history.

And thus we continue to search and explore;
There’s such beautiful stuff to consider.
If we can afford it, there’s reason to add
One more item to make ourselves glitter.

Black Friday

Shop ‘til you drop – today’s Black Friday!
Hurry and run – it’s do or die day.
Thousands of purchasers will stampede
To buy things their families do not need.
Bargains abound – the prices slashed;
Shoppers attack – merchandise gets trashed.
Sales signs are plastered in every store:
Open at dawn – we have stuff galore.
This year security will be ample;
Hopefully nobody will get trampled.
Throngs of consumers, all shapes and sizes,
Will boast of their savings, their discount prizes.
I marvel at all of this, and concede
That I feel a little like Margaret Mead.
Watching the hordes do their tribal dance
I wonder if this represents “advance.”
Good luck if you’re part of this strange syndrome –
I may miss the bargains, but I’ll stay home.

Thanksgiving

Years ago on Turkey Day
My father, in a snit,
Let traffic get the best of him,
Announcing, “This is it!”

He turned the car ‘round in a huff;
My mom’s pleas were rejected.
My aunt had planned a massive feast
At which we were expected.

To soothe our wounds my dad declared,
“We’ll go out for Chinese!”
Our sullen silence shouted “No!”
To lobster Cantonese.

Yet there we were Thanksgiving Day
With shrimp in lobster sauce,
My father trying to pretend
He showed us who was boss.

But though he tried to cheer us up
We were a gloomy group;
We dreamed of sweet potato pie
While slurping wonton soup.

I often think back to that day –
Though we were so downcast,
We were together, and who knew
That magic wouldn’t last?

My parents are long gone
Yet every year in late November,
That Thanksgiving eating Chinese food’s
The one that I remember.

Where We Belong

On holidays people travel home
Where memory prevails;
On automatic pilot,
They’re like magnet-grabbing nails.

Expecting they can recreate
That childhood sense of wonder;
But once we’re grown that innocence
Is likely torn asunder.

It cannot be the way it was
‘Cause we ourselves have changed.
We’re like some lumps of clay
That life has somehow rearranged.

We’ve journeyed through some ups and downs
And sometimes gotten battered;
Yet still, despite our bruises
We did not forget what mattered.

And so, we hearken to the sound
And heed that sirens’ song,
And follow it to be again
At home, where we belong.

Talent

Is talent something we all have
Or is it more exclusive?
Sometimes gifts are obvious,
At other times, elusive.

Having an artistic bent,
To paint or draw or sketch,
Is something that I don’t possess,
Not by the longest stretch.

Many folks play instruments
And others can compose;
My musical ability
Has fewer highs than lows.

In beading class I watch
As others finish each design;
I struggle and I note that theirs
All look great next to mine.

In quilting, too, I marvel at
Each quilter’s magic flair,
And though I’m proud of what I’ve done,
My work can’t quite compare.

Some people take fine pictures
Or have cool computer skills;
Athletes run or skate or ski,
Avoiding clumsy spills.

Chefs in restaurants or homes
Have culinary knacks;
Businessmen and fundraisers
Have honorary plaques.

Many people are adroit
At nurturing or teaching;
Others leave us spellbound
With performing or with preaching.

Maybe others can’t detect
What talents we have hidden.
Doubting all your aptitude
Should strictly be forbidden.

Dig inside yourself – discover
Some untapped forte;
Nurture it and someday
You can put it on display.

It may take years and years until
You gather up your nerve,
But take the stage and soak up
The applause that you deserve.

Control

Some things are really beyond your control:
Maybe your car hasn’t started,
Subway’s delayed, your alarm didn’t ring;
Excuses can sound so half-hearted.

The doctor’s appointment was for the wrong date;
The nurse gave you misinformation.
The office was closed, you got voice mail instead;
You’re stressing out from the frustration.

The gift that you ordered was not there in time;
The bank didn’t get your deposit.
The cleaners misplaced what you wanted to wear,
Or else it got lost in your closet.

The traffic delayed you, the rain didn’t help;
The taxis were nowhere in sight.
You jostle a stranger who’s laden with bags –
She whirls around primed for a fight.

