Every...

Every meal can’t be a winner.
Every book won’t win a prize.
What seems great to a beginner
May be average in disguise.

Every play won’t win a Tony.
Not all films get good reviews.
Every Oscar ceremony
Pans the actors who did lose.

Every purchase won’t be flawless.
Every gift won’t be ideal.
Some successes might be aweless,
Contrary to what you feel.

Every effort won’t be lucky.
Every word can’t be just right.
Still, we try, and if we’re plucky,
There will be a poem to write.

Skirts!

At times, I might be in the mood for a skirt;
On other occasions, it’s pants.
Having such options, I needn’t alert
Anyone to my pick in advance.

I like wearing skirts – they feel flirty and fun
And remind me of dressier days.
When my working career I had newly begun,
I was part of a skirt or dress phase.

For I wasn’t permitted to dress up in slacks;
Females had to look proper and prim.
We accepted it then, though at present it smacks
Of the rules many women found grim.

But today I can wear anything that I choose
And in skirts sometimes I find my voice.
I feel sorry for men, ‘cause in this case they lose
For they aren’t allowed the same choice.

Jayden/Isabella

If you had a baby
And you live in New York City,
Likely he’d be Jayden,
Which would really be a pity.

Eight hundred other newborns
All were given that same name.
Originality might not be
Jayden’s claim to fame.

For New York City baby girls,
The top choice on the list
Was Isabella, now that Ashley’s
Somehow been dismissed.

When parents agonize to pick
A name they find unique,
It really has to put a crimp
In part of that mystique

When, on the playground, they call
Isabella! or shout Jayden!
And fifty little toddlers
All come saucily paradin’.

I guess those parents might have gone
With Enoch, Oona, Veer;
Those monikers were at the bottom
Of the list last year.

To brand-new parents, though, whose babies’
Lives have just begun,
Their Jayden or their Isabella
Is the only one.

Photo Albums

In photo albums of the past,
The pictures stayed in place
With little stick-on corners
That today you can't replace.

The albums after that had pages
That you had to lift.
The photos rested under plastic
'Til they'd start to shift.

I have a bunch of those, with pages
Turning brown or loose.
Instead of getting them in shape,
I find a good excuse.

When I'm no longer here, those pictures
Likely will get tossed.
Those moments captured by a lens
Will finally be lost.

So even if my albums are
Intact, with full repair,
I seem to be the only person
Who might really care.

My recent photographs are kept
In books I make online.
I choose the backgrounds and the fonts -
Each masterpiece is mine.

But someday they will, too, be gone
As memories do fade.
Until that time, my albums all
Are front-row-seat-displayed.

At the Curb

Christmas trees, some quite superb,
All sit neglected, at the curb.
They'd graced somebody's living room
'Til needles cried out for a broom.


Then they were stripped and dragged out, bare,
Just like the owners didn't care.
Their ornaments were boxed away
Until another Christmas day.


But all their glory came and went;
For them, there is no real lament.
Alas, they sit and, with no pardon,
They'll be mulched for someone's garden.


How the proud and mighty fall!
Whether they were short or tall,
Every tree, once so ornate,
Will suffer such a lowly fate.

Tangerine Tango

I just heard on the radio
Some news you never hear -
It seems that industry has picked
The color of the year.


It will appear on clothing
And accessories and make-up;
Some experts thought its vibrancy
Would give us all a wake-up.


The color has a name, of course - 
It's tangerine and tango.
I picture something orange-red,
Much deeper than a mango.


I bought a sweater weeks ago
And it was just that shade.
Perhaps the store had jumped the gun
By having it displayed.

But now I'll be the height of vogue,
The coolest on the scene,
When I put on my sweater
Colored tango tangerine.


I never knew that years had hues
But if you must comply,
Perhaps to keep up with the times,
It might be time to dye!

2012

Twenty twelve has landed
With a great big noisy plop.
Champagne bubbles fizzled
As the ball began to drop.

Groggers grogged and horns did blare;
Confetti floated down.
Heads were topped with party hats
Or feathers or a crown.

Couples kissed and buddies hugged
With jubilant emotion.
Times Square crowds were teeming,
Thick like fish within the ocean.

Everyone was thrilled to bid
Farewell to what has passed.
We can’t predict what we’ll reel in;
Our lines have just been cast.

And so we’ll dream and wait to see
What winds up on our plate.
The future beckons and we have
No need to hesitate.

Let’s dive right in and choose a path
That hopefully will yield
A year as joyous as the one
Our fantasy’s revealed.