Mark Twain's House

Mark Twain's house befits the man
Who wrote his famous writings.
Wish I could have been a guest
At his renowned invitings.

Recently I did the tour
And ambled room to room,
Imagining his essence
Which the house may yet entomb.

His library was furnished with
A charming reading nook,
Where he created bedtime tales
Not seen in any book.

His lucky daughters tapped his brain
Then bid their dad goodnight,
Retreating to the children’s quarters
Up a staircase flight.

The billiards room, one floor above,
Was where his stories flowed,
His back turned to the table
When engaged in writing mode.

I loved my time inside his house
Though it was bittersweet,
Since I live now and he lived then;
No way the Twain shall meet!

Gymnasts

Gymnasts on the balance beam,
Poised and in control;
Somersaulting, toes a'point -
Gold their longed-for goal.

Dusted hands for surer grips,
Hair slicked back from faces;
Ready to perform what they've
Perfected through their paces.

Eyes like lasers, bodies taut,
They spring and bolt and leap,
Doing the routines they've practiced
Even in their sleep.

One false move, though, poof! it's gone -
The years and years of training.
Through the smiling mask, we see
The hope so quickly draining.

Still, we must applaud their skill.
They've made it to the dance,
And thought they may not medal there,
At least they had the chance.

London Olympics

The games are on in London!
All the athletes are prepared.
I hope they brought their brollies*
For their trainers** won’t be spared.

Security is spotty,
As Mitt Romney had to blurt;
But Cameron was reassuring,
Though quite miffed and curt.

For Londoners, the traffic jams
Are nightmarish and wrong.
To them, the games are going on
A week or two too long.

Competitors must all be psyched
With stomachs, though, like jelly;
The rest of us will watch at home,
In comfort, on the telly***.

* umbrellas  ** sneakers  *** television

Toilet Paper

One-ply, two-ply, three-ply, four:
Whether you are rich or poor,
This is something that you need.
Substitutes won’t do, agreed?

Extra soft or without rolls,
Every brand has matching goals –
Do the job and help us wipe.
We don’t need the extra hype!

One conundrum makes folks nuts;
They won’t stand ifs, ands or buts.
(Pun intended) – This harangue
Regards which way the roll should hang.

Is the next-to-follow strip
On the top for you to rip?
Or perhaps it’s lying under
Waiting to be torn asunder?

Everyone thinks his way’s best.
Please comply if you’re a guest.
When you’re on another’s bowl,
Use his method to unroll.

One last thing I’d like to mention –
This is one superb invention;
For without its grand debut,
I can think of one word – EEW!

An Inner Push

The other day I did some chores
That I’d been putting off.
It made me feel so good
But hear me out before you scoff.

They weren’t monumental things –
They’d languished on my list;
Yet every time I'd thought of them,
My brain had them dismissed.

So finally, I ordered lenses
For my months-old frames.
I had some papers notarized
For certain health care claims.

I bought a bunch of greeting cards
For birthdays coming soon.
I splurged and got some brand-new clothes;
The time was opportune.

I stopped in at the drug store
And the market, not exciting;
But then I found a shady bench
To work on some new writing.

Sometimes it takes an inner push
To get the basics done.
It’s easier to tackle more
As long as you’ve begun.

A Word I Hate

I hate the word "retarded;"
It’s uttered with contempt
By those who wrongly think
From lack of brains they are exempt.

It’s never spoken kindly
Either as a joke or curse
Or merely a descriptive,
Which to me is even worse.

The same applies to “retard.”
By making it a noun,
It’s venomously aimed and used
To put somebody down.

We can’t help what we’re born with,
Be it size or hair or brain;
But we control the language
That can cause somebody pain.

When I hear that word bandied,
All my blood starts boiling, but
I realize it’s a losing cause
And keep my big mouth shut.

The Suspect

The suspect, looking like a clown,
Sat quietly in court.
His face was frozen in a frown;
He offered no retort.

Some victims’ relatives were there;
In anguish, they all glared.
The shooter, acting unaware,
Impassively just stared.

I wonder what’s inside his mind –
Accomplishment and pride?
Or does his memory rewind
And think of those who died?

