Addicted

Coffee drinkers everywhere
Will know just what I mean
When I describe my symptoms
If I don’t get my caffeine.

On those rare times I skip my brew
For reasons I can’t fight,
A headache gathers kindling,
Just waiting to ignite.

With stubbornness and fortitude,
It builds a towering pyre;
And when the pounding’s at its peak,
It sets the pile on fire.

A headache of such magnitude
Just laughs in Advil’s face.
Aleve and Bayer also cave,
Retreating in disgrace.

The only cure that works for sure
Is coffee, hot and strong.
With just one sip, I know those flames
Will not be burning long.

By summoning the caffeine hose
To douse that headache’s rage,
I manage to control the beast
And lock it in its cage.

And there it shall remain unless
I miss my morning fix;
‘Cause headaches like today’s I need
Just like a ton of bricks!

Church and State

In a speech that hearkens to olden days,
Maybe those of the Roman forum,
These approximate words were uttered by
Republican Rick Santorum:

“I don’t believe in America
Where we separate church and state.”
I wish the Founding Fathers
Could be here to set him straight.

He mentioned a speech made by J.F.K.
Which defended the church-state division,
And claimed he felt “sickened” and could “throw up,”
Reflecting his total derision.

For any American not of his faith
Or with no religion at all,
Those statements should send quite a shiver up spines
And serve as a clarion call.

For where would we be if he got voted in?
Maybe exiled, like Jews were from Spain.
In the U.S. of A., if he’s given his way,
Pious Christians alone would remain.

Though I’m neither a Newt nor a Romney fan
And Ron Paul seems to have not a chance,
I sure hope one of them is successful because
Rick just scares me right out of my pants!

The Skinny

While following the Oscar show,
A movie-goer’s duty,
I focused on the actresses,
To see who “walked in beauty.”

I hated many hair-dos,
Thought the gowns were mediocre;
But several had great earrings
Or a dazzling diamond choker.

Some women’s faces seemed to have
Been altered by the knife,
While others’ make-up hid the creases
Added on by life.

What most surprised me, though,
Were the celebrities so gaunt
They strutted to the stage with bodies
That they chose to flaunt.

With toothpick arms and jutting bones
They didn’t look appealing;
And what about the hidden parts
Their dresses were concealing?

I’ve often heard it said
“No one can be too rich or thin;”
But what I saw were women
Who could use some extra skin.

There weren’t many, just a few,
Among the multitude;
But at the after-parties, man!
I hope they ate some food!

Ranking Teachers

In an ill-advised decision,
Educationally dumb,
New York City’s ranked its teachers,
Which defies the rule of thumb.

For the whole world now has access
To the way each teacher scored,
Though I thought humiliation
Was a means to be deplored.

Only math and English teachers
Bear the brunt of this new rule,
Which eliminates most pedagogues
Who work in every school.

What’s the basis of the rankings?
Well, it’s simple yet pathetic –
Results of standard city tests,
Supposedly prophetic.

A teacher may be patient, smart,
Creative or exciting;
She may inspire thinking minds
Or brilliant bursts of writing.

But all of that won’t mean a thing
If students’ scores are flat;
‘Cause politicians are convinced
Exams are where it’s at.

It doesn’t matter if the kids
Have problems or are poor;
The teacher is the one at fault
When there’s a sub-par score.

And now the public has the chance
To check each teacher’s name;
A ranking near the bottom means
They know just who to blame.

My question to the city is,
For teachers who scored low,
If branding them on websites
Is the proper way to go.

For people are so quick to judge
When labels are applied.
I know I’d feel like Hester Prynne,
With no place safe to hide.

Like educators everywhere,
I’m shocked, appalled, dismayed.
To those in charge who pushed this through,
You get a failing grade!

Wrinkle Goop

Before I go to bed at night,
I slather on my face
Some creamy goop that promises
My wrinkles will erase.

Of course it doesn’t work, or else
We’d all look twenty-one.
There’s no way to remove those lines
Once aging has begun.

And yet those products sell like mad
‘Cause every woman’s dream
Is that she can look younger
With a little nightly cream.

