Synonyms

It’s jumbo, huge, gigantic
Or it’s miniscule or small.
She’s frenzied or she’s frantic;
He is towering or tall.

They amble, stroll or saunter
Or they scurry, skitter, scoot.
He’s a braggart or a flaunter;
She is smart or she’s astute.

It’s delectable or yummy
Or it’s nasty, gross or foul.
In the stomach or the tummy,
It might cause a pout or scowl.

As we rummage or we ransack
All the knowledge in our brains,
We find synonyms from way back
Which our intellect retains.

So we dip or delve or plunder
In our word-filled cache or chest,
Plucking nouns or verbs whose thunder
Will leave readers most impressed.

I could keep this up forever
In this rhyme or poem I’ve penned,
But I’m wrapping this endeavor –
It’s finito! That’s the end!

Rules of the Pool

Unlike my husband, I don’t swim,
But often he’ll complain
When a fellow swimmer does insist
That they should split the lane.

The rules are posted on the wall
And very clearly state
That lanes may not be split
And swimmers should cooperate.

Each person in the pool’s supposed to
Circle as he swims.
If everybody followed this,
There’d be no tangled limbs.

But many people don’t obey.
It makes me wonder why –
They feel entitled to their whims
And rules do not apply.

Society has some demands
So turmoil’s kept at bay;
Yet there are those who flaunt the laws
No matter what you say.

I’d have a lot of trouble
With such people in the gym.
Too bad they taint the water
When my husband takes a swim.

Thug Music

I love rock & roll and folk,
Classical and jazz.
Music offers everyone
The attributes it has.

Sometimes I like Zydeco
And even Irish pipes.
Country isn’t quite my thing;
For opera, I’ve got gripes.

My daughter loves all music, though,
But I can’t understand
How she’ll groove along to oldies
Or the Beatles on one hand

Then she’ll turn the radio to hear
Some hip-hop or some rap.
I listen to the lyrics
And to me, it sounds like crap.

When I tell her that the singers
Seem to me like lowlife thugs,
She laughs and sings along
And as I shake my head, she shrugs.

I guess it’s generational
But I am pretty sure
That no matter what my age,
That music I would not endure.

When we are in the car, though,
And a thuggy song is played,
I cringe but tolerate my daughter’s
Hip-hop hit parade.

Without a Doubt

Without a doubt the sun will rise.
The gym rats all will exercise.
The candidates will tell their lies
‘Cause that’s what life’s about.

Without a doubt the dawn will break.
Someone will make a huge mistake.
There’ll be some sadness – hearts will ache;
Of sorrow, there’s no drought.

Without a doubt the day will end.
Someone will make a brand-new friend
While others find some rules to bend;
Both good and bad will sprout.

Without a doubt the moon will show,
Sky will darken, stars will glow.
From poets’ pencils, words will flow
For they can’t do without…

Peace Corps

Two women in their twenties
Were conversing where I sat.
They chatted ‘bout their lives,
A little this, a bit of that.

But one thing that I overheard
Sure made me pay attention,
For entering the Peace Corps
Was one woman’s planned intention.

She’d just returned from Africa,
Four months in Cameroon.
She hoped her Peace Corps stint
Would take her someplace else real soon.

I marveled at her freedom
And the joys of being young,
The endless possibilities
That she could choose among.

I long ago was in that boat,
No ties to hold me back.
The Peace Corps never was my thing –
Adventure genes I lack.

Yet still, the world was at my feet.
I journeyed and explored;
But then I settled down,
My wanderlust largely ignored.

Just listening to that young woman
Hit me like a slap.
Her youth was like a vast terrain,
My age was like a trap.

Don’t get me wrong – I like my life
And plan to travel more,
But endless possibilities
No longer are in store.

The Other Side of the World

At 6 A.M. I heard the news
And the updated score
Of a tennis game just being played
On the Australian shore.

The match was close to over,
Competition at its height.
How weird that I was waking up
While there it must be night.

Though I’ve crossed to other time zones
Where I’ve had to change my watch,
Sometimes just a small reminder
Kicks awareness up a notch.