Right now it’s still a mystery,
His motives tightly hidden;
But looking back at history,
Some flaunt what’s been forbidden.

We’ll never really understand
What makes this person tick;
But millions all across the land
Feel sorrowful and sick.

Dump the Dump

New York City has a plan
To build a “transfer station;”
Such a pleasant moniker
For so much aggravation.

For in more realistic terms,
They really mean a dump.
Giving it a fancy name
Won’t even fool a chump.

Tons of smelly garbage
Will arrive in endless trucks
Bringing traffic, rats and noise
And costing mega-bucks.

A local center used by schools
And camps for recreation
Will bear the brunt of all the evils
Of this “transfer station.”

The residents who live nearby
Have argued and appealed,
But lack of empathy
From Speaker Quinn* has been revealed.

No neighborhood should suffer
When folks’ health is on the line.
I hope somebody’s listening,
For this neighborhood is mine!

*New York City Council Speaker

The Whistler

On the subway, oftentimes
Some people stroll through, singing,
Hoping folks will pay them
For the “joy” that they are bringing.

Sometimes writers hawk their wares,
Selling self-made books,
Sure they’d make some money if
We’d only take some looks.

Then there are the beggars,
Bragging that they’re not out stealing,
Thinking this admission makes them
Somewhat more appealing.

Today, though, I encountered
Something that was new to me –
A subway rider whistling
An annoying melody.

He seemed to whistle for himself.
He didn’t care who heard;
Then promptly he was finished
And he never said a word.

You never know what you may find
When riding on the train.
What drives me bonkers may for you
Sound like a sweet refrain.

Queen Anne's Lace

I spent my childhood summers
In a rural mountain place,
And dotted through the meadows
Was a slew of Queen Anne’s lace.

They told me that it was a weed.
Its smell did not attract;
But bees would buzz around, so they had
Something that I lacked.

The name of Queen Anne’s lace rang true.
Its flowers’ lacy look
Resembled lots of lace you’d see
If you checked in a book.

I had no strong affection
For these countless swaying stems.
Of all the flowers in my youth,
These wouldn’t rank as gems.

Yet when I saw some recently,
One glance was all it took;
My pigtailed summers loomed
Like they were reeled in on a hook.

I don’t know much about Queen Anne,
Can’t conjure up her face;
But I’m transported when I see
A touch of Queen Anne’s lace.

A Deadly Night

You head out to the movies
For the latest big release,
Expecting entertainment
And a time for stress to cease.

You put aside your problems
And escape into the show.
The violence on screen is there
To keep the status quo.

When suddenly explosions pop,
But they’re not from the stage;
And pandemonium erupts,
Set off by someone’s rage.

A shooter fires into the crowd;
His random targets flee.
Yet, sad to say, his aim is true
For this, his killing spree.

A night out at the movies;
From daily grind, a breath.
How horrible for such a night
To end with needless death!

Walking the High Line

Once abandoned railroad tracks
Up above the street,
The High Line’s been transformed
Into a magical retreat.

Below, it’s busy as can be
With traffic, noises, soot;
But on the High Line, quiet reigns
And flowers are afoot.

An urban meadow’s how it feels
With grasses, benches, art;
Though only three floors from the ground,
It seems a world apart.

And oh, the views! Look to the east,
A cityscape looms large.
The Hudson River, on the west,
Holds ferry, tug and barge.

It’s lovely to meander
On this haven built above,
An elevated Eden
Every visitor must love.

Expiration Dates

Staring at an expiration date I start to wonder
If I do ingest this, will it be a major blunder?
Many times I’ve taken pills way past the date they say
And, although they’re not as strong, they seem to work okay.

Condiments that stay too long most often taste just fine.
Snack foods only lose their crunch when they have crossed the line.
I have eaten candy that’s been on a shelf for years;
Though I’m quite neurotic, this does not give rise to fears.

Dairy products need no dates – one sniff and then you know.
I toss fruits and veggies when the mold begins to grow.
Still, there are some iffy things and then I must decide;
My gut and common sense combine and make a nifty guide.

Sometimes all this makes me think that life might be a breeze
If we were born with expiration dates, like milk or cheese.
Many folks would fill their finite lives and be much stronger;
I’d ignore my date and think I’d last a whole lot longer!

