Vampire Etiquette

Vampires in the movies
Seem to very neatly suck.
If blood is to be seen, it’s on
The necks of those they’ve struck.

Yet every costumed Dracula
Has “blood” dripped on his face,
A situation vampires would
Perceive as a disgrace.

Tonight, as the undead come out
To honor Halloween,
Observe their faces – not a one
Will be blood-free and clean!

The World Serious

The Giants won the Series;
I didn’t really care.
The team I root for (Yankees)
This year didn’t make it there.

But always this reminds me
When my son was very young,
He referred to this finale
With a kid’s slip of the tongue.

He called it “The World Serious,”
Not meaning to be slick;
With all the hype surrounding it,
We’ve let that label stick.

And so we watched the Royals lose
Despite a rousing fight.
They sure looked serious to me,
The proof my son was right!

The Driver of the Bus

The driver of the bus (like in the song)
Was urging folks to move along.

He called, “Hey Cellphone in your ear –
Move it, buddy, to the rear!”

He nailed two women – “Move on back!”
I thought they’d have a heart attack.

There’s nothing like a little shame
To force the scofflaws to the game.

Nomenclature

Every single person
Is a daughter or a son.
That’s the way we enter
When our lives have just begun.

Some of us are sisters, brothers,
Cousins, uncles, aunts,
But we have no control of that –
It’s purely circumstance.

Other titles we select –
As husband or as wife
And dad or mom if sperm and egg
Create a brand-new life.

But once again, from that point on
We do not have a voice,
For if our children wed
Or procreate, it’s not our choice.

Yet those who in the Nana/Grandpa
Area have scored
Know factors out of our control
Have granted this reward.

Storybook Moon

If someone told you, “Draw the moon
And try to get it right,”
The picture you’d depict would be
What’s hanging there tonight…

The perfect crescent, all a’glow,
Like in a storybook
And it looked less like it was real
With every glance I took.

There aren’t many nights like this
When it is opportune
To behold that classic sliver
Of a fairy tale-type moon.

Africa

I've never been to Africa
But at the Urgent Care,
They questioned every patient
To find out who'd traveled there.

I understand their caution
For Ebola's got folks scared,
Although the hospitals all say
That they are well-prepared.

I've never been to Africa
But there's one thing I know - 
When I plan my next vacation,
That is not where I will go.

Floater

My eye produced a floater
And although it felt quite weird,
It wasn’t quite as dangerous
As I, at first, had feared.

The vitreous inside the eye
(A jelly-seeming goop)
Becomes, as we grow older,
Less like Jello, more like soup.

Then little teeny fibers
Clump together in your eye,
Casting shadows on the retina
As they go drifting by.

A floater’s shape can vary
So it’s no surprise that mine
Resembled, like a pencil stroke,
A skinny curvy line.

It danced across my vision
From the left side to the right,
Interfering with my reading
And imbuing me with fright.

Though the doctor called it normal,
For it happens as we age,
I don’t need a new reminder
That I’m at that later stage.

A Flurry of Worry

There’s a flurry of worry
Just waiting to pounce
And wreak havoc wherever it lands.
You can scurry, but hurry
Or else it will trounce
The composure your body commands.

If it gets you and frets you
You don’t have a choice
But to struggle with staying afloat.
It won’t let you forget you
Relinquished your voice,
Like the mute button on your remote.

So be wary for nary
A day will go by
When some worries won’t show on the scene.
Though they vary, they’re scary.
Please trust me, for I
Am the nerves and anxiety queen!

Sharing a Swing

We're at a hotel and here is the thing -
Henry and Nana discover a swing.
It's more like a bench but suspended on chains;
The stress disappears and pure calmness remains.

We sit and we rock and I sing every song
While Henry just listens or hums along.
Whoever walks by tries to get a "Hi!"
But tucking his head, Henry's stranger-shy.

The world could explode and I wouldn't move.
It's Henry and me - nothing more to prove,
For love and contentment have taken hold;
It's my one compensation for getting old.

The Soccer Players

With Henry in my arms, we watched
The soccer players kick.
He laughed at every move they made -
Deliberate or quick.

He couldn't understand, of course,
(He's thirteen months  of age)
So what got to his funny bone
Is really hard to gauge.

What seems to me quite ordinary,
Filtered through his eyes,
Becomes a new adventure
Simply bursting with surprise.

So as we watched, his all-out giggles
Filled me with delight.
The time I spend with Henry
Makes the world seem fresh and bright.

From Above

I often glance up at the clouds
From miles and miles below
And marvel at the shapes and wonder
Where they seem to go.

From gossamer to cotton ball,
They shift and drift on high
To pique our interest in
The giant canvas of the sky.