I’m way too scared for surgery
And not quite Botox-vain,
So even with my bedtime rite
My creases all remain.

You’d think I would have given up
Since brains I do possess,
But maybe there’s the slightest chance
Those crinkles will loom less.

So I surrender to the hype
Although I know the truth –
No salve or lotion can restore
That lovely skin of youth.

Rainy Day Thoughts

In a drizzle, droplets drip;
Hair will frizzle, make-up slip.
Streets will glisten, raincoats bead;
Wipers work the lowest speed.

Rain that’s steady slashes down;
Puddles plash and insects drown.
Folks’ umbrellas bump and clash;
Headlights blind you, bold and brash.

Pouring cloudbursts crash and soak;
Running dashes they provoke.
Awnings are in short supply;
People race indoors to dry.

Even though we need the rain,
When it falls, we oft complain.
Still, we’re lucky, as things go –
Any rain’s preferred to snow!

Avalanche

Expert skiers ought to know
That skiing ever faster
And off the beaten track just might
Precipitate disaster.

The specialists who gauge the snow
For slickness, depth and such
Put warnings out so all who ski
Stay out of danger’s clutch.

Yet more and more, those athletes
Who love risks and taking chances
Ignore all the advice and yield
To daring circumstances.

And so an avalanche occurs,
Which causes pain or death.
I wonder if regret’s expressed
In someone’s dying breath.

For admonitions only work
If they are sternly heeded.
A dab of caution is the dose
Of medicine that’s needed.

I sympathize with those who’ve lost
A loved one to the slopes;
But those who died so recklessly
Were those who knew the ropes.

Winter Cherries

Today I was surprised to see
Fresh cherries on display.
I never thought in February
They would come my way.

I know that fruits, once seasonal,
Are up for sale all year.
The cantaloupe I eat each morning
Makes that very clear.

But cherries are another beast
And therefore, my surprise;
These had the deep rich purple-red
Whose taste I could surmise.

The fruit man put one in my hand
And so I took a bite.
It was so firm and juicy
I could not hide my delight.

Though winter’s on the calendar
And hasn’t called it quits,
I scarfed a bowl of cherries
And the proof is in the pits!

Jeremy Lin

Chinese people everywhere
Are cheering for the Knicks.
They’re rooting for their favorite fan,
Who’s managed to transfix.

Of course, they want their team to score
But whether lose or win,
They’ll get the thrills they need
By chanting for their own J. Lin.

For Jeremy, a Harvard man,
Is living, breathing proof
A brainy Asian athlete
Isn’t anything to spoof.

I get the Chinese mindset
And I understand their pride;
Since folks like them in sports are few,
Their joy is justified.

It feels familiar, ‘cause I knew
That feeling, oh so rich,
When years ago, I got to see
A fellow landsman pitch.

His name was Sandy Koufax,
His religion one I share;
And every Jewish baseball fan
Of that was well aware.

When you’re in the minority,
It really feels so good
To celebrate a star who comes
From your part of the ‘hood.

Newt's Pursuit

You don’t have to be astute
To know the Red team won’t choose Newt.
There are reasons several-fold –
First of all, he just seems old.

Though he may be very smart,
He’s dumb in matters of the heart.
Cheated on a loyal wife –
“Open marriage?” – Get a life!

Now he stands to make a speech
With number 3 wife, like a leech,
Always just an inch away,
With her hair held down by spray.

Newt, I hate to tell you, mistah,
Next first mate won’t be Callista!

At This Moment

At this moment in time
There are moms giving birth,
While gravediggers shovel
A plot in the earth.

At this moment a plane
Is preparing to soar,
While a soldier’s blown up
In a far-away war.

At this moment some people
Confess all their sins,
While the gamblers assess
All their losses and wins.

There are folks who are sleeping
Or cooking or reading;
Shoplifters stealing
And knife victims bleeding.

Actors rehearsing and
Bar patrons drinking.
Cars crashing crazily;
Novelists thinking.

Knitters are knitting
And lovers embracing;
Criminals learn of
The sentence they’re facing.

Capture one moment
And measure the arc.
Everything happens –
The light and the dark.

