The Race is On

The race is on, the goal is set;
Opponents come out swinging.
We’re all prepared to feel the buzz
This competition’s bringing.

Right now there is no way to know
Which one will end up winning.
The final days seem far away;
It’s only the beginning.

The papers fill with background tales;
Reporters give opinions.
The spotlight follows all their moves,
Surrounded by their minions.

Each vows to serve the best he can
And when results are tallied,
We’ll look back at the game to see
Which one had better rallied.

Of course, I’ve chosen who I want;
My fingers, crossed, I’m hopin’
That Roger Federer will win
The current U.S. Open!

Braless

Each morning when I take my walk,
I see a sight which makes me gawk –
A woman, in her seventies,
Whose breasts are swinging in the breeze.

Well, not exactly – there’s a blouse,
So there’s no cause to fret or grouse;
But there’s no bra – of that I’m sure,
And no elastic to endure.

She looks like she’s en route to work;
Perhaps the dress code is a perk.
Nobody even gives a glance
To see the way those puppies dance!

I wonder why she sports this style.
Would asking earn a frown or smile?
My theory holds, in protests past,
Into the fire her bras were cast.

Though that was many years ago,
She must have liked the feel and flow
Of being free and less confined
And thus, her bras remained behind.

A simple explanation – still,
I do not know and never will.
No matter whence her reasons stem,
Hats off to this unfettered femme!

Prince Harry

Prince Harry bared his bottom
So that all the world could see;
He didn’t seem embarrassed
By his lack of modesty.

Cavorting in a Vegas suite,
This soldier, on a leave,
Allowed himself the freedom
That Prince Charles could not believe.

So, summoned to the royal digs,
Did Harry get a thrashing?
If so, his dad’s a hypocrite,
With follies worth rehashing.

For I remember Charles confessing,
On the phone, with amp on,
That his desire was to be
His dear Camilla’s tampon.

He didn’t know the phone was tapped
And clueless, too, was Harry;
Such antics merely feed the press
With royal commentary.

Before we blame the wayward prince
For stripping on his spree,
We should acknowledge apples
Falling not far from their tree.

The Lucky Ones

Writers write and painters paint
To give themselves release.
Knitters knit and sculptors sculpt,
Allowing them some peace.

Singers sing and dancers dance
To tap into their talent.
Runners run and heroes help
And practice being gallant.

Bakers bake and swimmers swim
And mimes demand attention.
Everyone has skills, including
Those I didn’t mention.

People do the things they do,
With varying success,
To get them through the day and prove
The powers they possess.

Some people never have the chance
To find their little niche.
The lucky ones who’ve found it know
That they have struck it rich.

Salesmen

A salesman sometimes helps you out,
But often he does not.
If you are clueless, what he knows
Can add to quite a lot.

Yet there are clerks so in your face
That they become intrusive;
And others hide like jungle creatures,
Rare and most elusive.

The perfect guy or gal in sales
Is patient and attentive.
Commission may be why, but we
Should seem like the incentive.

A knowledge of the products adds
To what they have to tell you.
A pleasant personality
Adds much to what they sell you.

It’s nice to leave a store and feel
That you’ve been taken care of.
A customer who’s satisfied
Gets more than he’s aware of.

The Fallen

A thousand faces gazing from
The daily paper's print,
Each one a fallen soldier,
Who will not complete his stint.

I looked at every single one
And read his town and age.
The life that each one left behind
Just jumped up off the page.

The solemn ones, in uniform,
Were serious and proud;
Perhaps photographers announced
A smile was not allowed.

But others mugged and looked amused,
So filled with life and fun;
It's hard to reconcile those deaths,
When life had just begun.

I wonder how their loved ones feel
When staring at that square
Containing someone's face they know - 
It's more than I could bear.

When soldiers go to war, they all
Expect to make it back;
Yet every day of war, some don't
Survive the next attack.

We stare at all their faces
As we sympathize and grieve;
To me, no war is worth such loss,
But maybe I'm naive.

