Nothing

I open my notebook and stare at the page;
Its blankness looks back at me, taunting.
I don’t have a topic or thought to engage,
So writing a poem seems quite daunting.

I think of my day and whatever’s occurred,
Yet nothing has snagged my attention.
To write about nothing sounds rather absurd,
Though “Seinfeld” right here needs a mention.

A show about “nothing” is how it was billed,
But of course it was anything but.
With trivial banter its characters filled
Every episode making the cut.

And so, in that spirit, I’ve written these lines –
A springboard from empty to full;
For sometimes oblivion gives us designs
And we yield to gratuity’s pull.

The cosmos, from nothingness, came to exist
And likewise, the words that I write.
Comparisons naturally should be dismissed
But both needed a spark to ignite.

In and Out

If you want to help defeat
Summer's brutal blasts of heat,
Do what experts say you oughter,
Guzzle lots and lots of water.

I imbibe so much each day,
Likely more than what I weigh,
That, while it's preventing thirst,
Part of me's about to burst.

Bladders only hold so much
And when certain muscles clutch,
There must be a quick release
If you want to have some peace.

My advice, when heat's unrolled,
Drink as much as you can hold;
But be sure you always know
The nearest place where you can go!

Repetition

If we learned from our mistakes,
We’d be so much better.
Somehow past advice is rarely
Followed to the letter.

Being burned should make us fear
Proximity to fire;
Yet we still delude ourselves
And let that dread expire.

Wisdom is a tricky thing;
It comes at great expense.
Repeating blunders from the past
Just doesn’t make much sense.

Eventually we’ll understand
And then internalize
That folly’s repetition
Steals the key to getting wise.

In Coney Island

The Fourth's the day for fireworks
And barbecues and beer,
But there’s another custom
That takes place but once a year:

The hot dog eating contest!
And the champs are all prepared,
While only those insane enough
To challenge will have dared.

The five-time winner, Joey Chestnut,
Weighing just 210,
Devoured sixty-eight last year
And wants to win again.

The female best contestant,
Soaking wet one hundred pounds,
Ate forty-one, complete with buns,
A number that astounds.

To watch them stuff their faces
Is a most amazing sight.
It’s silly, crazy and, to me,
Pure grossness at its height.

Yet people love to watch and cheer
To see who’ll wear the crown,
Though mostly they are hoping
Not all hot dogs will stay down.

The hot dog number I’ll consume
Today will add to zero,
But Coney Island soon will crown
The proud new hot dog hero!

Blame the Bud

Every pig likes eating slop;
Every cow chews cud.
Humans differ in their tastes,
But blame it on the bud.

Our tongues are packed with sensors
Which determine what we savor.
Though you’d choose chocolate ice cream,
I’d select a different flavor.

I love a cake or pie that’s made
With lemon or with berry;
My taste buds make that choice for me –
It isn’t arbitrary.

I can’t control a preference
Determined by my tongue.
Environment has no affect
On whence my tastes have sprung.

We’re programmed for uniqueness
In our looks, our smiles, our smarts;
And taste buds add another fruit
To all the applecarts.

In restaurants or picnics
We may eye each other’s food,
But we’ll enjoy the flavors that
Our tongues have not pooh – poohed.

A Country Fair Tale

"Toss a ring and snag a duck
And you will win a rabbit!”
My grown-up brother soon was hooked –
For challenge was his habit.

We were at a country fair;
The barker was enticing.
Proving he could win came first;
The rabbit was the icing.

My brother slapped his dollar down
And got five plastic rings.
The wooden ducks were floating,
But the barker pulled the strings.

For many dollars later,
Though my brother’s aim was true,
The man in charge reached down and said,
“This special duck’s for you.”

He placed it in the water
And one toss was all it took;
The “special duck” was snatched away,
Without a second look.

My brother won his rabbit
Which he couldn’t even keep.
We learned a lesson, though, that day,
Although it wasn’t cheap:

At country fairs or carnivals,
Beware the barker’s lure.
If you’re convinced you’ll beat their game,
You’ll lose your shirt for sure!

Punks

Remember punks? That luscious smell
Brings back my childhood days
Of country summers, where I'd dwell
In youth's more simple ways.

We didn't have TV or phone
Or internet or Kindle;
Yet time was precious, all our own -
We couldn't see it dwindle.

On sultry nights, we'd strike a match
To set our punks aflame,
Then blow until our nose would snatch
The scent that slowly came.

The wisps would rise and we'd inhale
That sweet and smoky flavor;
And every time, we'd never fail
To deeply sniff and savor.

The purpose of a punk, I think,
Was keeping bugs away.
That yummy smell to bugs must stink -
At least that's what they'd say.

I don't remember if it worked -
It didn't really matter -
But we believed that power lurked
And so the bugs would scatter.

The other day I found a punk
And set its tip to burning.
Before I knew it, I was sunk,
My summer youth returning.

Amazing how a certain scent
Can cause a reconnection
With years that long ago we spent
And think of with affection.