The Lions' Share

The Copenhagen Zoo did such
An awful, stupid thing,
They should have been prepared
For all the fury it would bring.

They killed a two year old giraffe,
One Marius by name,
And fed him to the lions,
Adding fire to the flame.

They had enough giraffes and so
A “surplus” wasn’t needed.
Despite the pleas of zoos and people,
Boldly, they proceeded.

Poor Marius was sacrificed
And made into a meal,
A horrible decision,
Idiotic and surreal.

Grandpa's Goof (to the tune of "Yankee Doodle")

Grandpa went to nursery school
To fetch his darling grandson;
Put the boy inside his car,
But somehow not the planned one.

Grandpa made a little goof;
Boys had outfits matchin’.
Sound like just a mix-up, not
An evil plan he’s hatchin’.

Why, though did the boy he took
Not recognize a stranger?
Luckily for all, he wasn’t
In what we’d call danger.

Next time, grandpa stays at home
To study grandkids’ faces;
So hopefully, he’ll recognize
The next one he replaces! 

Unpause

I clicked the “pause” on Trumpet Jazz
Before I went to sleep.
I fell into a sweet repose,
My slumber dusky deep.

But suddenly at 3 A.M.
I jolted bolt awake,
The trumpets wafting to my head;
There must be some mistake.

For unbeknownst to me, that button
Seemed to disengage
And Trumpet Jazz was wailing
Like some cats were on the stage.

Technology is helpful but
There oughta be some laws
Preventing what was caused because
My Dell unpaused the “pause.”

Sometimes

Sometimes you’re healthy
And sometimes you’re not
And sometimes you’re grateful
For all that you’ve got.

Sometimes you wish, though,
For what you can’t get
And sometimes you do things
You’ll later regret.

Sometimes you’re happy
And sometimes you’re down
And sometimes a smile is
Replaced with a frown.

Few things have always
Or never attached;
They’re likely as skeeter bites
Staying unscratched.

So I’ll stick with sometimes,
For I can rely
On the wiggle room
Always can never supply.

Riveting

When I’m wearing jeans with rivets,
Which is like a fashion thing,
Does the fact I’m wearing rivets
Make me much more riveting?

I suspect the answer’s equal
To the men all sporting studs.
Sometimes thoughts that feel like firecrackers
Turn out to be duds.

Early

I love to wake up early
To greet the brand-new day.
The streets are calm and quiet,
Setting up for come-what-may.

I cannot quite relate to
Those who loll around in bed.
The morning beckons and there is
So much to do instead.

Though night owls would argue,
Which should come as no surprise,
For me, it's early to my bed
So I can early rise.

Broken

I broke my string of poems-a-day
Because I caught a bug
And felt like someone pulled
From 'neath my feet that famous rug.

I stumbled into bed and slept,
The hours ticking by
And thought to give it just a shot,
But had no strength to try.

It's not like anybody cares
Or even would take note,
Except for me, whose blood contains
Each word I write or wrote.

I'll tie a knot into the string
And hope it's good and strong,
So all my poems are lined up straight,
The way that they belong.





 

Where Is Thumbkin?

To entertain Henry,
My husband and I
Tapped into our brains
Where the memories lie.

That eensyish spider,
The wheels on the bus
And where, oh, where's Thumbkin
Came straight back to us.

That's only a sample;
We sang dozens more
To our sweet smiling grandson
We clearly adore.

But what was amazing
Was watching his face;
He wasn't impatient,
Not even a trace.

He listened and focused
On song after song
And even appeared like
He followed along.

At five months of age
There's so much to learn yet.
I'm happy those songs
We could never forget.

Christopher Robin

At a children’s book exhibit
With amazing things on view,
I was struck to find a case
Which had the one and only Pooh.

In the same display was Eeyore,
Roo and Kanga, even Tigger;
All were gifts to son from father
Every year as he got bigger.

Now the son, Christopher Robin,
Was the hero of the books
So his character was given
All his foibles, traits and looks.

Though it looked quite sweet and tender,
I once heard a different tale –
That the son despised his father
Once those books were put on sale.

So it’s wise to then consider
What our kids will really think
If we choose to share their stories –
They may someday need a shrink.

But it could have been avoided
Had the hero been called “Joe;”
Then Chris Robin could have basked in glory,
Incognito, though.

The Hurdle

I like to write a poem a day;
I’ve stuck to it for years,
But sometimes there’s not much to say
And no idea appears.

It’s not the same as writer’s block
‘Cause once I get it going,
The words from brain to page just flock
And usually keep flowing.

The topic is the hurdle
So with just one giant leap
I fall into fields so fertile
There’s so much from which to reap.

When impressions leave me stranded
And no topic will ignite,
I’ll succumb to what’s demanded,
Finding reasons in the write.