Ah-choo!

Sometimes, as you shoot the breeze,
You’ll be startled by a sneeze.
Even walking up the stairs,
It can catch you unawares.

With no allergies or colds,
Sneezing often still unfolds.
It may happen for no reason;
Some lay blame upon the season.

Sneezes serve to help remind us
That the forces which designed us
Left some mysteries to tease,
One of which must be the sneeze.

Cheaters

The world is filled with cheaters;
It almost seems the norm.
We hear of more examples found
In every shape and form:

A Scrabble competition where
A young man used his wiles
To sneak into the playing bag
Some extra blank-faced tiles.

Lance Armstrong, of the Tour de France,
Once honored and revered,
Now stripped of all his medals
With his reputation smeared.

Cabrera of the Giants, too,
Was doping and got caught.
It seems that sports, like politics,
With cheaters has been fraught.

We’re taught to do the honest thing
When we are in our youth;
But as we age, so many learn
That they can bend the truth.

When knocked down from a pedestal,
The former proud elite
May finally learn the price they’ll pay
For choosing ways to cheat.

Hospital Hygiene

Sanitize your hands before
You open up the door.
Grab a tissue to protect
From germs left there before.

Purell spigots on the walls
Everywhere you turn.
Still, despite these offerings,
Most people never learn.

Hospitals are breeding grounds
For every type of germ.
Even if you’re visiting,
You may wind up infirm.

Years ago, before we knew
How microbes make us sick,
We’d take our medicines and hope
That we’d feel better quick.

Now we have preventive tips
That help us, there’s no doubt;
But if you’re in the hospital,
Then hurry and get out!

Just Bearly

My friends were here;
We saw no deer.
(They’re hiding from the cull.)
It would appear
The atmosphere
In Hemlock seems quite dull.

The time was nigh;
My friends waved bye
And headed to the city.
I will not lie;
I’d hoped we’d spy
A bear, but here’s the pity:

By morning’s light
I had a fright
Which made me stop and gawk.
A mama bear
With cubs, a pair,
Passed by me on my walk.

Who would believe
When friends take leave
The action just gets started?
I can’t conceive
That just last eve
They bearlessly departed.

It goes to show
You never know
What Nature may have waiting;
And even though
My friends did go,
Those bears kept navigating.

Perhaps next year
They’ll reappear
When those same friends come calling;
Then we’ll all spear
A souvenir
Of Nature most enthralling!

Coaxing the Sun

You need to have a sunny day
For plans that you have made.
You want the kind of burning sun
That makes you seek the shade.

Yet Nature won't cooperate;
The sky's a sea of cloud.
There's nothing you can do
And moping's simply not allowed.

You keep your eyes trained heavenward
And send a silent missive;
Apollo may take notice
But he shrugs you off, dismissive.

The realization settles in
Most likely there'll be rain.
From all outdoor activity
You might have to abstain.

It's not the worst thing in the world.
There's lots to do inside;
But just a touch of disappointment
Cannot be denied.

Available

The person whom you want to reach
You're told is unavailable.
He's either out or busy -
That's a fact that's unassailable.

You leave a message at the beep
And hope that it was trailable.
You'd like a phone call back but do not
Want to be travailable.

In modern times like these
A person often is unnailable.
There's not much we can do;
The situation isn't wailable.

And so we mustn't let ourselves
Succumb to be derailable
'Cause soon enough, that person will
Again become available.

Acrostic

I finished the Acrostic,
Every letter filled completely;
Though if you saw the page,
It's not completed very neatly.

This puzzle from the Sunday Times
Is challenging and clever
And quickly it becomes
An all-encompassing endeavor.

Unlike crosswords, which I love,
Or word searches or jumbles,
It's easy in Acrostics
To sink into certain stumbles.

Back and forth your eyes must move,
Transferring every letter.
Though I try, it doesn't seem
I ever get much better.