Here in this moment
Some journey from home,
While I sit and ponder
And jot down this poem.

Pez

No matter what an expert says
About what folks should savor,
I really hate the taste of Pez –
That goes for every flavor.

The small contraption where it goes
Is cute, unique and fun;
But everybody surely knows
You’re glad when each row’s done.

It tastes like baby aspirin did
When melted in a spoon.
I had that as a fevered child
And won’t repeat it soon.

There are some people who collect
Those Pez dispenser toys.
Nostalgia is what I expect
Contributes to their joys.

For recently I had a taste
Of modern Pez, in cherry.
I chewed and swallowed in such haste
It was extraordinary.

The flavor hadn’t changed a whit;
The texture was like chalk.
If offered some, I’d stall a bit
Then beat it, like a hawk.

Some candy treats are meant to be
A childhood paragon.
Today, I’d take Godiva,
‘Cause that Pez-press urge is gone.

A Vase of Purple Tulips

A vase of purple tulips
Gives your outlook quite a boost.
It chases off the gloomy thoughts
That seek a place to roost.

You needn’t pay an arm or leg
To purchase such a bunch;
But purple is the way to go –
It packs a potent punch.

I’m feeling kind of off this week
And sick is not my style;
But looking at those purple tulips
Causes me to smile.

Payment Expected

There’s a sign right on the wall,
In case you’re feeling nervous,
That payment is expected at
The time you’re getting service.

You’re possibly distracted
‘Cause they’re x-raying your head.
They want your money right up front
In case you end up dead.

The sign is a reminder
Lest you maybe will forget.
This test is just a gamble
And they’re counting on your bet.

So whether you’re a winner
Or, unluckily, you lose,
The house accumulates the chips
And you cannot refuse.

And so you cough the payment up
By cash or card or check,
And sit around and wait
As they are shuffling the deck.

You’ve anted up, you’re in the game;
You’re in the dealer’s pull.
No matter if you win or lose,
You’ve paid your debt in full.

Vertigo

Vertigo, vertigo, vertigo – whoa!
Walking in circles is no way to go.
Everything’s turning and moving and spinning;
Nothing is ending, only beginning.

Vertigo, vertigo, vertigo – stop!
Each tiny step feels like I'm gonna drop.
Can’t get a fix on an object ahead;
Nothing’s in focus – they’re drifting instead.

Vertigo, vertigo, vertigo – halt!
I just can’t handle this type of assault.
Crossing the room I’m at lurch like a drunk;
Confined to the house I’ve sunk into a funk.

Vertigo, vertigo, vertigo – why?
Help me get better and I will comply.
I swallow the meds but they don’t really work;
Frustration is mounting – I’m going berserk.

Vertigo, vertigo, vertigo – leave!
You’ve done what you must have set out to achieve.
I’m dizzy and staggering, helpless and trapped;
The only relief came the hours I napped.

Vertigo, vertigo, vertigo – please!
Here I’m beseeching on two shaky knees.
You’ve had your fun with your prankish attack;
Now begone, disappear, vanish – and don’t come back!

Your Breathing

Your steady breathing next to mine
Is sweeter than the sweetest wine.
Just knowing that you’re always there
Is like an answer to a prayer.

You are my anchor and my rock;
My savings bond, my rising stock.
You feed my stomach and my soul;
Without you, I would not be whole.

At night, each whispered breath I measure
Poofs into the air like treasure.
So much comfort can be found
Within that quiet, peaceful sound.

Often, sleep won’t heed my call;
But as you slumber, I’m in thrall.
Each exhale, as it disappears,
Is like sweet music to my ears.

Missing the Party

The party is starting
But you just can’t make it.
Your reasons are real - 
You’re not one to fake it.

You picture the people,
The drinks and the food.
There’s laughter and everyone’s
In a great mood.

But you aren’t there
Though you thought that you would be;
And you hope they know
You’d be there if you could be.

Sometimes things work out.
Other times they do not;
And what can you do?
Not a hell of a lot.

So you sit and imagine
The fun and you mope.
Other parties will come –
At least, that’s what you hope.

