At the Pool Hall

At the pool hall, the bathroom was closed.

Pipes were punctured, the plumber supposed;

But some pro had to go,

Thinking no one would know

If his flow didn’t have him exposed.

 

So he piddled but there were some clues,

For some drops hit competitors’ shoes.

Soon a sign on the wall

Was a warning to all –

Players, please mind your pees and your cues!

Fact or Fiction

Why do I read only fiction

And my husband just reads non-?

Since so many fit this pattern,

To this puzzle I am drawn.

 

After many conversations

Asking people what they read,

Men like history or bios,

For the truth is what they need.

 

Women dive into a story

Where the characters seem real,

But the fact that they are not

Is what enhances the appeal.

 

Still, a book that is well-written,

Be it fictional or not,

Takes the reader on a journey

Via chronicle or plot.

 

But the female of the species

Goes on hoping and pretending

That the characters will flourish,

While the men all know the ending.

My Least Favorite Things

 Masks below noses and slush that turns icy.

Sharp thorns on roses and food that’s too spicy.

Waits for vaccines - the frustration it brings -

These are among my least favorite things.

Ted Cruz escaping while Texans are freezing.

Smoking and vaping and coughing and sneezing.

Ex-politicians who think they are kings.

These are among my least favorite things.

Cameras on Zoom that reveal every wrinkle.

Soggy French fries cut to needlessly crinkle.

Skeeters that itch you and bees giving stings - 

These are among my least favorite things.

When the sun shines, when the snow melts,

When I’m feeling glad,

I simply remember my least favorite things

And man, I start feeling bad!

4,004 Minutes

My sister-in-law wants to get the vaccine;

Went onto her state-sanctioned site

And what was before her up there on the screen

Was a number that couldn’t be right.

 

“Your wait time, in minutes, is 4,004,”

Presented with nary a smirk.

Now something like that’s pretty hard to ignore –

It’s no wonder those websites don’t work!

 

So many now struggle to line up a spot,

The government should be abashed.

Did my sister-in-law have success? She did not,

For the website, quite naturally, crashed.

The Oregon Dept. of Education

In Oregon, they’ve gone too far

In terms of education,

Instructing teachers hoping to

Prevent discrimination.

 

A course designed to tackle

Racial tendencies in math

States that “getting the right answer”

Sends kids on a toxic path.

 

Requiring the students to

Display the work they’ve done

Reeks of “white supremacy culture,”

As the message has been spun.

 

Instructors will be told not to

Perpetuate the thought

That there are always answers,

Right or wrong, that must be sought.

 

Before this, sports in schools declared

No losers were allowed,

For “everyone’s a winner”

Made each student feel so proud.

 

But mathematics in that model

Doesn’t quite belong,

For adding 2 plus 2

And getting 5 is simply wrong!

In the Future

In the future, I will bask

On golden sand, without a mask

And if somebody dares to ask,

I’ll say, “Connect the dots.”

 

I’ll dine in restaurants so fine

And sip the most expensive wine,

No mask to block these lips of mine

My napkin gently blots.

 

I’ll visit lands beyond the sea

Where monuments will welcome me

And I’ll go on a shopping spree

At all the tourist spots.

 

I’ll scope out landscapes, desert-red;

Watch sunset colors bloom and spread.

Such wonders wait for me ahead

That I can almost plotz.

 

This future, though, is far away

For Covid fears are here to stay

Despite the fact I can display

The proof of both my shots.

Lightbulb Thoughts

A ceiling lightbulb blew and hark!

I needed to replace it.

For reading in the semi-dark?

I knew I couldn’t face it.

 

I found the bulbs and had to climb,

While worried about falling,

Up on a stepstool, taking time

So not to end up sprawling.

 

Removed the old, screwed in the new

And checked if things looked brighter,

Not knowing then, as now I do,

‘Twas fodder for a writer.

 

And thus, a topic for my poem,

When life’s not too exciting,

Is often found within my home,

With lightbulb thoughts alighting.

Befuddled

The park was pooled with puddles

From all the melting snow.

This weather, it befuddles,

Every day a different show.

 

Today is crisp but sunny,

Tomorrow cold and wet,

Yet I’ll take even money

That we’ll cope with what we get.

 

With all the current troubles,

Which we’ll muddle through together,

Let us step outside our bubbles

And complain about the weather!

Quirks

Everybody has some quirks

To keep us sane – whatever works.

These tics have, over time, accrued;

To rein them in might spoil our mood.

 

Some start in childhood – foods can’t touch

Or nails get bitten, as a crutch.

A certain doll must be in bed,

The same book each night must be read.