No matter how much you like being in charge
Or like to be holding the reins,
It’s not guaranteed that you’ll come out ahead:
Your losses may cancel your gains.

So when circumstances usurp your command,
Just calm yourself with a deep breath;
Then jump in the saddle and brandish the whip –
You’ll relinquish the reins after death.

Knit (dedicated to Aunt Sydelle)

A sweater that’s knit
By the hand of a friend
Or a grandma or aunt
Will most surely transcend
Any similar one
You can buy in a store,
‘Cause it’s knitted with love
By someone you adore.

So when you slip it on
And are snuggled inside,
Appreciate all
The emotion implied
By each stitch that contains,
Like a mystery’s clue,
A message of love
Just intended for you.

You can pay through the nose
For designer’s couture,
But a hand-knitted gift
Is worth oh, so much more!

Freak Flag

In the 60’s you could tell
Preppy kid from hippie:
Khakis, loafers, button-downs
Versus outfits trippy:

Low-slung dungarees with hems
Belled and frayed or shredded;
Tie-dyed shirts to let folks know
To Yasgur’s farm we headed.

Free-form hair, bandana bound,
Our message loud and clear:
We defy convention,
Breathe in our own atmosphere.

As David Crosby used to sing,
We let our freak flags fly.
If some small spark of freak still lives,
It’s not hard to espy.

Check out those funky earrings or
Those multicolored socks;
That retro pair of glasses:
Coloring outside the box.

A beaded vest, a kicky hat,
Some boots of soft brown leather;
A slouchy bag, a fringy belt,
A necklace twined with feather.

If you look carefully, you’ll see
(You cannot really hide)
That former freak flag fliers
In old bodies do reside.

So if you spot a fellow freak
In restaurant, mall, or movie,
Just nod in recognition and
Be happy you’re still groovy.

Stuffed

Didja ever go out to a restaurant
And eat more than you should?
If so, you know just how I feel:
Stuffed, and not too good.

Could not resist the nachos,
Ate more than twice my share;
The margarita went down smooth –
I didn’t even care.

The quesadilla melted
Like queso in the sun.
I gobbled it and with each bite,
I’d only just begun.

Fajitas followed quickly;
They sizzled and they sputtered.
The meat wrapped in tortillas –
My stomach getting cluttered.

The meal was sadly finished,
But not, alas, complete;
For when I got home I did crave
A taste of something sweet.

So even though I barely
Could sustain another bite,
I scarfed a mini-Almond Joy,
A Halloween delight.

And now I pay the piper:
My jeans I must unzip;
But now that I am comfortable,
Please pass me one last chip!

Reminiscing

Getting older, one starts missing
Pieces of the past.
Soon it’s time for reminiscing;
Some things didn’t last.

Thinking back to favorite haunts
May bring a sudden smile.
Memory teases and it flaunts;
It sucks you in with guile.

Everything was easier,
We think, when we were young;
Sunnier and breezier,
No worried hands were wrung.

All our friendships flowed along:
No squabbles, fights or tears.
No one did another wrong:
Such perfect mouseketeers!

Remembering the better times
Is fun, like taking stock;
But sometimes hidden negatives
Are there for brains to block.

Those feelings hurt, that nasty scar
We cannot quite recall;
They’re buried in the reservoir
Of childhood’s crystal ball.

But maybe we are better off
With hindsight’s glasses rosy;
After all, who’d ever scoff
At scenes so warm and cozy?

And so we reminisce and sigh
As memory portrays
The golden view of time gone by:
Those were the good old days.

High Heels

Ask a woman how she feels
When she’s struttin’ in high heels.
She may answer, “I feel power!
Obstacles I’ll just devour.”

Or she might say, “The effect
That sexy shoes helps me project
Is worth the damage to my feet;
They help to make me feel complete.”

Perhaps she just enjoys the glances,
Loves the way the heel enhances
Curvy legs with muscles taut;
Such allure cannot be bought.

As a child, I’d oft parade
Throughout the house, in my charade
Of glamour queen in my mom’s heels;
The memory’s real, but it reveals

That something didn’t turn out right.
Perhaps I couldn’t take the height,
Or else I couldn’t act the flirt;
My female wiles did not assert.

