The Race is On

The race is on, the goal is set;
Opponents come out swinging.
We’re all prepared to feel the buzz
This competition’s bringing.

Right now there is no way to know
Which one will end up winning.
The final days seem far away;
It’s only the beginning.

The papers fill with background tales;
Reporters give opinions.
The spotlight follows all their moves,
Surrounded by their minions.

Each vows to serve the best he can
And when results are tallied,
We’ll look back at the game to see
Which one had better rallied.

Of course, I’ve chosen who I want;
My fingers, crossed, I’m hopin’
That Roger Federer will win
The current U.S. Open!

Braless

Each morning when I take my walk,
I see a sight which makes me gawk –
A woman, in her seventies,
Whose breasts are swinging in the breeze.

Well, not exactly – there’s a blouse,
So there’s no cause to fret or grouse;
But there’s no bra – of that I’m sure,
And no elastic to endure.

She looks like she’s en route to work;
Perhaps the dress code is a perk.
Nobody even gives a glance
To see the way those puppies dance!

I wonder why she sports this style.
Would asking earn a frown or smile?
My theory holds, in protests past,
Into the fire her bras were cast.

Though that was many years ago,
She must have liked the feel and flow
Of being free and less confined
And thus, her bras remained behind.

A simple explanation – still,
I do not know and never will.
No matter whence her reasons stem,
Hats off to this unfettered femme!

Prince Harry

Prince Harry bared his bottom
So that all the world could see;
He didn’t seem embarrassed
By his lack of modesty.

Cavorting in a Vegas suite,
This soldier, on a leave,
Allowed himself the freedom
That Prince Charles could not believe.

So, summoned to the royal digs,
Did Harry get a thrashing?
If so, his dad’s a hypocrite,
With follies worth rehashing.

For I remember Charles confessing,
On the phone, with amp on,
That his desire was to be
His dear Camilla’s tampon.

He didn’t know the phone was tapped
And clueless, too, was Harry;
Such antics merely feed the press
With royal commentary.

Before we blame the wayward prince
For stripping on his spree,
We should acknowledge apples
Falling not far from their tree.

The Lucky Ones

Writers write and painters paint
To give themselves release.
Knitters knit and sculptors sculpt,
Allowing them some peace.

Singers sing and dancers dance
To tap into their talent.
Runners run and heroes help
And practice being gallant.

Bakers bake and swimmers swim
And mimes demand attention.
Everyone has skills, including
Those I didn’t mention.

People do the things they do,
With varying success,
To get them through the day and prove
The powers they possess.

Some people never have the chance
To find their little niche.
The lucky ones who’ve found it know
That they have struck it rich.

Salesmen

A salesman sometimes helps you out,
But often he does not.
If you are clueless, what he knows
Can add to quite a lot.

Yet there are clerks so in your face
That they become intrusive;
And others hide like jungle creatures,
Rare and most elusive.

The perfect guy or gal in sales
Is patient and attentive.
Commission may be why, but we
Should seem like the incentive.

A knowledge of the products adds
To what they have to tell you.
A pleasant personality
Adds much to what they sell you.

It’s nice to leave a store and feel
That you’ve been taken care of.
A customer who’s satisfied
Gets more than he’s aware of.

The Fallen

A thousand faces gazing from
The daily paper's print,
Each one a fallen soldier,
Who will not complete his stint.

I looked at every single one
And read his town and age.
The life that each one left behind
Just jumped up off the page.

The solemn ones, in uniform,
Were serious and proud;
Perhaps photographers announced
A smile was not allowed.

But others mugged and looked amused,
So filled with life and fun;
It's hard to reconcile those deaths,
When life had just begun.

I wonder how their loved ones feel
When staring at that square
Containing someone's face they know - 
It's more than I could bear.

When soldiers go to war, they all
Expect to make it back;
Yet every day of war, some don't
Survive the next attack.

We stare at all their faces
As we sympathize and grieve;
To me, no war is worth such loss,
But maybe I'm naive.

Ah-choo!

Sometimes, as you shoot the breeze,
You’ll be startled by a sneeze.
Even walking up the stairs,
It can catch you unawares.

With no allergies or colds,
Sneezing often still unfolds.
It may happen for no reason;
Some lay blame upon the season.

Sneezes serve to help remind us
That the forces which designed us
Left some mysteries to tease,
One of which must be the sneeze.