So I think of Raf and Roger
Slicing bullets, fast and deep,
While I tossed and turned in Dreamland
In a less than peaceful sleep.

Perhaps my mind had traveled
To that tennis match down under;
Maybe being on the other side
Made Roger lose his thunder.

The President's Speech

The State of the Union’s like being in shul –
You stand up and sit down or feel like a fool.
Unless you’re Republican, then you stay seated;
That status may change if Obama’s defeated.

The spectacle seems just a little surreal,
For one can’t quite know what the spectators feel.
Despite the applause and the smiles or the pouts,
Most listeners have to admit to some doubts.

The President says that our Union is strong.
Republicans claim that his statement is wrong.
It’s hard to decide what is truth, which are lies,
When both parties are fighting it out for the prize.

If you want my opinion, I claim an exemption –
For part of the time, I watched “Shawshank Redemption.”

Chauffeur

She strode from her apartment door
Right to a chauffeured car
In workout clothes, so I suppose
She wasn’t going far.

The lifestyles of the rich, I guess,
Are not like mine or yours.
The luxury of what might be
Is more than opened doors.

It constitutes a life of ease
Where ordinary stress
Just disappears and with it, fears
The rest of us possess.

It doesn’t mean they’re happier,
Despite their lavish means;
But how I’d thrive with one to drive
As I plied my routines!

Circle of Life

A baby was named this past Saturday
At a service that I attended.
On Sunday there was a memorial
To remember a life that has ended.

One weekend’s events, back to back, in fact,
Help remind us we must understand
That however we try, in the blink of an eye,
Life’s trajectory follows as planned.

We’re born and we’re diapered, we’re nurtured and fed;
We grow up and suffer or thrive.
We live for the years that our bodies can take
And one day we’re no longer alive.

Our family and friends get together to mourn
And remember the person they knew;
But most likely there will not be anyone there
Who can conjure that newborn’s debut.

That’s the way it should be; it’s the circle of life.
The years vanish quick, like a snap;
But the memories and the impressions they’ve made
Form a reservoir waiting to tap.

A Fall, Y'All

Paula Deen, the Southern Queen,
Known for decadent cuisine,
Just revealed that she’s concealed
Some news from which she hasn’t healed.

This cook-show host was diagnosed
With Diabetes, which engrossed
Some former fans, whose current plans
Include no dishes from her pans.

Her food is fried or butter-fied;
To cut out fat, she never tried.
Some folks observe the food she serves
Has given her what she deserves.

In one regard, it must be hard –
Her cooking lard must now be barred.
With all this heat, she shouldn’t cheat,
For we are truly what we eat!

Baby Naming

The daughter of a dear, dear friend,
Her baby girl in tow,
Just had a naming ceremony
And we had to go.

I flashed back thirty years ago
And swear I could erase
The intervening years when I
Looked at this baby’s face.

She’s beautiful, she’s magical,
She’s precious like no other;
But everyone who looked at her
Would swear she was her mother.

We marveled at her tiny fingers
And her rosebud lips;
But I remember when her mom
Was bounced on my friend’s hips.

The years fly by and suddenly
Our kids have up and grown.
When grandkids come, we realize
Just how far those years have flown.

So looking at that baby girl
Was a nostalgic treat.
Those cherished days went by so fast
But boy, they sure were sweet!

Submissive

Before Rick Perry left the race,
They interviewed some fans.
One woman said a vote for him
Was surely in her plans.

The journalist asked why and so
She went on to explain.
She thought Rick Perry’s love of God
Embellished his campaign.

That answer didn’t shock me;
Pious folks want him elected.
Her second reason, though, was not
At all what I expected.

She said, “I like Rick Perry’s wife
Because she’s so submissive.”
Those words were so amazing
My reaction was dismissive.

But then I thought about it and
I reached this sad conclusion:
Equality for women’s still
An out-of-reach illusion.

For there are women, young and old,
Who feel it is their place
To be subservient to men,
Which I find a disgrace.