‘Cause somehow, though I grew up fine,
High heels were not in the design.
I didn’t learn to strut my stuff;
Plain walking suited me enough.

But never mind, whate’er the cause,
I guess it’s there among my flaws;
My heel aversion, I profess,
Does not deserve this full-court press.

I mention it because I muse –
Is this an option I did choose?
Was I just born with this ingrained,
Or were my high heel dreams restrained?

Whichever reasons you assign
To understand this quirk of mine,
Don’t try to change me – no chitchats;
I’m very happy wearing flats!

"Courtesy is Contagious"

If you ever ride the train,
You will have heard this weird refrain:
“When a pregnant person rides,
Please give your seat up, and besides
You’ll be doing your fair share;
Good manners will be everywhere.”
Those words are not exact, of course,
But close enough to their true source,
Which says, “Courtesy is contagious.”
What a message! How outrageous!
Will a public service plea
Change someone, even one degree?
“Gee, that person’s ‘bout to pop –
I’ll let her sit at the next stop!”
And why use “person?” Guarantee,
A pregnant woman’s not P.C.!
Equality must be addressed;
Genetics doesn’t pass the test.
Yet often, in a subway car,
I witness things that seem bizarre;
And one of these that does astound
Is seeing men, some muscle-bound,
In seats, while standing in the aisle,
A pregnant person’s round profile
Juts into the surrounding space:
Chivalry’s lost its embrace.
And oh, to public service guy:
Your message makes no one comply.
It just gives me a headache, so,
Let life retain its status quo.

Exercise

A recent study seemed to prove
That city folks are thinner
Than their suburban counterparts,
But don’t make food the sinner.

It’s lack of exercise to blame:
In cities, people walk.
If someone strolls down country lanes,
It would be cause to gawk.

But doesn’t matter where you live,
A gym exists – so try it!
You’ll see improvement quicker than
If you couch-surf and diet.

For exercise makes you alive;
You’ll feel like a spring chicken.
Your blood pumps from your heart to head;
The endorphins are kickin’.

Just walk or jog or take a class,
Or work on a machine;
Perhaps a swim will float your boat,
Or try a trampoline.

Instead of getting in your car
Or in an elevator,
Ride your bicycle or hike:
Become a health crusader.

Excuses will flow easily,
But they should be deflected;
Once exercise is in your blood,
Bad habits are neglected.

Pretty soon, I guarantee
Your exercise routine
Will be a part of who you are,
While saving gasoline.

So take a stand and make a start:
If not, you’ll really rue it.
Your life’s potential’s in your grasp;
It’s up to you – so do it!

Dessert

When I was growing up
We finished every evening meal
With something sweet and sugary –
That was its big appeal.

It might be something simple –
Bartlett pears straight from the can,
With Cool Whip as a topping;
I admit I was a fan.

Sometimes it was fruit cocktail,
With its most misleading name;
For every fruit it featured
Tasted blandly just the same.

Or else we had canned peaches
In a syrup, thick and sweet;
And if my mom had ample time,
Then pudding was our treat.

Of course we ate some Jello;
Its bright colors so attracted;
But learning of its horse hooves,
From our choice it was subtracted.

Now here I am years later
And, I must admit the truth,
That after dinner I must
Satisfy that still-sweet tooth.

Canned fruit will just not cut it,
No, it’s chocolate that I crave:
A bittersweet bonanza
Is a habit I won’t waive.

Some nights it could be ice cream,
Mushed around to make it creamy,
And topped with coconut or crumbled cake
To make it dreamy.

At times some licorice will do
Or fruit pie, a la mode;
My mother didn’t realize
She programmed that sugar lode.

I do not judge her for it;
Criticism I’ll divert.
Refrain from joining me, but
Don’t begrudge me my dessert.

The Museum

Being in the museum with friends,
Admiring all kinds of art,
Fills me with happiness hard to describe;
I wouldn’t quite know where to start.

Of course the Picassos still had their allure,
The Monets alone made quite a show;
Cezanne and Vermeer drew a sizable crowd,
And we felt simply awed by Van Gogh.

Since our friends traveled far we tried ever so hard
To see what else there was to discover,
So we visited mummies and armor and still
There were many things left to uncover.