The Kiss of Death

If I were a mountain climber,
I’d always take the time
To check out superstitious lore
When choosing where to climb.

For recently an avalanche
Took several climbers’ lives.
I’m sure they left some grieving friends
And parents, children, wives.

This avalanche occurred in France.
Mont Blanc’s the mountain range;
But here’s the part that is, to me,
More obvious than strange.

The northern face of Mont Maudit
Is where the slide began.
The meaning of that name was not
A factor in their plan.

Or possibly, those mountaineers
Thought there was some mystique
To conquering a mountain
That’s defined as “cursed peak.”

With dangers in a sport like this,
I know I’d be averse
To setting out upon a peak
That’s burdened with a curse.

They thumbed their noses at the gods
Which is the kiss of death.
I wonder if they realized that
As they took their last breath.

The Unkindest Cut

I read about a twelve year old
Who fell and cut his arm.
His coach gave him a band-aid;
There was no cause for alarm.

Yet unbeknownst to anyone,
Bacteria crept in
And multiplied with fierce abandon
Underneath the skin.

Next day the boy was feeling sick
With fever and some pain.
The doctor checked him out and thought
The cause was pretty plain –

With lots of virus going round,
That must be what he had;
And so she sent him home
With very worried mom and dad.

He started feeling worse and so
They went to N.Y.U.;
A fine prestigious hospital
Would know just what to do.

Alas, they made the same mistake
As doctor number one.
They took some tests and then dismissed
The parents and their son.

Yet morning came and he declined.
His folks just couldn’t wait.
They rushed back to the hospital;
By then, it was too late.

The doctors somehow’d missed the signs;
His body was in shock.
Bacteria’d been building armies
All around the clock.

And no one knew to give the boy
The proper ammunition.
“We’re very sorry” was the line
They got from each physician.

Now doctors are just human
And of course, they make mistakes;
But reading of this family’s loss,
My heart just up and breaks.

One Bad Apple

People doing backflips in a pool
Were told to stop.
They ignored the lifeguard and
They also dissed a cop.

Soon the pool was closed to all
And several were arrested.
“Hire more security!”
Was what most folks suggested.

That pool holds 1500
And was closed for many years.
Now that it’s reopened,
It’s reactivated fears.

The saddest part to me was that
Just one or two can spoil
The joy of hundreds in the water
When the temps can boil.

They say that one bad apple
Can destroy a great big pile.
Those apples should be sent
To some deserted desert isle!

Assumptions

Sometimes our assumptions
Just turn out to be wrong;
Yet afterwards, one often claims
"I knew it all along."

We may misjudge a person
Or an awkward situation
And when we learn the truth
We may be filled with consternation.

It's easier if we pretend
Not knowing was to blame,
For if we knew and didn't act,
We'd hang our heads in shame.

Much better then to question
For, from answers we may learn,
We'd take a course of action
Which we'd hope for in return.

Behind the Clouds

The sun is playing hide and seek
Behind some fluffy clouds
Which make it slightly overcast
And keep away the crowds.

The temperature's a little cool,
Quite pleasant on the beach.
I slather on some sunblock
Just in case the rays can reach.

I'm sure that soon the sky will clear
And sunshine will pour down;
Then all the worshipers will flock
To have their skin turn brown.

This hiding game's a lot like life -
Within the atmosphere
There always lurks a coat of clouds
Until they disappear.

Our days are filled with obstacles
Impeding joy and fun;
But oftentimes the clouds will part
And offer us some sun.

Cheering Fans

When the weather's boiling hot,
Fans won't really help a lot;
Then I'm sure you'd want to be
In a room that has A/C.

But when temps are not extreme,
Fans are better than they'd seem.
From them, gentle breezes blow,
Helping comfort levels grow.

Ceiling fans, I think, are best.
I have some; you might have guessed.
As they spin, their blades provide
A breath of Nature, brought inside.

Fans in windows help as well,
Long as it's not hot as hell.
Place a tall fan on the ground;
It will move the air around.

At this moment, as I write,
I'm receiving, with delight,
Cooling breezes, sweet caresses,
From the job my fan addresses.

