Ticker Tape

Today’s the Super Bowl Parade
And you cannot escape,
If you’re in the vicinity,
The tons of ticker tape.

The paper floating through the air,
With lots more at the ready,
No longer comes from ticker tape,
Once used for this confetti.

True ticker tape transmitted news
Of stocks on paper strips;
Machines called tickers ran it through,
With information tips.

As far back as the 60’s,
Ticker tape was obsolete.
Without it, though, a true parade
Just wouldn’t be complete.

So offices took paper waste
And, using intuition,
Just shredded it and let it fly
To honor the tradition.

It could be anything at all,
From memos that they issue
To daily printouts, newspapers
And even toilet tissue.

It all gets tattered, chopped and tossed
And flutters to the ground.
To watchers it looks magical,
The greatest show around.

Today’s a day for Giants fans
To hail how their team played.
It’s fitting that they get to watch
A ticker tape parade.

Once Bitten

Something happens, causes stressin’;
Maybe it will teach a lesson.
Caution is the surest guide
To safeguard what you fear inside.

If you let down your defenses,
Possibly, some wrong commences;
Then you’ll question your intention –
Why you risked your gut’s prevention.

Hopefully, the lesson learned
Makes the point for all concerned.
Here’s an adage to apply –
Once you’re bitten, twice you’re shy.

Super Bowl Sunday

It’s Super Bowl Sunday;
Get ready to party.
Have plenty to eat
And prepare to drink hearty.

It doesn’t much matter
If you are a fan.
Just turn the game on –
That’s the start of the plan.

Plunk down bowls of chips
And have very cold brews.
Keep track of the score
‘Cause one team’s gotta lose.

Be sure to stay put
When commercials are shown.
It’s fun to see ads
That cost more than you own.

Serve wings or thick heros
And keep the beer flowing.
By halftime the fervor
Should really be growing.

Replenish the food;
Add dessert to the mix,
And glance at the passes,
The runs and the kicks.

At last, when it’s over
You’ll check out the score,
Clean up all the crumbs
And the mess from the floor.

For on Super Bowl Sunday,
It’s time to regress,
And we all watch the game
Though some couldn’t care less!

Empty Playground

What later will be filled with squeals
And peals of childish laughter,
In desolation thus reveals
What comes before and after.

The vacant swings, with chains unclasped,
Hang waiting, so forlorn.
The silver slide, unoccupied,
Gleams dully in the morn.

The jungle gyms or monkey bars
Seem bare and incomplete.
They’ll only come alive when tamped
By scores of tiny feet.

The benches, ever patient,
Bide their time, unsatisfied,
‘Til that moment when some sitters
Will enjoy what they provide.

The meat of day will change it all –
The park will thrum with spunk;
But in the empty hours
It’s as silent as a monk.

Dale Evans' Horse

Years ago at work, we had
An argument so strong
That people started betting on
Which side was right or wrong.

The quarrel was about the name
Dale Evans called her horse.
Some thought that it was Buttercup;
It’s Buttermilk, of course.

Now Google wasn’t dreamed up yet,
So no one could hi-tech it.
The battle escalated and
We had no way to check it.

Someone did some research, though,
And with old-fashioned clues,
Discovered just the place to go
To get Dale Evans news:

The Roy Rogers Museum,
Which existed way out west.
A call was made, the truth revealed,
A satisfying quest.

But nowadays, such facts are found
With just a few swift clicks.
The fun’s gone out of arguing
With Google in the mix.

I miss those days when bickering
Could get us all shook up,
And we’d debate if Buttermilk
Was really Buttercup!

In the Mirror

There are days when my reflected self
Both disappoints and shocks.
My expectations differ
From reality, which mocks.

That fresh-faced girl they once called “cute”
Can’t claim that anymore;
And wrinkle creams a smooth complexion
Never will restore.

Yet other days I check the glass
And feel quite satisfied.
I think I’m looking pretty good,
The years tucked back inside.

I wonder then if others
See such varying displays,
Not knowing which self will appear
Within that mirrored gaze.

Perhaps some beauties always see
Perfection looking back;
While others focus on the flaws,
Bemoaning what they lack.

And maybe it’s a female trait,
This back and forth that vexes.
It seems to me a problem
That could bother both the sexes.

Regardless, it’s an awful thing
When you don’t have a clue
‘Til you look into the mirror
Who’ll be looking back at you.

And if your Mr. Hyde is there,
You’re stuck with him today.
Just pray that when tomorrow comes,
That face has gone away.

Feedback

Everyone likes feedback;
It means that you’ve been seen.
The comments may be good or bad
Or somewhere in between.

It’s great to hear the positives;
They feel like verbal hugs.
The high that they provide might be
As good as taking drugs.

No one wants the negatives
Unless they’re said with tact;
But even then, one never knows
How someone will react.

I guess I would prefer to get
No comments to a bad one;
But there are days I really wish
That, good or bad, I had one.

For comments let us know at least
That out there, someone’s reading;
And affirmation, after all,
Is what we all are needing.

So thanks to those who take the time
To jot a thought or two.
Your feedback lets me know my words
Are somehow getting through.