Sameness

When life slips into sameness
And the days go drifting by,
Those who shuffle, feeling aimless,
Should find other fish to fry.

For the bored are never blameless
Since there’s so much they can do
Without being bold or shameless
In the projects they pursue.

We can all claim sloth or lameness
If we fall into a funk
But to overcome the sameness,
We must rise from where we’ve sunk.

Writing

When people’s lives are out of sync
They may resort to drugs or drink
But there’s a better choice, I think,
Which just requires lead or ink.

Not all may have the appetite
For jotting thoughts in black and white
But once you try it, you just might
Find out it brings good vibes to light.

You do not need to see a shrink
To learn that life lasts just a blink;
Yet there’s a chance, though it be slight,
That things will brighten when you write.

My Writing Chair

I’m sitting in my writing chair,
(Though I can write most anywhere)
Surrounded by familiar things
While thoughts and rhymes develop wings.

My feet are resting on the bed
On which a checkered quilt is spread
And out my windows, I espy
A few tall buildings and some sky.

My chair is denim blue and snug;
It comforts me just like a hug.
It doesn’t rock and can’t recline;
The body in it’s mostly mine.

There’s Mozart playing – pure delight,
Though quiet’s better when I write.
Still, somehow I’ll produce a poem,
For in my chair, I’m truly home.

At the Comedy Club

At the comedy club, there were chuckles galore
And the crowd was applauding and hoping for more
When then room rather suddenly went rather dark
And we realized it wasn’t just meant as a lark.

People whipped out their cell phones, providing some light
And the comics continued, still primed for the night.
As the club workers fiddled with wire and fuse,
The audience laughed – we had nothing to lose.

So we drank and we listened as darkness remained;
The comedians gamely kept us entertained.
The show must go on, as they say, and it did
Though the club never tracked down the glitch in their grid.

Sometimes life has a habit of tossing a curve,
Leaving some with a consequence they don’t deserve.
Still, the laughter last night sure provided a spark
Which was all that was needed to light up the dark.

Blue Laws

Towns appear to still adhere
To laws from long ago,
Included to make church the only
Sunday place to go.

So malls and stores all shut their doors
To force a day of rest,
Assuming all their customers
Were church-bound, getting blessed.

It came to pass not every mass
Was filled from pew to pew,
As worshipers found other things
That they’d prefer to do.

Some towns gave pause and ditched the laws
So shoppers came in droves
In search of electronics, clothes
And even fish and loaves.

But where we drive, the Blue Laws thrive
So Sunday traffic’s light.
In hopes they don’t repeal the rule,
I’ll pray with all my might.

A Gift Horse

Bags and bags of rolls of
Wrapping paper sat in piles
By the curb as passersby
Revealed their New York guiles.

The store must not have had the room
To keep them for a year,
So why not spread the wealth around
And help them disappear?

Some people grabbed a handful
Which looked very Christmasy;
Three rolls with smiling snowmen
Seemed appropriate for me.

The takers grinned and marveled
At this unexpected gift.
I wonder, then, how many,
Once at home, were slightly miffed…

For close inspection showed each roll
Was slit from stem to stern,
Reminding me that nothing’s free,
A lesson I should learn.

To look a gift horse in the mouth
Is never deemed correct,
But there are times that certain gifts
Are ones we should reject.

Fridays

There’s nothing that I’d rather do
Than be with Henry,* just we two.
Of course, some moments might be tough
But still, I just can’t get enough.

To watch him figure out the world,
His sense of self become unfurled,
Is truly one of life's great gifts;
My spirits soar and sorrow lifts.

And now a sister’s here, to boot,
Who’s smiley, sweet and oh-so-cute.
She watches every move we make,
Just waiting ‘til she can partake.

The day winds down, the baths complete,
The parents home, so we retreat.
We say goodbye and Henry cries;
A tiny part inside me dies.

*my 2 year old grandson