I prefer the fan-fed air.
With A/C it can't compare;
But when the summer heat starts winning,
Then, alas, my fans stop spinning.

Manhattanhenge

Today's a day Manhattanites
Might really be enthralled
For it’s a very special time –
Manhattanhenge, it’s called.

Just twice a year, the setting sun
Is perfectly aligned
To light up every cross street
That the city has designed.

Whoever planned the complex map
That forms the city’s grid,
I’m sure had not a clue
About the magic that he did.

For when the sun goes down tonight,
Manhattanites will flock
To witness this phenomenon
On every single block.

At Stonehenge there’s the same effect
But minus urban stuff;
Manhattanhenge won’t be as grand,
But it will be enough.

When Plans Go Awry

When plans go awry,
You can howl; you can cry.
You can beat yourself up like an ape;
But what good does it do
When you try to pursue
Actions getting you bent out of shape?

It’s much better, I think
(And of course, I’m no shrink)
If you take disappointment and shove it.
Then the rest of your day
You can go on your way
Feeling proud that you’ve risen above it.

Everyone makes mistakes
But if one bellyaches
The good karma is pushed to the side.
It’s more helpful to shrug;
Better yet – give a hug
And don’t let angry feelings divide.

For what’s made you upset
You will come to regret
If you wallow and whimper and whine.
Suck it up – take a breath
For it’s not life or death,
Though it matters where you draw the line.

In Favor of the Draft

I'm in favor of the draft
But I don’t mean recruits.
What I mean is beer on tap,
Deserving of salutes.

Bottled beer can be just fine,
Especially from small batches;
But a crisp new brew on draft –
Well, nothing really matches.

It’s frothy, foamy, flavorful;
It’s fragrant, fervent, fresh.
It’s filled with flash and fancy,
Leaving goosebumps on the flesh.

How well it marries with a meal,
But it stands fine alone.
An ice-cold draft beer is among
The best tastes I have known.

I protested against the draft
When it referred to war;
But I’m in favor of
The kind of draft that you can pour!

Sand

I don't really understand
When I am at the beach,
Why I always find some sand
In places out of reach.

Before I leave, I brush each grain
From in-between my toes.
Still, at home, I can’t explain
Its presence on my clothes…

And also on my bathing suit,
My beach bag and my chair.
I thought that I was resolute
In letting sand stay there.

Yet somehow some has trickled home,
Still clinging where it stuck;
And so I wrote this little poem
To prove that I’ve got pluck…

For every grain of sand that sticks
Just makes me take a vow
That next time, there’ll be no last licks;
I’ll leave that sand somehow.

The answer, though, is pretty clear
And right within my reach –
To make the sand all disappear,
I must avoid the beach!

Wimbledon

Wimbledon is tennis whites
And strawberries and cream.
Winning there has got to be
A tennis player’s dream.

Watching Roger Federer,
So cool and poised and Swiss,
I knew his lips would give
The champion’s cup its winning kiss.

Andy Murray played his best.
All Britain cheered him on;
But next to Roger’s expertise,
His oomph was up and gone.

There hasn’t been a British champ
Since 1936,
So Andy’s loss went over
Like a crashing ton of bricks.

And yet the crowd was gracious,
Greeting Roger with applause.
Perhaps they knew defeating him
Was really a lost cause.

It’s wonderful to watch a champ
Competing in his prime
And satisfying to pay tribute
With a spot of rhyme.

Nothing

I open my notebook and stare at the page;
Its blankness looks back at me, taunting.
I don’t have a topic or thought to engage,
So writing a poem seems quite daunting.

I think of my day and whatever’s occurred,
Yet nothing has snagged my attention.
To write about nothing sounds rather absurd,
Though “Seinfeld” right here needs a mention.

A show about “nothing” is how it was billed,
But of course it was anything but.
With trivial banter its characters filled
Every episode making the cut.

And so, in that spirit, I’ve written these lines –
A springboard from empty to full;
For sometimes oblivion gives us designs
And we yield to gratuity’s pull.

The cosmos, from nothingness, came to exist
And likewise, the words that I write.
Comparisons naturally should be dismissed
But both needed a spark to ignite.