The New Guinean wing was exotic and strange;
We examined each carving and mask.
And the gift shop enticed us with its bright array –
Was a purchase made? Why even ask?

This was followed by lunch and much more to explore,
But contentedness really transcends
All the art and the food and the touristy spots:
‘Cause the best part was being with friends.

Yes, I loved all the artifacts, paintings, and such;
I really devoured the art.
Yet the wonder and magic would not be the same
Without friends who are close to the heart.

Upload

I don’t do Twitter, cannot tweet,
Won’t message with a text;
Technology gives me cold feet
And leaves me most perplexed.

My cell phone’s very basic
And its camera is a mystery.
My eyes have not had Lasik
And my radio’s transistory.

I do not understand “Apps,”
Haven’t accessed DVR;
Instead of GPS, maps
Help me when I’m in the car.

I’ve yet to own an I-Pod,
Do not have Caller ID;
My online skills are slipshod –
I’m a techie refugee.

Yet somehow I decided
To create a book online.
My first attempt: misguided,
But the errors were benign.

I had to learn to upload
From our documented files,
Vacation photos, once stowed
In some neat computer piles.

I began the operation,
Suffering through trial and error;
My crescendoing frustration
Would cause some to flee in terror.

But my husband helped me through it
With his patience and his calm;
I did not think I could do it,
Certainly not with aplomb.

Now my book is almost finished,
Not quite done – completion pending;
Still my message’s not diminished:
There could be a happy ending.

What I’ve learned is, though remaining
Quite a pre-tech advocate,
Some uploading, with complaining,
May be perfectly legit.

Thugly

A horde of kids squeezed onto
A crowded subway train;
Jostling, laughing, screaming:
Decorum down the drain.

I wasn’t feeling threatened;
They didn’t push or glare.
In fact, they acted like
Nobody else was even there.

They yelled out to each other
Using every single curse;
My friend and I had difficulty
Trying to converse.

Some passengers were bothered,
The language was so jarring;
It felt like a rap video
In which they all were starring.

I wish I could have told them
Without being a haranguesta,
Their attitude demeaned them,
Like they played at being gangsta.

But no one in the car
Would ever dare to interfere,
And I knew better than to be
The first to volunteer.

There’s no way to inform them,
Saying honestly, not smugly,
That others view the way they act
As what I’m calling thugly.

But even if they got it
Without feeling out of joint,
I think they’d answer, simply,
“Lady – you just missed the point!”

Reflection

Some days I check the mirror
And think I’m looking good,
But other times I cringe and know
I don’t look like I should.

It could just be the haircut,
Or maybe lack of sleep;
Stress does surely take its toll,
And aging wrinkles creep.

But often there’s no reason,
A mystery with no clue.
I just think I look awful;
There’s nothing I can do.

Even if I try to dress
In something new and snazzy,
Or wear funky earrings
To make me feel cool and jazzy,

Usually it’s useless;
Not a single thing will work.
Some impish nasty spirit
Has invaded, with a smirk.

I’m sure that other people
May experience the same.
I don’t think my neurosis
Is entirely to blame.

Yet beauty on the surface
May unpleasantness conceal.
What we feel inside
Affects the face that we reveal.

So if you check the mirror
And all is not okay,
Suck it up and smile
And go out to face the day.

Confrontation

If you see someone doing something
That he shouldn’t do,
When’s the time to take a stand
And when is it taboo?

If you spy someone stealing,
Being rude or impolite,
When do you keep quiet?
When’s the time to pick a fight?

How ‘bout being privy to
A nasty verbal lashing?
Should you mind your business
Or step in and take a thrashing?

Witnessing infractions puts us
In a moral bind.
Once we’ve seen indecency,
It’s too late to rewind.

Then a quandary sucks us in,
And what is the decision?
Challenging those in the wrong
And risking their derision?

Or should we keep it all inside,
Pretend we didn’t see?
Let the perpetrator
Brandish impropriety?

Such dilemmas usually
Are silent and internal;
No one will the wiser be
If we choose the infernal.

We must live within ourselves
And though we may abhor
Surrendering a battle,
It may help us win the war.