Still, at times, I crack the clues
And find the hidden quote.
The satisfaction's sweet enough
I hardly need to gloat.

Swedish Fish

Soft and chewy, cute and red;
They won’t wedge in your teeth.
You can chew them and not fear
They’ll get stuck underneath.

Jelly beans and licorice
And taffy tend to stick.
Jujyfruits wreak havoc
So they’re not the sweets to pick.

But Swedish fish and gummy bears
Are perfect for a chew.
If you need a sugar rush,
Well, either one will do.

Chocolate has its special place
But sometimes you just need
A candy where the chewy factor’s
Surely guaranteed.

Hopefully in Sweden
People eat and get their wish:
A perfect ending to a meal –
A plate of Swedish fish!

Arugula

Salads back when I was young,
The ones made by my mother,
Had a base of iceberg lettuce,
Iceberg and no other.

On the lettuce leaves, you’d find
Some carrot coins, all scattered,
Topped with sliced tomatoes,
The ingredients that mattered.

Sometimes rounds of cucumber
And olives (green) appeared.
Russian dressing from the bottle
On the top was smeared.

Mom was not a gourmet cook;
Her meals were quite routine.
She was Miss Predictable,
If you know what I mean.

They say the apple doesn’t fall
Too far from where it grew;
So when it comes to making meals,
I’m pretty clueless, too.

My husband is the family chef
And salad starts the dinner.
Arugula’s the guarantee
That it will be a winner.

Carrots still show up, as well
As grape tomatoes, whole.
Homemade dressing – secret blend –
Deserves its starring role.

I’m not a great big salad fan,
But I will gladly eat
A salad with arugula,
Which makes a meal complete.

Thumbs Down

Stars can never guarantee
A movie will be good,
Nor can advertisements
Which come out of Hollywood.

Is it worth one’s time to see
A top-notch actor acting
In a film so bad the few good scenes
Become distracting?

Don’t the actors realize
That this flick’s not up to snuff?
Maybe earning so much money
Justifies enough.

Still, it’s disappointing
When performers choose to star
In a movie for which somebody
Has clearly dropped the bar.

Red-Eye Blues

If you take a flight at night,
Don’t expect much sleeping,
Though exhaustion in your bones
Will sneakily start seeping.

First of all, you’re sitting,
Which to sleep is not conducive.
Next are all the noises,
Making slumber quite elusive.

Even if the lights are dimmed,
Some screens are lit up brightly.
Putting on a sleeping mask
Will help, but only slightly.

Flight attendants on the march
Bring snacks or drinks or smiles,
Rattling their carts as they
Parade on down the aisles.

If you catch your forty winks,
You wake up in a stupor.
Next to younger passengers,
You seem a party pooper.

Then you land and you de-plane,
So wiped out you could cry.
Since you booked these tickets,
Now it’s time to wonder why.

You’re so wiped out the day is shot;
The red-eye part is true.
Some love these flights, but as for me,
I’ve met my Waterloo.

Flying Too Close

Icarus ignored advice
And flew too near the sun.
His wings of wax began to melt
And soon his flight was done.

Since I am here at altitudes
Which cause the skin to bake,
I should look back to Icarus
And not make his mistake.

By slathering the sunscreen on
Or staying in the shade,
I could prevent the tragic error
Icarus had made.

Yet sitting on the terrace
With the Rockies smack in view,
I'm soaking up the sunshine
Which I know I shouldn't do.

I won't stay very long out here.
I'm sure I won't get burned;
But now I see why humans
Don't absorb what they have learned.

The lessons gleaned from history
Or myths provide advice,
So easily ignored until
We mortals pay the price.

Time Zones

I'm in a different time zone
From that where I reside.
It's slightly disconcerting
But my hands are kind of tied.

I'm hungry now at 6 AM;
At home it would be 8.
The breakfast room in my hotel
Is closed - I have to wait.

At night I want to go to sleep
Right when the sun has set.
My inner clock's on eastern time
And not adjusted yet.