In and Out

If you want to help defeat
Summer's brutal blasts of heat,
Do what experts say you oughter,
Guzzle lots and lots of water.

I imbibe so much each day,
Likely more than what I weigh,
That, while it's preventing thirst,
Part of me's about to burst.

Bladders only hold so much
And when certain muscles clutch,
There must be a quick release
If you want to have some peace.

My advice, when heat's unrolled,
Drink as much as you can hold;
But be sure you always know
The nearest place where you can go!

Repetition

If we learned from our mistakes,
We’d be so much better.
Somehow past advice is rarely
Followed to the letter.

Being burned should make us fear
Proximity to fire;
Yet we still delude ourselves
And let that dread expire.

Wisdom is a tricky thing;
It comes at great expense.
Repeating blunders from the past
Just doesn’t make much sense.

Eventually we’ll understand
And then internalize
That folly’s repetition
Steals the key to getting wise.

In Coney Island

The Fourth's the day for fireworks
And barbecues and beer,
But there’s another custom
That takes place but once a year:

The hot dog eating contest!
And the champs are all prepared,
While only those insane enough
To challenge will have dared.

The five-time winner, Joey Chestnut,
Weighing just 210,
Devoured sixty-eight last year
And wants to win again.

The female best contestant,
Soaking wet one hundred pounds,
Ate forty-one, complete with buns,
A number that astounds.

To watch them stuff their faces
Is a most amazing sight.
It’s silly, crazy and, to me,
Pure grossness at its height.

Yet people love to watch and cheer
To see who’ll wear the crown,
Though mostly they are hoping
Not all hot dogs will stay down.

The hot dog number I’ll consume
Today will add to zero,
But Coney Island soon will crown
The proud new hot dog hero!

Blame the Bud

Every pig likes eating slop;
Every cow chews cud.
Humans differ in their tastes,
But blame it on the bud.

Our tongues are packed with sensors
Which determine what we savor.
Though you’d choose chocolate ice cream,
I’d select a different flavor.

I love a cake or pie that’s made
With lemon or with berry;
My taste buds make that choice for me –
It isn’t arbitrary.

I can’t control a preference
Determined by my tongue.
Environment has no affect
On whence my tastes have sprung.

We’re programmed for uniqueness
In our looks, our smiles, our smarts;
And taste buds add another fruit
To all the applecarts.

In restaurants or picnics
We may eye each other’s food,
But we’ll enjoy the flavors that
Our tongues have not pooh – poohed.

A Country Fair Tale

"Toss a ring and snag a duck
And you will win a rabbit!”
My grown-up brother soon was hooked –
For challenge was his habit.

We were at a country fair;
The barker was enticing.
Proving he could win came first;
The rabbit was the icing.

My brother slapped his dollar down
And got five plastic rings.
The wooden ducks were floating,
But the barker pulled the strings.

For many dollars later,
Though my brother’s aim was true,
The man in charge reached down and said,
“This special duck’s for you.”

He placed it in the water
And one toss was all it took;
The “special duck” was snatched away,
Without a second look.

My brother won his rabbit
Which he couldn’t even keep.
We learned a lesson, though, that day,
Although it wasn’t cheap:

At country fairs or carnivals,
Beware the barker’s lure.
If you’re convinced you’ll beat their game,
You’ll lose your shirt for sure!

Punks

Remember punks? That luscious smell
Brings back my childhood days
Of country summers, where I'd dwell
In youth's more simple ways.

We didn't have TV or phone
Or internet or Kindle;
Yet time was precious, all our own -
We couldn't see it dwindle.

On sultry nights, we'd strike a match
To set our punks aflame,
Then blow until our nose would snatch
The scent that slowly came.

The wisps would rise and we'd inhale
That sweet and smoky flavor;
And every time, we'd never fail
To deeply sniff and savor.

The purpose of a punk, I think,
Was keeping bugs away.
That yummy smell to bugs must stink -
At least that's what they'd say.

I don't remember if it worked -
It didn't really matter -
But we believed that power lurked
And so the bugs would scatter.

The other day I found a punk
And set its tip to burning.
Before I knew it, I was sunk,
My summer youth returning.

Amazing how a certain scent
Can cause a reconnection
With years that long ago we spent
And think of with affection.