Although it may be tempting
To jump in and quell the riot,
Sometimes the best action
Is to back off and be quiet.

Many Ways

There’s only one way in this world
For us to first appear;
There’s just one possibility
To get from naught to here.

Yet exiting’s a different thing:
So many ways of leaving;
And usually we have no choice
To be the cause of grieving.

We could get rammed while in a car,
Or crushed under a bus;
Or perish silently in bed
Without ado or fuss.

We might succumb to cancer,
Not survive a heart attack;
Perhaps while hunting with a friend,
We’ll get shot in the back.

An operation may go wrong;
Infection escalate.
A strange disease could sidle in;
A bomb could detonate.

Some folks drown or fall head-first
From roofs or down the stairs;
Others get attacked by dogs
Or mauled by grizzly bears.

Drugs can cause an overdose,
And lightning sometimes strikes.
Avalanches just might bury
Hikers taking hikes.

Bridges may collapse and fires
Can lick us with their heat;
Sometimes people get plowed down
While walking ‘cross the street.

Bullets penetrate and kill
And so do knives and stones;
But no matter how we go,
We’re all reduced to bones.

Still we plod along each day
Without really knowing
When and in what manner
We’ll eventually be going.

So we put it out of mind
As we take our next breath;
It’s easier to live our life
Than think about our death.

Parade

Our World Series heroes need
To hear a constant accolade,
But even more, they have to have
A New York ticker tape parade.

Watching it on my TV,
(Should have gone, but hate the crowd)
It was awesome seeing fans
Standing patiently and proud.

In the limo, leading off,
Yogi waved, absorbing cheers;
Politicians claimed their spots
As a perk of their careers.

Bloomberg, Paterson, and Koch,
Giuliani, too, of course;
Joe Girardi rode with Mike,
A few days too late to endorse.

Michael Kay rode by himself,
Followed by some AM voices:
John Sterling and Susan,
The announcers who would be my choices.

In the floats, a thrill to see
Johnny Damon and Teixeira;
Hope they stick around to have
Careers like that of Yogi Berra.

Here is A-Rod with Jay-Z,
Swisher, C.C. and Burnett;
Even Reggie Jackson came:
He remains a hero yet.

Matsui and Cano float by,
Melky, Jorge and Marte,
But the crowd goes really nuts
When Derek Jeter’s on display.

Down the canyon, now I see
Joba C. and Andy Pettitte;
Mariano, without whom
The Yankees might as well forget it.

As the floats reach City Hall,
The time has come for me to end.
I hope I am forgiven by
Those I’ve omitted as I penned.

Our Yankee heroes do deserve
This joyous upbeat atmosphere;
We’ll soak it up to last us ‘til
We celebrate again next year.

Victory

Here it is, we’ve all be waiting;
Now’s the time for celebrating!
Winning’s sweet, but even sweeter
Is to win with Derek Jeter.
Phillies simply didn’t get it
When confronted by a Pettitte,
Or a C.C. or Marte;
And Mariano? Hell, no way!
Sometimes umpires’ calls were screwy,
But we countered with Matsui.
Every player really hustled;
Melk and Johnny pulled some muscle.
Alex came through in the clutch;
Phillies didn’t like that much.
Mark Teixeira and Posada
Fielded smoothly, missing nada.
Gardner, Swisher and Cano
Helped to deal the fatal blow.
Pitchers Joba, Coke and Hughes
Joined to make the Phillies lose.
Robertson, A.J. Burnett
Pitched as good as it can get.
Hairston, Jr. did his part,
Even though he didn’t start.
Molina, Hinske, Aceves, too
All did what they had to do.
And of course, there’d be no party
Without brilliant Joe Girardi.
Every single Yankee fan,
Here at home or in Japan,
Feels today like we’re in heaven –
Wow! It’s really twenty-seven!

Space

Living in the city
Means that space is tight.
Many folks who need more room
Have simply taken flight.

But if you’ve stayed, you’ve managed
To organize and shift
So every item has its place;
No person has short shrift.

With built-ins, shelves and bunk beds,
You’ve learned to make it work;
Though friends of yours from out-of-town
Might think that you’re berserk.