At times I've crossed an ocean
And the situation's worse.
It takes me days to get on track
When home I do traverse.

Though this 2 hour time lag
Doesn't pack that power punch,
It's 10 AM, so cheerio!
I'm off to have some lunch!

Glue

When siblings reminisce, it's strange
Which memories they share.
Though certain details match,
Exact comparisons are rare.

Two of us can almost taste
That soggy toaster bacon;
Yet the third one's positive
That we must be mistaken.

Other memories bubble up;
We reach into our brains
To see which scenes have disappeared
And learn what truth remains.

Reality is tricky, though.
What meant a lot to me
Might not have mattered to my sibs
To quite the same degree.

The beauty of reunions is
The chance to reconnect.
In reaching back across the years,
We can't be circumspect.

And so we laugh, excluding all
Outside our sibling glue.
We slip into our younger selves,
As siblings often do.

But I am not surprised to see
That distance, time and age
Have not affected what to others
Might be hard to gauge:

That childhood's bond, still strong and tight,
Which fills me with affection,
Will always be, at least for me,
A permanent connection.

InTERMINALable

Waiting at the terminal
Three hours for a flight
'Cause the pilot's somewhere else -
That simply isn't right.

Passengers, impatient, wait;
There's nothing they can do.
Representatives don't seem
To really have a clue.

We are here and so's the plane.
The weather's looking clear.
All the flight crew, minus one,
Is set to get in gear.

Yet we cannot make a move -
The co-pilot is missing.
I'm surprised the ticket holders
Aren't up and hissing.

People sit there quietly -
Tired, cranky, bored,
Wishing that a private jet
Is what they could afford.

There's one consolation, though,
As irony rings true,
For all my fellow customers
Are feeling so Jet BLUE!

Chopsticks

I love a meal with chopsticks –
It’s elegant and fun.
I’m slowly eating, bit by bit,
When forkers are all done.

Each morsel’s daintily procured
And lifted to one’s lips;
Some concentration’s needed
So the food stays in its grips.

But once you get the hang of it,
You’ll dine with new delight,
A feeling of accomplishment
In every single bite.

Some people find it challenging,
But everybody should
Discover just how pleasant
It could be to eat with wood!

Preventing Knotted Knickers

A person asks a question
Simply looking for a fact,
And then appears surprised to hear
The answerer react.

For what he meant within his mind
Was not what was received;
A harmless query somehow’s got
The questioned one quite peeved.

It isn’t only Venus-Mars
For gender’s not to blame,
As words are often twisted,
Adding fire to a flame.

A simple explanation
Often sets intentions right;
Ignoring such solutions
Sets the stage up for a fight.

The remedy is obvious
But not an easy task:
With knickers still unknotted,
Take your doubts in hand and ask.

My Morning

I wake in darkness lazily and loll around in bed,
Just sifting through the rhymes that prance around inside my head.

The dawn cracks open like an egg’s prize plop into a bowl;
I scramble up to start my day and now I’m on a roll.

What joy to delve into whatever book I might be reading.
I’m coddled in the covers, all the comfort I am needing.

Two chapters down, my sunny side is ready for the day.
I head to my computer, see which comments came my way.

When that is over, easy – time for juice and getting dressed;
Three minutes later – out the door – an early walk is best.

My breakfast waits when I return and, too, The New York Times;
Hard-boiled reporters nail the news of politics and crimes.

With coffee down, I shower and spiff up, for all is well;
The morning is behind me, like the remnants of a shell.

Devoid

I really think one should avoid
A peach with flavor so devoid
It might be meant to feed a droid
But as for me – I’m quite annoyed!

The picker who was so employed
To pluck would not be overjoyed
To find the fruit he once enjoyed
Was now considered null and void.

So sad when something is destroyed
By greed and scientists who toyed
With perfect peaches. Even Freud
Would find himself quite paranoid.