Major Melting

The icicles are dripping.
The branches lost their white.
The roads are back to blacktop.
Has winter lost its bite?

The drifts are slightly shorter;
The snowplows out of sight.
The mittens stay in pockets.
The sky has extra light.

The temperature is rising.
If weathermen are right,
There might be major melting,
Which will sure be a delight.

Sick

When a baby's not feeling well, 
You're on alert
For he can't communicate
Where it might hurt.

A doctor may tell you
What's wrong and what's not,
But that baby's distress
Ties you up in a knot.

If you're lucky, your babe
May take illness in stride,
Despite all the germs
That may linger inside.

So I am relieved
To be granted such luck.
My grandson, though sick,
Still exhibits such pluck.

He's bursting with smiles
Though he's coughing and wheezing
And laughs just as soon
As he's finished his sneezing.

It sure isn't fun
When a baby is sick,
But a smile helps his relatives
Feel better quick.

Worry and Regret

Two feelings we cannot control
Are worry and regret.
If there’s a way to rein them in,
I haven’t found it yet.

Both block out sleep and crowd the brain
With images of doom,
Preventing joy from taking seed
Or bursting into bloom.

Though worry taps the future
And regret brings up the past,
The two of them take sunny days
And make them overcast.

Such negative emotions
Only harm and interfere.
I wish I knew a magic spell
So they would disappear.

On the Shuttle

The shuttle travels back and forth,
Grand Central to Times Square.
Since they’re the only stops it makes,
You’re either here or there.

The ride is barely long enough
For any thoughts to sprout,
‘Cause in a minute, maybe two,
The doors will spit you out.

But in my car today, there was
A sleeping man who reeked;
If he had used deodorant,
It long ago had peaked.

I wonder just how many times
He’d traveled forth and back,
Repelling all but those
Whose sense of smell they seemed to lack.

The city grabs your senses
In a way not very subtle.
The proof of that was there today,
Malodoring the shuttle.

V-Day

I do not need to eat
In a romantic atmosphere.
I’d much prefer a pub-type place
For burgers and a beer.

Those fancy boxed-up chocolates
And a dozen long-stemmed roses
Would get a thumbs-down vote
If that’s what anyone proposes.

On V-Day, I prefer a card
And possibly a flick,
With dinner in the kind of place
That I would always pick.

As long as on this date I have
My husband by my side,
Then all of my requirements
Have somehow been supplied.

So all those red accoutrements
And other mushy stuff
Won’t make me any happier –
For love’s reward enough.

Enough

Enough with the weather,
The snow and the ice.
The storms we have had
Really ought to suffice.

Enough with the potholes,
The plows and the salt.
Though we’re being punished,
It isn’t our fault.

Enough with the shovels,
The scrapers, the blowers
And gutters which turn
Into icicle growers.

Enough with the mittens,
The scarves and the boots,
The problems with transit
And longer commutes.

Enough with the coughing,
The fever, the sneezes,
The outages when
Every power line freezes.

Enough with this winter
With which we’re afflicted,
But after all, it’s
What the groundhog predicted!

On the Seastreak

If you have to commute
Via car, bus or train,
You know that your trip
May be kind of a pain.

But if you have a choice
And you live near the sea,
On the ferry is where
Your commute ought to be.

The Seastreak is roomy,
Relaxing and fast
And you can see lots of sights
As you go past.

The seats are quite comfy;
The wireless works.
A snack bar and bathrooms
Are some of the perks.

My usual trips
Are by subway or car,
But ferry commuting
Is better by far.

Tomorrow I’m back
To my normal routine,
No longer a dolphin
But more a sardine.

The Opening Ceremony

The athletes marched in waving flags,
All decked in matching clothes.
In all of the Olympics,
That’s the way it always goes.

Some countries showcased dozens,
Others had but one or two
And two hundred thirty proudly
Wore our own red, white and blue.

As medals are awarded, though,
There’s one thing that’s for sure –
And that’s the fact that many nations
Will be medal-poor.

There are eighteen like Zimbabwe,
Paraguay and Mexico,
Who have just one single athlete
To compete in Sochi snow.

Still, they all looked thrilled and hopeful
As the games prepared to start;
Though they can’t all take home medals,
Getting there sets them apart.

Watching an Icicle

Sitting and watching an icicle drip,
When seen through a fresh pair of eyes,
Is how it must feel to be out on a ship
When you’ve only tried land on for size.

For we, who’ve seen icicles time and again,
Rarely realize how magic they are.
Their melting’s been witnessed each wintertime when
They descend from each roof, tree or car.

But a warm-climate refugee, newly arrived
Or a baby who’s new to the mix,
Might feel that up ‘til now they’ve been rather deprived,
Missing Nature play one of her tricks.