We’ve come so far and fought so hard
Yet there are those still stuck
With values long-rejected by
Most females filled with pluck.

I’m glad Rick Perry’s given up
And stepped out of the fight.
Unfortunately, he’s got clones
Just waiting on the right.

The Poe Toaster

Today is Edgar’s birthday
And the third year in a row
That the famous caped “Poe Toaster”
Has decided not to show.

From 1949 for sure,
And maybe years preceding,
The Toaster visited Poe’s grave,
And not to do some weeding.

With wide-brimmed hat and scarf and cape
To keep his ID hidden,
He’d sneak right up to Edgar’s tomb,
A visit most forbidden.

He used a cane with silver tip
To navigate the ground;
And in the morning, at the site,
The following was found:

A Martell cognac bottle
With its contents halfway filled
And a trio of red roses,
Which helped make the legend build.

In 1998, a note
Explained the torch was passed;
A Toaster “son” would be the one
To hold tradition fast.

On Poe’s 200^th birthday, though,
The year 2010,
The Toaster missed his calling
And has not been seen again.

The ritual’s become, alas,
A faded bit of history;
But Edgar Allan Poe fans love
Its enigmatic mystery.

Sinking

I always thought a captain
Had to go down with his ship.
Forgetting this, for captains,
Seems to be a major slip.

As passengers were scrambling
To keep themselves afloat,
The captain was observing from
The safety of his boat.

A lifeboat is the one I mean,
Away from the disaster.
The sinking ship, where he belonged,
Once hailed him as its master.

Of course there’ll be a price to pay
And he can only lose.
Another reason why I never
Plan to take a cruise!

Twice as Nice

It’s better to expect too little
Rather than too much.
When expectations run too high,
They’re often out of touch.

If you assume an outcome,
You may soon be out of joint
When you find that what you’d hoped for
May instead just disappoint.

It could be a meal or movie
Or a date with someone new.
Maybe it’s a Broadway show
Which others gave a good review.

Or perhaps you’ve purchased something
That you think will change your life;
When it turns out you were wrong, that news
May fill your heart with strife.

But if pessimism suits you,
Then please follow my advice.
If your expectation’s wrong
The end result is twice as nice.

Coming Attractions

You get to the movies
And find a good seat.
Perhaps you have purchased
Some popcorn to eat.

The lights start to dim
But there’s no satisfaction,
‘Cause now you will see
The first coming attraction.

There used to be two of them,
Possibly three;
But now there’s no telling
How many there’ll be.

I lost count at six
Though I’m sure there were more;
And unless you walk out,
They are hard to ignore.

I like these small snippets
And hate to complain.
When so many are shown, though,
They drive you insane.

So studio people,
I urge you – be smart:
When the theater lights dim,
Let the damn movie start!

Editing

Every day we edit
What we say and how we act.
If we don’t, then we regret it;
No denying, that’s a fact.

There are people who don’t get it;
They forget to speak with tact.
It can hurt us if we let it
And don’t pause, but just react.

As to editing, some dread it,
Fearing it won’t keep intact
What they meant when they first said it
If finesse, indeed, they lacked.

Each expression, once we’ve read it,
More than likely has been stacked
On another one that’s bled it
Of its power to distract.

Every thought is ours to thread it
And, with needle, help extract
What the world will see instead. It
Is survival’s secret pact.

J.P. Morgan

J.P. Morgan liked collecting
And he could afford it.
If some treasure was affecting,
Bam! He up and scored it.

Visit his vast reading room,
With books stacked to the ceiling.
If he read them, I assume
He found them all appealing.

Leather volumes, choice and rare,
And Bibles by the score;
Priceless tomes beyond compare
And still, he wanted more.

I can’t imagine all that wealth,
When nothing’s out of reach.
To choose between such stock and health,
I’d like a dose of each!

Beware the 13th

Don’t step on a sidewalk crack.
Walk away from ladders.
Check your daily calendar
And you’ll know why it matters.

Shrink from black cats and be sure
Your mirrors stay unbroken.
Hold on to your rabbit’s foot
Or other lucky token.