Yet it’s okay to covet
A little extra room.
It’s normal and appropriate
And healthy, I assume.

Unless you’re fairly wealthy,
Or luckier than most,
You suffer from cramped-itis,
So simply diagnosed.

You’d love a walk-in closet,
Would die for half a bath;
Nine hundred square feet has no wiggle room –
Just do the math.

Most days I hardly notice.
In fact, I’m quite content.
I can’t complain, I’ve sacrificed
To pay a meager rent.

But once in a great while,
I think of my decision;
Staying in the city many view
With true derision.

I do not have a garden,
Or back yard for a grill,
But Central Park does beckon
And fortifies me still.

There’s magic out my window:
Life’s bustling and rosy;
Yet here inside my city space,
I’m comfortable and cozy.

World Series

Mummies and skeletons don’t alarm me.
I don’t think vampires mean to harm me.
Spiders and waterbugs I can stomp.
I’m not afraid of an ogre’s chomp.
Monsters and aliens may exist;
I think I’m something they would resist.
Only one thing gives me the willies:
Cliff Lee, the pitching ace of the Phillies.

Cooler than cool’s how he appears;
Doesn’t acknowledge applause or jeers.
Working with quicker than lightning speed,
If he had some clones we could just concede;
For every last Yankee he did dispatch –
And how ‘bout that reach-behind-grabbing catch?
His pitching is pure, like a work of art;
His presence strikes fear in each Yankee heart.

But now that I’ve said this, I must admit
I haven’t lost hope, not one single bit,
For we’ll be at home now to play game six,
And others will pitch without Cliff Lee’s tricks.
He’ll sit in the dugout, where he will watch,
Helpless to chalk up another notch.
Now I can breathe easy and cheer and yell,
Since the Yankees won’t be under Cliff Lee’s spell.

So Phillies, prepare: Yankees will be crowned
‘Cause our own Mariano will take the mound!

Mah Jongg

When I was growing up
One night a week was set aside;
If mom was needed, well – too bad!
She was preoccupied.

She left for someone’s house or else
To our home her friends came;
The purpose was the females-only
Holy mah jongg game.

A bridge table was set for four,
Refreshments were prepared;
And if an atom bomb dropped
No one would have even cared.

The ivory tiles were stacked in rows,
The mah jongg cards consulted,
And lots of kibitzing ensued;
Hilarity resulted.

I’d listen from a nearby room
When my mom was the host.
The clack of tiles and laughter
Is what I remember most.

I’d sometimes steal a perfect piece
Of pineapple with cherry,
Or grab a bridge-mix handful
From the nosh itinerary.

But mostly I ignored them,
Said hello and grabbed my snacks;
I knew I’d never spend my time
With bams and dots and craks.

Yet years have passed and who’d have guessed
That I, with several others,
Play mah jongg in our living rooms,
Exactly like our mothers.

We build our walls and share our food,
And sing each other’s praises;
The circle has been made complete,
And that is what amazes.

We never think, when we are young,
Our parents’ lives expressed
So many things that we’d someday
Be happy we possessed.

The beauty of that knowledge
Is despite life’s barbs and knots,
We can schmooze with friends just like our moms,
With bams and craks and dots.

Marathon

I’ve never run a marathon
And know I never will,
Yet watching all the runners run,
I get my yearly thrill.

To say they are amazing, well,
It doesn’t really nail it.
The mountain’s twenty-six miles high
And damn, they mean to scale it!

The leaders, or elite, they’re called,
Have bodies made of granite;
Their sculpted muscles represent
Perfection for this planet.

To see them running by so fleet,
With their gazelle-like strides,
Makes me wonder where inside
Their stamina resides.

And more remarkable to me
Are those not so elite:
The ordinary yet determined
Amateur athlete.

I saw a lot of them today
In pain at eighteen miles,
Cramping up and slowing down
And often lacking smiles.

Yet most of them will make it through,
Although it may take hours;
They all deserve to know how much
Their attitude empowers.

So here’s to marathoners all,
No matter when you finish;
My admiration grows each year,
And never will diminish.

Although you chose this challenge
Each for reasons that you needed,
The inspiration you provide
Means that you have succeeded.