‘Cause no matter how massive an icicle is,
There is one thing that’s perfectly clear –
When the sunshine comes out and starts doing its biz,
Then that icicle will disappear.

To the novice, it seems like a magical spell,
Just to watch all the drips and the melt;
So by joining one, I see it that way as well
And remember the way it first felt.

John, Paul, George & Ringo's U.S. Stand (to the tune of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band)

It was 50 years ago today
That the Beatles had the chance to play
On Ed Sullivan’s iconic show –
Can it really be so long ago?
So now it’s time to reminisce
About that night of teenage bliss –
John, Paul, George & Ringo’s U.S. stand.

‘Twas John, Paul, George & Ringo’s Beatles band
Who crossed the pond to say hello.
John, Paul, George & Ringo’s Beatles band –
The audience did overflow.
John, Paul, George & Ringo
With their British lingo;
Would we love them? Bingo!
Oh, how so!

Felt wonderful to watch them.
Oh man, it was a thrill
To be a teenage girl back then.
It was the highlight of my life
And it’s remembered still.

I can’t really get it down in rhyme
But if you experienced that time
Then you’ll know exactly what I feel,
What the clippings simply can’t reveal.
So let us pause to celebrate
Ed Sullivan, ‘cause on this date
On his stage we watched that Beatles band…

Many Miles

A trip that’s many, many miles
Is worth it if it garners smiles
When you’ve arrived at long, long last
Despite the hours that have passed.

For if that traveling has brought
You to a place where joy is wrought,
Then that resulting fellowship
Proves how worthwhile was your trip.

So many people never roam,
Preferring just to stay at home;
But when you let your boundaries grow,
You’ll reap rewards, more than you know.

Potholes

Every winter, all the roads
Are pocked and filled with holes.
So what’s the money used for
That we pay for all the tolls?

You’d think when they’d repair them,
They’d use something that would last
Instead of bargain pothole-fill,
Which breaks apart real fast.

When driving in the city
In the winter, my advice:
Beware of ruptures in the road,
More dangerous than ice!

Payoff

If you get injured, what’s the price
To help assuage your pain?
Do lawyers factor in how much
You whimper or complain?

Of course there are the doctor bills
And days you couldn’t work
Or drive or shop or do the chores
You’d never think to shirk.

They even take into account,
With formulas complex,
What’s owed to someone if
An injured spouse cannot have sex.

No matter what the payoff is,
I’m sure each wounded soul
Would gladly give up all that cash
To once again be whole.

Prankster

Mother Nature’s laughing
‘Cause she’s spoiled many plans;
Her range of ruination
Landing everywhere she scans.

She’s gleefully wreaked havoc
On the roads, the rails, the air,
Provoking inconvenience
Like she’s taking on a dare.

Neither hurricane nor twister,
Just enough of sleet and snow
To stop everyone from getting
To the places they must go.

Now there’ll be a little respite,
Then another storm-filled prank.
When the next one hits on Sunday,
We’ll know whom we have to thank!

Before His Time

When someone dies before his time,
It’s more than merely sad,
Despite the fact that no one knew
Just how much time he had.

I guess “Before his time” implies
The person died quite young,
But do we really know which side
Of death we’ll be among?

The George Burns’ side? A century
Of living quite fulfilled?
Or Philip Seymour Hoffman’s,
Forty-six when he was killed?

There rarely is a time to die
That’s deemed exactly “right,”
But someday each of us will get
To say our last “good night.”

Super Bowl Surprise

The weather for the Super Bowl
Amazingly, was great,
For winter in New Jersey
Is a cause to hesitate.

But yesterday was almost warm,
A respite from the freeze,
With temperatures unheard of,
Reaching 46 degrees!

Today it's back to winter
As the snow is forming piles;
The players and the fans
Are so relieved they're sporting smiles.

Except for all the Broncos
And their rooters, who would choose
A snow delay for yesterday
So maybe they'd not lose!

XLVIII

I wish I knew the reason why
An X, L, V and I, I, I
Is how one can identify
Which Super Bowl this is.

Though Roman numerals I hate,
Without them, one could not equate
Those letters with game 48 -
It’s almost like a quiz.

I wonder who decided that
The Roman way is where it’s at;
It had to be a bureaucrat
Or mathematics whiz.

So every year I rack my brain
In hopes that yes, I did retain
Those skills to let me ascertain
Which Super Sunday ‘tis.

Stonehenge 65

An ordinary building
On a busy New York street
Has been christened Stonehenge 65,
To make it sound elite.

Though the buildings all have numbers,
Some are honored with a name
With the hope, perhaps, that moniker
Will bring it some acclaim.

But a Stonehenge in the city
Sounds pretentious, lame and dumb
And whoever chose that label
Is as clueless as they come.

Still, at least it made me smile
‘Cause that extra 65
Gives a warning you should not expect
Huge stones when you arrive.