One Minute

It only takes a minute
For everything to change.
No matter how you spin it,
Life is often very strange.

One minute you are feeling well,
The next one you are sick.
You can’t predict, for who can tell
What makes a body tick?

One minute you are home and fine,
The next in the E.R.
So quickly do you cross the line,
It almost seems bizarre.

One minute you’re alive and sharp,
The next one you are dead
And brandishing a little harp,
A halo at your head.

I don’t believe in angels, though,
But I sure understand
That one minute is enough to know
That things don’t go as planned.

It only takes a minute
For your dreams to go awry;
And no matter how you skin it,
You can kiss those hopes goodbye.

Keeping Score

Remember going bowling
And the scoresheets that we used?
If there were lots of strikes and spares,
The scorer got confused.

We’d boldly mark those X’s
And accentuate each slash;
But that was long ago –
Those years have vanished in a flash.

The modern bowling alley
Has no paper for your score.
Computers keep the tally;
No one figures anymore.

Each knocked-down pin is noted
On the huge bright lit-up screen.
Automatic calculations
Let your total score be seen.

Every strike or spare’s acknowledged
With a pulsing slash or X.
Eyes all swivel to the graphics
Just to witness these effects.

Keeping score today is easy.
That much I can understand;
But a part of me still misses
When we did it all by hand.

The Arrows

My son plays pool;
My daughter sings.
We all must do
What gives us wings.

We find our niche
And take our place.
It’s where we each
Create our space.

If others notice,
That’s real nice.
If not, self-judgment
Will suffice.

For if we’re off,
We practice more;
And when we’re on
We’re free to soar.

We all must seek
Our path to climb.
For me, the arrows
Point to rhyme.

Property Of

My pencil has engraved on it,
To last for its duration,
“Property of New York City
Board of Education.”

So it seems the pencil’s purloined,
In which case I am the thief;
Though I don’t think its loss
Has generated any grief.

For items that we own and mark
To be identified
Remain that way until they are
No longer by our side.

Then other folks possess them,
Which of course they will not mention.
It doesn’t matter if the theft
Was really their intention.

A marker only goes so far
To guarantee your claim.
For once it’s gone, it hardly counts
That it still boasts your name.

Politics

You really can’t talk politics
With one you don’t know well;
For how a person thinks
Just by his looks, you cannot tell.

Conservatives or Democrats
May outwardly appear
Quite similar, but pretty soon
Their differences come clear.

Discussing the elections
I choose every word with care.
Unless you know your audience,
That’s all that one should dare.

I read the news and follow
As the candidates campaign.
To me, a few of them
Are on the wrong side of insane.

Their speeches take my breath away - 
I can’t believe the quotes;
But then in certain primaries,
They’ll surge ahead with votes.

It’s fine if you commiserate
With someone who’s a friend.
A casual acquaintance, though,
You’ll find you may offend.

So if your conversation
Turns political, watch out.
Curtail your comments if your partner’s
Views may be in doubt.

Relationships may end
With one opinion, just a smidgen;
And by the way, it’s even worse
To talk about religion!

Ticker Tape

Today’s the Super Bowl Parade
And you cannot escape,
If you’re in the vicinity,
The tons of ticker tape.

The paper floating through the air,
With lots more at the ready,
No longer comes from ticker tape,
Once used for this confetti.

True ticker tape transmitted news
Of stocks on paper strips;
Machines called tickers ran it through,
With information tips.

As far back as the 60’s,
Ticker tape was obsolete.
Without it, though, a true parade
Just wouldn’t be complete.

So offices took paper waste
And, using intuition,
Just shredded it and let it fly
To honor the tradition.

It could be anything at all,
From memos that they issue
To daily printouts, newspapers
And even toilet tissue.

It all gets tattered, chopped and tossed
And flutters to the ground.
To watchers it looks magical,
The greatest show around.

Today’s a day for Giants fans
To hail how their team played.
It’s fitting that they get to watch
A ticker tape parade.

Once Bitten

Something happens, causes stressin’;
Maybe it will teach a lesson.
Caution is the surest guide
To safeguard what you fear inside.

