Behind the Clouds

The sun is playing hide and seek
Behind some fluffy clouds
Which make it slightly overcast
And keep away the crowds.

The temperature's a little cool,
Quite pleasant on the beach.
I slather on some sunblock
Just in case the rays can reach.

I'm sure that soon the sky will clear
And sunshine will pour down;
Then all the worshipers will flock
To have their skin turn brown.

This hiding game's a lot like life -
Within the atmosphere
There always lurks a coat of clouds
Until they disappear.

Our days are filled with obstacles
Impeding joy and fun;
But oftentimes the clouds will part
And offer us some sun.

Cheering Fans

When the weather's boiling hot,
Fans won't really help a lot;
Then I'm sure you'd want to be
In a room that has A/C.

But when temps are not extreme,
Fans are better than they'd seem.
From them, gentle breezes blow,
Helping comfort levels grow.

Ceiling fans, I think, are best.
I have some; you might have guessed.
As they spin, their blades provide
A breath of Nature, brought inside.

Fans in windows help as well,
Long as it's not hot as hell.
Place a tall fan on the ground;
It will move the air around.

At this moment, as I write,
I'm receiving, with delight,
Cooling breezes, sweet caresses,
From the job my fan addresses.

I prefer the fan-fed air.
With A/C it can't compare;
But when the summer heat starts winning,
Then, alas, my fans stop spinning.

Manhattanhenge

Today's a day Manhattanites
Might really be enthralled
For it’s a very special time –
Manhattanhenge, it’s called.

Just twice a year, the setting sun
Is perfectly aligned
To light up every cross street
That the city has designed.

Whoever planned the complex map
That forms the city’s grid,
I’m sure had not a clue
About the magic that he did.

For when the sun goes down tonight,
Manhattanites will flock
To witness this phenomenon
On every single block.

At Stonehenge there’s the same effect
But minus urban stuff;
Manhattanhenge won’t be as grand,
But it will be enough.

When Plans Go Awry

When plans go awry,
You can howl; you can cry.
You can beat yourself up like an ape;
But what good does it do
When you try to pursue
Actions getting you bent out of shape?

It’s much better, I think
(And of course, I’m no shrink)
If you take disappointment and shove it.
Then the rest of your day
You can go on your way
Feeling proud that you’ve risen above it.

Everyone makes mistakes
But if one bellyaches
The good karma is pushed to the side.
It’s more helpful to shrug;
Better yet – give a hug
And don’t let angry feelings divide.

For what’s made you upset
You will come to regret
If you wallow and whimper and whine.
Suck it up – take a breath
For it’s not life or death,
Though it matters where you draw the line.

In Favor of the Draft

I'm in favor of the draft
But I don’t mean recruits.
What I mean is beer on tap,
Deserving of salutes.

Bottled beer can be just fine,
Especially from small batches;
But a crisp new brew on draft –
Well, nothing really matches.

It’s frothy, foamy, flavorful;
It’s fragrant, fervent, fresh.
It’s filled with flash and fancy,
Leaving goosebumps on the flesh.

How well it marries with a meal,
But it stands fine alone.
An ice-cold draft beer is among
The best tastes I have known.

I protested against the draft
When it referred to war;
But I’m in favor of
The kind of draft that you can pour!

Sand

I don't really understand
When I am at the beach,
Why I always find some sand
In places out of reach.

Before I leave, I brush each grain
From in-between my toes.
Still, at home, I can’t explain
Its presence on my clothes…

And also on my bathing suit,
My beach bag and my chair.
I thought that I was resolute
In letting sand stay there.

Yet somehow some has trickled home,
Still clinging where it stuck;
And so I wrote this little poem
To prove that I’ve got pluck…

For every grain of sand that sticks
Just makes me take a vow
That next time, there’ll be no last licks;
I’ll leave that sand somehow.

The answer, though, is pretty clear
And right within my reach –
To make the sand all disappear,
I must avoid the beach!

Wimbledon

Wimbledon is tennis whites
And strawberries and cream.
Winning there has got to be
A tennis player’s dream.

Watching Roger Federer,
So cool and poised and Swiss,
I knew his lips would give
The champion’s cup its winning kiss.

Andy Murray played his best.
All Britain cheered him on;
But next to Roger’s expertise,
His oomph was up and gone.

There hasn’t been a British champ
Since 1936,
So Andy’s loss went over
Like a crashing ton of bricks.

And yet the crowd was gracious,
Greeting Roger with applause.
Perhaps they knew defeating him
Was really a lost cause.

It’s wonderful to watch a champ
Competing in his prime
And satisfying to pay tribute
With a spot of rhyme.