Yet looking down upon them
From the window of a plane,
They hardly seem to move at all,
But in their spots remain.

Suspended wisps or mountain groups
They float, so blinding white
And surely everyone should gawk
With absolute delight.

Still, jaded passengers refrain
From even one quick glance 
But oh, I love to watch the clouds
When I'm allowed the chance.

Getting Old

Have you had your colonoscopy?
Your mammogram? Or hey –
Your stress test? Blood work? Body scan?
Get on it right away!

If you cannot relate to this,
Just wait a few quick years
For as you age, that youthful health
Dries up and disappears.

And then the testing days begin
So when you’re with your friends,
You’ll find your conversations
Follow healthcare’s latest trends.

When you are young, you think your youth
Will always be on hold.
It’s really quite surprising
How things change as you grow old.

Notorious

The quickest way to see your life
Go on a downward spiral
Is doing something stupid and
Discerning it’s gone viral.

A young man lured a local cat
And when it came close by,
He grabbed that feline, flinging it
Way up into the sky.

He laughed and so did all his pals
But someone did record it
And as it traveled ‘round the globe,
Well, very few ignored it.

The perp will get his day in court
But doesn’t really get it.
He’d like to let the matter drop,
Yet nobody will let it.

Oh, by the way, the cat is fine;
He’s found a loving home.
The bully, though’s been vilified –
On tape and in this poem.

Staying in Lane

I had just learned to read.
With my dad at the wheel,
I was scanning the signs,
Which had novel appeal.

When I proudly called out,
“Daddy – there’s a mistake!”
I was hoping a clever
Impression I’d make.

“See that sign? It says plainly
To stay in your lane.
They must mean stay in line,”
I explained with disdain.

My dad chuckled and then
He made clear what it meant,
So my showing-off bluster
I had to lament.

Still, that memory’s stuck
In some part of my brain
And it surfaces sometimes
When I leave my lane.

In the Orchestra

I’m perched in the orchestra,
Close to the stage;
The actors’ expressions
I’ll readily gauge.

I picture them waiting,
Relaxing or tense,
Not thinking of us
With the slightest suspense.

To them, it’s a job
But to us, a night out.
They’ve lots more at stake, though,
Of that there’s no doubt.

We’ll listen and watch
And prepare to critique,
While they must continue
The rest of the week.

The curtain goes up;
They’re ready to start.
I sit in the audience,
Playing my part.

The Last Straw

A camel in a wildlife park
Went on a wild attack;
He kicked and bit his owner
Then he sat down on his back.

I read this in The New York Times
So this was not in jest.
The reason for the rampage, though,
Is harder to digest.

It seems the camel loved to drink
A Coke, which he was given
By the owner, who forgot and so
To rage that beast was driven.

The message here is very clear –
If you’ve a pet with humps,
Don’t deprive him of his cola
Or prepare to take your lumps.

Endings

Ever read a book or see
A movie or a play
And be disappointed that
The story ends a certain way?

It’s easier, so it appears,
To get the action started
Than to end it, for so many endings
Seem to be half-hearted.

But in truth, is life not just the same?
For birth starts out so strong
But when Death shows up to end it all,
It always feels so wrong.

Trapped

A man fell in the tiger’s cage
And he was truly trapped.
A gathered crowd, with cell phones out,
Was waiting, still and rapt.

The zoo attendants made quite sure
That onlookers stayed back
While doing very little
To prevent the cat’s attack.

For ten long minutes, that poor man
Observed the tiger’s glare.
He seemed to pray, but had to know
He’d not escape from there.

With one quick spring, the tiger lunged
And all that’s left to say
Is how ironic it can be
When prayer turns to prey.

Tired

There once was a poet so tired
She tried writing though quite uninspired.
            She rubbed eyes and she yawned
            ‘Til it finally dawned
On her – she lacked the spark she required.

Columbus

Columbus, ignoring advice,
Went out searching for Indian spice.
     His signals got crossed
     And soon he was lost
Which for us, turned out better than nice.

So this holiday everyone hails
One who, at his intended goal, fails;
     But because of his goof
     We're indebted - as proof,
All the stores have Columbus Day sales! 

Bio Poem

I can rhyme on a dime
And I must say that I’m
Pretty good when I put my mind to it.
I can’t cook but a book
Will entice me to look
And I’ll read if I have time to do it.

I’m a city gal, witty gal,
Not a self-pity gal,
Though I complain and I kvetch.
I’m Type-A, so my day
Doesn’t handle delay
And some frazzle’s not really a stretch.

I’m not young but I’ve clung
To the habits I’ve wrung
From my middle-class family youth.
Though I roam, when I’m home
And I’m writing a poem,
I am happiest – that is the truth.