For today’s a day to fear;
It hits us, like a slap.
Beware of Friday the thirteenth
If you believe that crap!

Set in Stone

When I was a kid I learned to eat
By ending a meal with something sweet;
Pudding, ice cream, sweet canned fruit –
The need for sweet was absolute.

That craving had been set in stone
When I’m with others, or alone.
My dinner will not feel complete
Unless it’s finished with a treat:

Cake or fruit pie, a la mode;
Worth the sugar overload.
Licorice or Hershey’s kisses
Join the list of never-misses.

Halvah, gummies, chocolate raisins,
Toasted nuts with honey glazin’s;
Cobblers, cookies, lemon tarts,
Any sweet that’s off the charts.

All I need’s a bite or two
To let me know my meal is through.
Dessert is a necessity
And always will be so to me.

Either Or

Right or left
Warp or weft
Up or down
Smile or frown

Hot or cold
Young or old
Big or small
Short or tall

Thin or fat
Dog or cat
Day or night
Wrong or right

In or out
Sure or doubt
Poor or rich
Sweet or bitch

Yes or no
Stop or go
War or peace
Nephew - niece


Love or hate
Early – late
Hoard or lend
Time to end!

Cookie Jar

My childhood cookie jar was brown
And looked like it was Asian.
It must have been a gift, but
I don’t know for what occasion.

Bright flowers and some animals
Were intertwined with gold.
I always found it ugly,
Yet such sweets were in its hold:

Vienna fingers, Hydrox,
Chips Ahoy and Pecan Sandies;
Nothing homemade, only cookies –
Never cakes or candies.

It rested on a pantry shelf,
Not really on display.
That “out of sight” thing didn’t work –
We plumbed it every day.

For years I hadn’t thought about
That jar or sneaking snacks
Until, in an antique store,
Something stopped me in my tracks.

For there it was, in front of me –
“Tobacco Jar,” it said;
And all those memories just started
Crowding in my head.

I didn’t buy it, even though
Nostalgia has its place.
You can’t relive the past
But certain objects we embrace.

That cookie jar seems special now,
Still ugly, though, in truth;
But buying it would not return me
To my long-lost youth.

Heeeeere's Johnny!

I watched some DVD’s
Of Johnny Carson’s late-night show.
I’d seen a few but that was
Many, many years ago.

He really was hilarious.
His laughter was contagious;
And nothing really flummoxed him,
No matter how outrageous.

He sparkled with non-human guests –
Orangutans and roosters.
Comedians considered him
The best of all their boosters.

As Carnac the Magnificent,
His face could not conceal
How silly were the answers
That his “power” would reveal.

So many pies were thrown at him,
He took each one in stride.
He’d suffer all indignities
If laughs they would provide.

His deadpan looks were priceless
And his banter was the best.
He took the role of talk-show host
And man, was it finessed!

As far as TV shows today,
You really can’t compare;
But after just a taste, I wish
He still was on the air.

Seeded

I love any bread with seeds -
Bagels, rolls or rye,
Pumpernickel, crusty loaves -
They all will satisfy.

Caraway and sesame
My appetite will spur;
But poppy seeds, above all others,
Are what I prefer.

Some cakes and muffins, even scones,
Are dotted with those seeds.
When I am in a bakery,
My mouth knows what it needs.

I marvel at those people,
Who will willingly abstain
From the joy of crunching seeded food
To eat a bagel plain.

They miss the subtle flavors
That all tiny seeds bequeath;
Though their one advantage is they won't
Have seeds stuck in their teeth!

Every...

Every meal can’t be a winner.
Every book won’t win a prize.
What seems great to a beginner
May be average in disguise.

Every play won’t win a Tony.
Not all films get good reviews.
Every Oscar ceremony
Pans the actors who did lose.

Every purchase won’t be flawless.
Every gift won’t be ideal.
Some successes might be aweless,
Contrary to what you feel.

Every effort won’t be lucky.
Every word can’t be just right.
Still, we try, and if we’re plucky,
There will be a poem to write.

