Rubber Boots

All the girls in rubber boots
Before it’s even raining,
Must be hot and sweaty,
Though I doubt they are complaining.

This latest fad is borrowed from
A kindergarten fashion,
But all the colors and designs
Become a teenage passion.

Older women wear them, too,
With peace signs, hearts and flowers.
They can slosh through puddles
In both thunderstorms and showers.

When I see them, how I wish
That I was in cahoots
With those who manufacture
All those must-have rubber boots!

Calories

Stopped at Starbucks – wanted cake.
Boy, that was a huge mistake!
Lemon pound cake, by the slice,
Lookin’ fresh and oh, so nice!
‘Til I glanced upon its ticket:
490 calories – they can stick it!

Listen, I do have a brain:
Eat fat foods and weight you’ll gain;
But shoving numbers in my face
To me, is just a real disgrace.
Let me enjoy my little splurge
When by and by, I get the urge.

I want to eat my cake in peace.
One slice will not make me obese.
Those calorie counts are for the fools
Who disregard the basic rules:
Watch the fattening foods you eat
And on occasion, have a treat.

Then ignore the calorie count,
But if it has a high amount,
Go someplace else – get on your mark –
Where numbers are left in the dark!

The Reason

Gardeners garden for a reason,
Not what you might think.
It’s not to show off what’s in season,
Vanished in a blink.

Of course, they want their plants admired
By all the passersby.
They’d welcome praises they’ve inspired
By how they beautify.

But that’s not why they work the soil;
Instead, what I deduce
Is that it’s worth their hours of toil
To see what they produce.

For they’re the ones who reap rewards
From flowers, bright and lush;
The harmony of nature’s chords
Provides them with a rush.

And if somebody’d compliment
The buds they’ve gently tended,
The kudos would not make a dent
In what had been intended.

The gardeners plant for themselves;
They’re happy, though, with sharing.
They want their flowers off the shelves
And flaunt them if they’re daring.

The writer has the same desire:
He writes for inner pleasure;
And if his writings do inspire,
He’ll gladly share his treasure.

Forgetting What You Read

I read a catchy essay
In The New York Times today,
About how what we read in books
Just up and floats away.

It doesn’t matter what the genre:
Fiction or things real,
For some of us, our brains cannot
Absorb all that we deal.

Even if the book is one
We loved and recommended,
A few months later what we can
Remember’s been suspended.

When someone asks you to recall
A character’s decision,
The blank look on your face
Will likely garner some derision.

If friends remind you of your rave,
You know that, yes, you said it,
And you’re embarrassed to admit
It’s like you never read it.

Perhaps our mental wiring
Is getting frayed and worn,
Or else we’ve used up all the brain cells
Dealt when we were born.

Whatever is the reason
That I have no plot retention,
I’ll keep on reading just as if
Retaining’s my intention.

Open Mike

Poetry is meant to share
And that is why I went
To hear the poets who'd be there
At the Open Mike event.

Though we were few, we all enjoyed
A genial rapport.
Supportive comments kept us buoyed
As we each claimed the floor.

The mood was jovial and kind -
We cheered each other's writing.
Our problems all got left behind -
In words we were delighting.

At first I wished more people showed.
I'd hoped to have a crowd;
But we jelled into comfort mode -
We felt not shy or cowed.

I had a lovely afternoon
And think we'd all agree
We'd like the chance again real soon
To share our poetry.

Decluttering

I’m a pack rat, not a hoarder;
All my junk is in some order.
I’ve a sentimental streak
For items really quite unique.

I save Bar Mitzvah invitations,
None of which are duplications.
I’ve all my children’s notes from school;
I toss their homework, as a rule.

My closet’s filled with clothes so old
It’s lucky they cannot grow mold.
I hate to ditch old towels and sheets;
They make good beach or picnic seats.

Old negatives and photographs
Could be piled higher than giraffes.
Don’t even mention magazines –
I guess collecting’s in my genes.

But still, sometimes I get possessed
And throw things out – you’d be impressed.
Today I cast some things away
To clear space for my new buffet.

I feel so proud, my heart is fluttering
‘Cause I’ve accomplished some decluttering!

Bra Straps

As soon as I could wear a bra,
I learned a crucial lesson:
Never let your bra straps show –
Just keep the people guessin’.

In seventh grade, it shocked us
When the next door teacher, older,
Would flirt with Mr. Feldstein,
Her straps hanging past her shoulder.

“She’s doing it on purpose!”
We all hissed, but didn’t get it.
It opened up my eyes, though,
Since I never did forget it.

I still buy bras that fit me
So they stay beneath my shirt.
I find it strange when women choose
To make their bras overt.

From what I see today, though,
Flaunting bra straps is the style.
I think back to the seventh grade
And can’t resist a smile.

I thought it looked so stupid then
And feel the same today;
I guess young women like to have
A lingerie display.

But women of my generation
Like our bra straps hidden.
Imagination’s all you need
To conjure the forbidden.