 

As we grow up, a lucky shirt

May not be washed, though caked in dirt

Or items such as rabbits’ tails,

When missing, might engender wails.

 

Adults may add, we’d all agree,

Their brand of idiosyncrasy

But that’s what makes us each unique –

One person’s “normal’s” someone’s “freak.”

 

Beware, for out there someone lurks

Who is convinced he has no quirks.

Tennis Tics

One player bounced the ball 8 times

Before he hit each serve

And many grunt on every shot

Which gets on my last nerve.

 

My favorite has his own routine

Which smacks of O.C.D. –

He tucks his hair behind his ears,

Which everyone can see…

 

And then adjusts his clothing,

The exact same way each time.

It may appear annoying, but,

In tennis, it’s no crime.

 

I guess it’s commonplace in sports,

For comfort or for luck,

When the athletes show behaviors

Into which it seems they’re stuck.

My Environs

My environs, filled with sirens,

Rarely seems serene.

Add some snow plows to the mix

And picture what I mean.

 

Yes, it’s gritty in the city

But, in years gone by,

There was vibrancy as well,

A permanent supply.

 

Now the flavor I’d once savor

Packed its bags and left,

While we who stayed just hear the noise

And shake our heads, bereft.

Legacy

We live our lives and hope we leave

A legacy behind us,

A hint of who we were, perhaps

By something that defined us.

 

A recipe, a knitted scarf,

A quilt or set of dishes

Or how we managed to fulfill

A grandchild’s birthday wishes.

 

The way we helped on holidays

To honor the traditions

Or how we kept up spirits

In some challenging conditions.

 

A knack for puzzles, sports or jokes,

A gift for bringing laughter –

Who knows what talents, skills or traits

Will be remembered after?

 

We live our lives but do not dwell,

For it just might upset us,

On memories we’ll leave for those

We hope do not forget us.

A Whiff of Spring

A whiff of Spring’s

A lovely thing

And oh, such joy

It seems to bring!

 

A sunny bench

Helps to unclench

The stress and sadness

I can’t quench.

 

It will not last;

Tonight a blast

Of frigid air

Will come on fast.

 

But that small whiff

Reminds me if

I wait, there’ll soon

Be blooms to sniff.

A V-Day Poem, Belated

A close friend’s spouse each year would buy

A gorgeous heart-shaped box

Of chocolates meant for Valentine’s,

Not so unorthodox.

 

Except he made his purchase

For this most romantic day

On the 15^th of the month,

When what was left out on display…

 

Were the candy hearts marked down in price –

Half-off! A big big sale!

My friend just laughed, but many

Thought it quite beyond the pale.

 

So here I am, my V-Day poem

A day too late for many,

But written in the spirit

Of my friend’s ex-husband Kenny.

To All the Spineless Senators

To all the spineless Senators –

We won’t let you forget it

And when you think of what you did

I hope you will regret it.

 

With such compelling evidence

And lives (your own!) at stake,

It seemed a guilty verdict

Was an easy road to take.

 

What would have made you change your minds?

Mike Pence strung up outside?

Or Nancy killed while all of you

Found places you could hide?

 

Integrity is something which

Not everyone can claim.

To the 43 who lack it,

I can only say – for shame!

Second Shot

Today I got my second shot.

Am I relaxed? No, I am not.

Reaction stories do abound,

Most with the second dose, I’ve found.

 

Since to suggestion, I am prone,

(And I am sure I’m not alone)

I am convinced I’ll feel unwell;

The deed is done and time will tell.

 

But I have nothing on my plate

And TV tennis while I wait,

So I’ll get cozy in my home

Now that I’ve done my daily poem.

The Icicles

 Out the back window

The icicles drip,

Releasing their droplets

From wintertime’s grip.

I once would spend hours,

My grandson in tow,

And watched as they dripped

On the snow piles below.

We marveled together, 

His world sparkling new,

But at 7, he has

Better things he can do.

Double-Masking

The experts say to double-mask

For maximum protection,

But such advice will certainly

Be met with mass rejection.

 

Since time and time again, I see

When crowds are squashed together,

So many maskless faces,

Birds of such a foolish feather.

 

At least down in Australia

Where some parts are Covid-free,

The masklessness makes sense to most,

At least to some degree.

 

But in the clueless U.S.A.,

Still deep in Covid trouble,

The likelihood of masking’s

Very doubtful, much less double.

English

The colonists who came here

Spoke the language of the Queen,

The accent very British, I think

You know what I mean.

 

Of course, throughout Great Britain

People speak in different ways

Yet pronunciations sound so cool

In every turn of phrase.

 

What I really cannot comprehend

Is how the language changed,

For from proper British English,

We are certainly estranged.