Skirts!

At times, I might be in the mood for a skirt;
On other occasions, it’s pants.
Having such options, I needn’t alert
Anyone to my pick in advance.

I like wearing skirts – they feel flirty and fun
And remind me of dressier days.
When my working career I had newly begun,
I was part of a skirt or dress phase.

For I wasn’t permitted to dress up in slacks;
Females had to look proper and prim.
We accepted it then, though at present it smacks
Of the rules many women found grim.

But today I can wear anything that I choose
And in skirts sometimes I find my voice.
I feel sorry for men, ‘cause in this case they lose
For they aren’t allowed the same choice.

Jayden/Isabella

If you had a baby
And you live in New York City,
Likely he’d be Jayden,
Which would really be a pity.

Eight hundred other newborns
All were given that same name.
Originality might not be
Jayden’s claim to fame.

For New York City baby girls,
The top choice on the list
Was Isabella, now that Ashley’s
Somehow been dismissed.

When parents agonize to pick
A name they find unique,
It really has to put a crimp
In part of that mystique

When, on the playground, they call
Isabella! or shout Jayden!
And fifty little toddlers
All come saucily paradin’.

I guess those parents might have gone
With Enoch, Oona, Veer;
Those monikers were at the bottom
Of the list last year.

To brand-new parents, though, whose babies’
Lives have just begun,
Their Jayden or their Isabella
Is the only one.

Photo Albums

In photo albums of the past,
The pictures stayed in place
With little stick-on corners
That today you can't replace.

The albums after that had pages
That you had to lift.
The photos rested under plastic
'Til they'd start to shift.

I have a bunch of those, with pages
Turning brown or loose.
Instead of getting them in shape,
I find a good excuse.

When I'm no longer here, those pictures
Likely will get tossed.
Those moments captured by a lens
Will finally be lost.

So even if my albums are
Intact, with full repair,
I seem to be the only person
Who might really care.

My recent photographs are kept
In books I make online.
I choose the backgrounds and the fonts -
Each masterpiece is mine.

But someday they will, too, be gone
As memories do fade.
Until that time, my albums all
Are front-row-seat-displayed.

At the Curb

Christmas trees, some quite superb,
All sit neglected, at the curb.
They'd graced somebody's living room
'Til needles cried out for a broom.


Then they were stripped and dragged out, bare,
Just like the owners didn't care.
Their ornaments were boxed away
Until another Christmas day.


But all their glory came and went;
For them, there is no real lament.
Alas, they sit and, with no pardon,
They'll be mulched for someone's garden.


How the proud and mighty fall!
Whether they were short or tall,
Every tree, once so ornate,
Will suffer such a lowly fate.

Tangerine Tango

I just heard on the radio
Some news you never hear -
It seems that industry has picked
The color of the year.


It will appear on clothing
And accessories and make-up;
Some experts thought its vibrancy
Would give us all a wake-up.


The color has a name, of course - 
It's tangerine and tango.
I picture something orange-red,
Much deeper than a mango.


I bought a sweater weeks ago
And it was just that shade.
Perhaps the store had jumped the gun
By having it displayed.

But now I'll be the height of vogue,
The coolest on the scene,
When I put on my sweater
Colored tango tangerine.


I never knew that years had hues
But if you must comply,
Perhaps to keep up with the times,
It might be time to dye!

2012

Twenty twelve has landed
With a great big noisy plop.
Champagne bubbles fizzled
As the ball began to drop.

Groggers grogged and horns did blare;
Confetti floated down.
Heads were topped with party hats
Or feathers or a crown.

Couples kissed and buddies hugged
With jubilant emotion.
Times Square crowds were teeming,
Thick like fish within the ocean.

Everyone was thrilled to bid
Farewell to what has passed.
We can’t predict what we’ll reel in;
Our lines have just been cast.

And so we’ll dream and wait to see
What winds up on our plate.
The future beckons and we have
No need to hesitate.

Let’s dive right in and choose a path
That hopefully will yield
A year as joyous as the one
Our fantasy’s revealed.