If you let down your defenses,
Possibly, some wrong commences;
Then you’ll question your intention –
Why you risked your gut’s prevention.

Hopefully, the lesson learned
Makes the point for all concerned.
Here’s an adage to apply –
Once you’re bitten, twice you’re shy.

Super Bowl Sunday

It’s Super Bowl Sunday;
Get ready to party.
Have plenty to eat
And prepare to drink hearty.

It doesn’t much matter
If you are a fan.
Just turn the game on –
That’s the start of the plan.

Plunk down bowls of chips
And have very cold brews.
Keep track of the score
‘Cause one team’s gotta lose.

Be sure to stay put
When commercials are shown.
It’s fun to see ads
That cost more than you own.

Serve wings or thick heros
And keep the beer flowing.
By halftime the fervor
Should really be growing.

Replenish the food;
Add dessert to the mix,
And glance at the passes,
The runs and the kicks.

At last, when it’s over
You’ll check out the score,
Clean up all the crumbs
And the mess from the floor.

For on Super Bowl Sunday,
It’s time to regress,
And we all watch the game
Though some couldn’t care less!

Empty Playground

What later will be filled with squeals
And peals of childish laughter,
In desolation thus reveals
What comes before and after.

The vacant swings, with chains unclasped,
Hang waiting, so forlorn.
The silver slide, unoccupied,
Gleams dully in the morn.

The jungle gyms or monkey bars
Seem bare and incomplete.
They’ll only come alive when tamped
By scores of tiny feet.

The benches, ever patient,
Bide their time, unsatisfied,
‘Til that moment when some sitters
Will enjoy what they provide.

The meat of day will change it all –
The park will thrum with spunk;
But in the empty hours
It’s as silent as a monk.

Dale Evans' Horse

Years ago at work, we had
An argument so strong
That people started betting on
Which side was right or wrong.

The quarrel was about the name
Dale Evans called her horse.
Some thought that it was Buttercup;
It’s Buttermilk, of course.

Now Google wasn’t dreamed up yet,
So no one could hi-tech it.
The battle escalated and
We had no way to check it.

Someone did some research, though,
And with old-fashioned clues,
Discovered just the place to go
To get Dale Evans news:

The Roy Rogers Museum,
Which existed way out west.
A call was made, the truth revealed,
A satisfying quest.

But nowadays, such facts are found
With just a few swift clicks.
The fun’s gone out of arguing
With Google in the mix.

I miss those days when bickering
Could get us all shook up,
And we’d debate if Buttermilk
Was really Buttercup!

In the Mirror

There are days when my reflected self
Both disappoints and shocks.
My expectations differ
From reality, which mocks.

That fresh-faced girl they once called “cute”
Can’t claim that anymore;
And wrinkle creams a smooth complexion
Never will restore.

Yet other days I check the glass
And feel quite satisfied.
I think I’m looking pretty good,
The years tucked back inside.

I wonder then if others
See such varying displays,
Not knowing which self will appear
Within that mirrored gaze.

Perhaps some beauties always see
Perfection looking back;
While others focus on the flaws,
Bemoaning what they lack.

And maybe it’s a female trait,
This back and forth that vexes.
It seems to me a problem
That could bother both the sexes.

Regardless, it’s an awful thing
When you don’t have a clue
‘Til you look into the mirror
Who’ll be looking back at you.

And if your Mr. Hyde is there,
You’re stuck with him today.
Just pray that when tomorrow comes,
That face has gone away.

Feedback

Everyone likes feedback;
It means that you’ve been seen.
The comments may be good or bad
Or somewhere in between.

It’s great to hear the positives;
They feel like verbal hugs.
The high that they provide might be
As good as taking drugs.

No one wants the negatives
Unless they’re said with tact;
But even then, one never knows
How someone will react.

I guess I would prefer to get
No comments to a bad one;
But there are days I really wish
That, good or bad, I had one.

For comments let us know at least
That out there, someone’s reading;
And affirmation, after all,
Is what we all are needing.

So thanks to those who take the time
To jot a thought or two.
Your feedback lets me know my words
Are somehow getting through.