 

Americans like me prefer

The sounds of which we’re fond,

Meaning English as it’s spoken

On the far side of the pond.

Watching the Australian Open

You can keep your Super Bowl

Or golf shows on TV.

Watching tennis is more wonderful,

The perfect sport for me.

 

In Australia, the games are played

With quite a meager crowd.

Still, at least a cheering audience,

A small one, is allowed.

 

The tournament’s too late at night

For me to watch when live

So my husband taped six hours,

Into which I gladly dive.

 

My friend just texted – watching

The impeachment has her stressed.

It’s much better to watch tennis,

Where aggression is finessed.

Pretzel Rods

The corner candy store displayed,

On the counter next to where you paid,

Tall pretzel rods, two cents a pop,

In a glass container with a top.

 

They were often added to a bill –

Toss some pretzels in, please, if you will –

Or were ordered by a kid who’d planned,

His pennies clutched in a sweaty hand.

 

But the best was sitting on a stool,

On a Saturday or after school,

With your mom who’d let you have a treat –

A vanilla malted, cold and sweet.

 

It was served within the silver cup

Which the owner’d used to mix it up

With a pretzel rod included, free;

There was no place I would rather be.

 

The sweet of sugar, tang of salt

Combined with the vanilla malt

Made taste buds squeal with pure delight

With each and every sip and bite.

Out the Window

Some windows let their occupants

See mountains or the sea

Or trees or yards with jungle gyms

But that’s not true for me.

 

I look outside and peer across

At buildings which provide

Innumerable apartments

With their windows multiplied.

 

But many people gazing out,

No matter what their view,

See snowflakes swirling in the air,

As snowflakes often do.

 

United by the weather

While we focus on the snow,

Nature sees us all as equals

As the flakes drift down below.

Our Roles

I won’t go sledding down a hill

(Though other grandmas surely will)

But I will never have my fill

Of nestled grandkids, reading.

 

A jungle gym gives some a thrill

Or skiing might just fit the bill

Yet I’d prefer to walk or chill,

The chance of risk receding.

 

At homework time, I have the skill

To help and hopefully instill

The patience to complete each drill,

The teachers’ orders heeding.

 

We all hope that we can fulfill

Our roles with loving, which we will

With what our nature gives us, ‘til

Without us, they’re succeeding.

Fallen Snow

 It isn’t right when snow, once white,

Turns dirty brown or grayish,

For when we glance, we’ll look askance 

And maybe feel dismayish.

It’s very strange. What makes it change?

My grandson asked, in wonder.

Well, cars and feet out on the street

Make all the white go under.

Some parts stay clean and quite pristine 

Just like a new marshmallow,

But walk around, if on the ground,

You see some snow that’s yellow!

Melting

The snow is melting in the sun

While strollers stroll and runners run.

The thaw, it feels like, has begun

But we can’t get too cozy.

 

For way before the melting’s done

And kids have had their snowball fun,

The weather wheel just might be spun

And things won’t look so rosy.

 

In wintertime, we jump the gun

And think that somehow we have won

When it warms up, but it can stun;

Tomorrow might be frozy!

Turning the Corner

In quilting, sewing corners is

A challenge I can’t meet.

My sad attempts at mitered corners

End up in defeat.

 

I’m sure in every corner

Of the sewing world, there must

Be others who’ve had problems, too,

No matter how they’ve fussed.

 

Don’t back me in a corner,

Surely not one I have cut,

For the corner of my eye reveals

That when I’m in a rut

 

The tightest corner cannot hold

Some tricks that can be learned.

Forget my sewing – to the

Poets’ corner I’ve returned.

Groundhog Day - the New Version

It’s Groundhog Day, which made me think

Of Punxsutawney Phil,

Who saw his shadow, which implies

More weeks of winter’s chill.

 

But I have got a great idea

Which shouldn’t make folks grouchy –

Let’s pick a day to test the shadow

Thrown by Dr. Fauci.

 

If he wakes up and steps outside,

His shadow on the ground,

Then there will be six months or more

With Covid still around.

 

But if his shadow doesn’t show,

We’ll know that the vaccine

Has done its job, so Covid

Will spend less time on the scene.

 

We all could use a little hope

And Fauci is our man

If he lets his shadow slip away

Like that of Peter Pan.

On the Plus Side

In other years, my plans today

Would’ve been postponed or scratched,

The snowstorm making travel tough,

The cancel texts dispatched.

 

But since we’re in pandemic mode,

No disappointments loom

For meetings had been scheduled

To happen via Zoom.

 

So we can meet, ensconced within

The safety and, no doubt,

The comfort of our dwellings

With no need to venture out.