Devoid

I really think one should avoid
A peach with flavor so devoid
It might be meant to feed a droid
But as for me – I’m quite annoyed!

The picker who was so employed
To pluck would not be overjoyed
To find the fruit he once enjoyed
Was now considered null and void.

So sad when something is destroyed
By greed and scientists who toyed
With perfect peaches. Even Freud
Would find himself quite paranoid.

For who could have his spirits buoyed
When peaches taste like celluloid?
They look just like a Polaroid
But as for flavor – they’re devoid!

Passe

My nephew thinks of email
Like a telegraph's to me -
It's ancient and old-fashioned and passe.
I sent an e-computer card
But got a message back
It was never viewed though sent two weeks away.

I guess he's into Facebook,
Which I'm not, or maybe text.
However he connects is not for me.
The generation gap
Is growing wider all the time
And I don't think many folks would disagree.

And so I missed his birthday,
Though I sent my card on time;
This occasion postal clerks cannot be blamed.
It's technology and differences
In age and style of life;
I relinquish all the coolness I once claimed.

Garlic

Garlic in a frying pan,
Sauteed in olive oil,
Smells so good that really,
Only vampires would recoil.

How I love that special scent,
A magical bouquet,
Meant to keep your nose nearby,
Not that I'd ever stray.

I  have read of festivals
Where garlic is the star,
Though a garlic ice cream cone
May go a step too far.

Still, I'd love to be at one
To breathe in that aroma.
It's enough to rouse a person
Who's been in a coma.

Garlic in a frying pan -
It's heaven in the kitchen.
No matter what the dish, my taste buds
Totally are twitchin'!

True

Most of what I write is true -
I get it from the news.
Open up the paper - there's so much
From which to choose.

Stories often catch my eye
Of lunatics and strangers;
Perverts on the subway,
Urban life and all its dangers.

Nature's wrath or criminals,
Heroes, athletes, singers;
Human interest tales of folks
Whose lives have been through wringers.

Other poems describe events
I've witnessed in my day.
Every small experience
Yields so much I can say.

All remaining writings
Are extracted from my head:
Memories and contemplations,
Joy and hope and dread.

Sometimes there's a limerick
That sneaks in for a smile.
After all, it's rhyming, which
Sits right within my style.

If you read a poem of mine,
And man, I hope you do,
You never really have to wonder -
Just assume it's true.

Under the Skirt

A savvy transit cop observed
An action quite suspicious.
A perpetrator was engaged
In business most malicious.

His newspaper was subtly placed

Beneath a woman’s skirt,
While clipped to it, a camera pen
Took photographs, covert.

The victim was oblivious
That she was being snapped,
But soon the rogue photographer
Had handcuffs tightly clapped.

Ironically, the culprit
Is a well-esteemed M.D.,
Of all things a urologist,
Who sees these parts for free.

So why this weird behavior
When he’s far away from work?
He risked his whole career
For what his job had as a perk.

The lesson to be learned is that
A gal should be alert;
You never know what may be lurking
Underneath your skirt.

Arabic

I’ve started getting emails
That I cannot read a word of.
They’re written in a language
That perhaps I’ve never heard of.

The writing looks like Arabic,
Not in my realm of knowledge.
In high school I learned Spanish
And a little French in college.

I read some Hebrew haltingly,
But this is not related.
I wonder how to get
This enigma investigated.

For why is someone sending me
A message in a tongue
That’s alien to me and
Other emails it’s among?

I’m getting these from several names,
All sounding vaguely Persian.
To read one single word, I’d need
Rosetta Stone immersion.

I’m pretty sure this isn’t Spam,
But I wish they’d recede.
I’d rather open emails
With a message I can read!

Carousel

Life is like a carousel.
It starts off kind of slow;
We pick our horse and settle in
And then we start to go.

Some ponies are ahead of us.
We follow on their trails;
And sometimes when we look ahead,
We only see their tails.

But we’re ahead of other steeds;
Yet as we rise and fall,
We realize that when all is done,
It matters not at all.

For everybody’s journey,
As we travel round and round,
Rewards us with the joy and peace
We have or haven’t found.

The music soon begins to slow
And we cannot pretend
To be oblivious to what
We know to be the end.

For even one more ticket
Fleeting pleasure will provide.
The trick is understanding
That we’re just here for the ride.