Fancy

The movie theater’s fancy now;
Its leather seats recline
And there is more than popcorn offered
If you’d like to dine.

So we sat down, leaned back and thus
On footrests placed our feet,
Until somebody came along
And said, “You’re in my seat!”

For now you can reserve a spot
Like at a Broadway show.
I think for cinema, that’s not
The way it ought to go.

I liked the old style so much more –
You plopped down anyplace
As long as no one’s coat was there
To claim it as his space.

The floor was sticky, leg room tight
And if somebody tall
Was seated right in front of you,
You couldn’t see at all.

But now the chairs are lush and large
And naturally, not cheap;
Unless the movies’ really good,
I might just fall asleep!

Reading the Obituaries

Obituaries lay it out –
The dates of death and birth,
But we don’t have a clue about
That person’s life on earth.

What made him laugh, what caused her grief,
What talents they possessed;
What sport or song or book or film
That he or she liked best.

What memories were cherished
Or what got their juices flowing;
The dreams they had or motivating
Force that kept them going.

Each day I read of those who died –
A parent, husband, wife
And wonder how a few short lines
Can sum up someone’s life.

Becoming Obsolete

I’m becoming obsolete –
I still have AOL
And use a land line when I’m home
(It’s on the wall, as well).

I send most greeting cards with stamps
And wash my plates by hand.
I light my oven with a match,
Which some can’t understand.

I perk my coffee, read from books
(Not Kindles or its cousins)
And write my poems in pencil
(Which I sharpen by the dozens).

The world is changing much too fast
And life is passing by
But I’ll be obsolete for sure
Before I up and die.

Vacate

Vacate your apartment
From 8:30 until 4
Was the message in the notice
Hand-delivered to my door.

A crane is being lifted
To the roof so just in case
An accident occurs, we need
An empty living space.

Whoever's ass is on the line's
Not taking any chances
And I've been told it's not the time
To take indignant stances.

So if you plan to visit Friday,
You should phone instead
Because I'll be out all day,
Which I prefer to being dead.

Pumpkins by the Door

Nothing shouts out autumn
Like a pumpkin by the door 
Or a window jack-o-lantern
(What a pumpkin's really for).  

Yes, the leaves are falling quickly
And the air is crisp and fine
But a pumpkin is the exclamation point
(Italics mine).

If you live where autumn visits
Then you really can't afford
To be stuck without a pumpkin
(Or you're out of, yes, your gourd!).

On My Turf

Our family isn’t very big
But still, it’s kind of rare
When there’s a holiday and all
Can congregate somewhere.

It’s been a year since Henry’s birth
And though we’ve all united,
It’s never been where I reside
(Of course, they’ve been invited).

Until this weekend past, that is,
When Henry came to visit.
His parents and his aunt came, too,
And it was just exquisite!

I’ve waited for this big event
And hoped with all my might
That everything would smoothly flow
And all would be all right.

The weekend was a pure delight
For nothing can replace
The joy of having those you love
In your home’s warm embrace.

To share your hospitality
With those on whom you dote
Is sufficient cause to celebrate
In rhyme (like I just wrote!).

On My Rocker

Sitting in my rocking chair
I feel myself relax,
A quality that every couch
Or stool or loveseat lacks.

The gentle back and forth harks back
To infancy, perhaps,
When we were rocked while being fed
In moms' and daddies' laps.

No matter what the reason,
There is nothing to compare
To an hour spent unwinding
In my comfy rocking chair.

Whistle-free

A teapot with no whistle
Is no easy thing to find.
My husband, for some reason,
Seems to like the silent kind.

A few have little latches
So the whistler stays ajar,
Preventing any sound but steam
From getting very far.

But not the one that I brought home –
You can’t avoid the whistle
And though I wouldn’t mind it,
Well, my spouse begins to bristle.

So I’ll return it and I will
Resume my vain pursuit
Of a teapot that, when boiling mad,
Prefers to keep things mute.

Honesty

As I get old
I’m more inclined
To speak about
What’s on my mind.

If I’m not liked,
Well, that’s the breaks
And sometimes, yes,
I make mistakes.

But mostly when
I keep things in.
It’s no good bearing
With a grin.

I mostly take
My own advice,
But sometimes there’s
Too steep a price.

(Re)Tired

Here’s a thought I had today
(And really, it’s inspired):
It’s possible to be exhausted
When you are retired.

For if, in your retirement,
Some interests you’ve acquired,
You may be far too busy
For the sleep that you’ve required.

So if a work cessation is
A goal that you’ve desired,
Accept the fact that you will be
Both “re” and “re”-less tired.