Vacate

Vacate your apartment
From 8:30 until 4
Was the message in the notice
Hand-delivered to my door.

A crane is being lifted
To the roof so just in case
An accident occurs, we need
An empty living space.

Whoever's ass is on the line's
Not taking any chances
And I've been told it's not the time
To take indignant stances.

So if you plan to visit Friday,
You should phone instead
Because I'll be out all day,
Which I prefer to being dead.

Pumpkins by the Door

Nothing shouts out autumn
Like a pumpkin by the door 
Or a window jack-o-lantern
(What a pumpkin's really for).  

Yes, the leaves are falling quickly
And the air is crisp and fine
But a pumpkin is the exclamation point
(Italics mine).

If you live where autumn visits
Then you really can't afford
To be stuck without a pumpkin
(Or you're out of, yes, your gourd!).

On My Turf

Our family isn’t very big
But still, it’s kind of rare
When there’s a holiday and all
Can congregate somewhere.

It’s been a year since Henry’s birth
And though we’ve all united,
It’s never been where I reside
(Of course, they’ve been invited).

Until this weekend past, that is,
When Henry came to visit.
His parents and his aunt came, too,
And it was just exquisite!

I’ve waited for this big event
And hoped with all my might
That everything would smoothly flow
And all would be all right.

The weekend was a pure delight
For nothing can replace
The joy of having those you love
In your home’s warm embrace.

To share your hospitality
With those on whom you dote
Is sufficient cause to celebrate
In rhyme (like I just wrote!).

On My Rocker

Sitting in my rocking chair
I feel myself relax,
A quality that every couch
Or stool or loveseat lacks.

The gentle back and forth harks back
To infancy, perhaps,
When we were rocked while being fed
In moms' and daddies' laps.

No matter what the reason,
There is nothing to compare
To an hour spent unwinding
In my comfy rocking chair.

Whistle-free

A teapot with no whistle
Is no easy thing to find.
My husband, for some reason,
Seems to like the silent kind.

A few have little latches
So the whistler stays ajar,
Preventing any sound but steam
From getting very far.

But not the one that I brought home –
You can’t avoid the whistle
And though I wouldn’t mind it,
Well, my spouse begins to bristle.

So I’ll return it and I will
Resume my vain pursuit
Of a teapot that, when boiling mad,
Prefers to keep things mute.

Honesty

As I get old
I’m more inclined
To speak about
What’s on my mind.

If I’m not liked,
Well, that’s the breaks
And sometimes, yes,
I make mistakes.

But mostly when
I keep things in.
It’s no good bearing
With a grin.

I mostly take
My own advice,
But sometimes there’s
Too steep a price.

(Re)Tired

Here’s a thought I had today
(And really, it’s inspired):
It’s possible to be exhausted
When you are retired.

For if, in your retirement,
Some interests you’ve acquired,
You may be far too busy
For the sleep that you’ve required.

So if a work cessation is
A goal that you’ve desired,
Accept the fact that you will be
Both “re” and “re”-less tired.