For who could have his spirits buoyed
When peaches taste like celluloid?
They look just like a Polaroid
But as for flavor – they’re devoid!

Passe

My nephew thinks of email
Like a telegraph's to me -
It's ancient and old-fashioned and passe.
I sent an e-computer card
But got a message back
It was never viewed though sent two weeks away.

I guess he's into Facebook,
Which I'm not, or maybe text.
However he connects is not for me.
The generation gap
Is growing wider all the time
And I don't think many folks would disagree.

And so I missed his birthday,
Though I sent my card on time;
This occasion postal clerks cannot be blamed.
It's technology and differences
In age and style of life;
I relinquish all the coolness I once claimed.

Garlic

Garlic in a frying pan,
Sauteed in olive oil,
Smells so good that really,
Only vampires would recoil.

How I love that special scent,
A magical bouquet,
Meant to keep your nose nearby,
Not that I'd ever stray.

I  have read of festivals
Where garlic is the star,
Though a garlic ice cream cone
May go a step too far.

Still, I'd love to be at one
To breathe in that aroma.
It's enough to rouse a person
Who's been in a coma.

Garlic in a frying pan -
It's heaven in the kitchen.
No matter what the dish, my taste buds
Totally are twitchin'!

True

Most of what I write is true -
I get it from the news.
Open up the paper - there's so much
From which to choose.

Stories often catch my eye
Of lunatics and strangers;
Perverts on the subway,
Urban life and all its dangers.

Nature's wrath or criminals,
Heroes, athletes, singers;
Human interest tales of folks
Whose lives have been through wringers.

Other poems describe events
I've witnessed in my day.
Every small experience
Yields so much I can say.

All remaining writings
Are extracted from my head:
Memories and contemplations,
Joy and hope and dread.

Sometimes there's a limerick
That sneaks in for a smile.
After all, it's rhyming, which
Sits right within my style.

If you read a poem of mine,
And man, I hope you do,
You never really have to wonder -
Just assume it's true.

Under the Skirt

A savvy transit cop observed
An action quite suspicious.
A perpetrator was engaged
In business most malicious.

His newspaper was subtly placed

Beneath a woman’s skirt,
While clipped to it, a camera pen
Took photographs, covert.

The victim was oblivious
That she was being snapped,
But soon the rogue photographer
Had handcuffs tightly clapped.

Ironically, the culprit
Is a well-esteemed M.D.,
Of all things a urologist,
Who sees these parts for free.

So why this weird behavior
When he’s far away from work?
He risked his whole career
For what his job had as a perk.

The lesson to be learned is that
A gal should be alert;
You never know what may be lurking
Underneath your skirt.

Arabic

I’ve started getting emails
That I cannot read a word of.
They’re written in a language
That perhaps I’ve never heard of.

The writing looks like Arabic,
Not in my realm of knowledge.
In high school I learned Spanish
And a little French in college.

I read some Hebrew haltingly,
But this is not related.
I wonder how to get
This enigma investigated.

For why is someone sending me
A message in a tongue
That’s alien to me and
Other emails it’s among?

I’m getting these from several names,
All sounding vaguely Persian.
To read one single word, I’d need
Rosetta Stone immersion.

I’m pretty sure this isn’t Spam,
But I wish they’d recede.
I’d rather open emails
With a message I can read!

Carousel

Life is like a carousel.
It starts off kind of slow;
We pick our horse and settle in
And then we start to go.

Some ponies are ahead of us.
We follow on their trails;
And sometimes when we look ahead,
We only see their tails.

But we’re ahead of other steeds;
Yet as we rise and fall,
We realize that when all is done,
It matters not at all.

For everybody’s journey,
As we travel round and round,
Rewards us with the joy and peace
We have or haven’t found.

The music soon begins to slow
And we cannot pretend
To be oblivious to what
We know to be the end.

For even one more ticket
Fleeting pleasure will provide.
The trick is understanding
That we’re just here for the ride.