In Amsterdam

Walking past a "coffee shop,"
The weed comes wafting out.
Though once I would have thus indulged,
Today I'll do without.

Somehow that's been tucked away,
A relic of my past,
Like youth and risks and craziness -
It wasn't meant to last.

But how that smell just brings it back!
With every single whiff,
I'm tempted just to take a toke,
But I'll stick to a sniff.

Bulbs

Bulbs are planted months before
They poke out from the soil.
You must have faith that they’ll appear,
Rewarding all that toil.

For they lie dormant underground,
Just waiting for the weather
And then they spring up, bright and bold
Like chorus lines, together.

Their hibernation mystifies,
Like those of sleeping bears;
I wonder what would happen if
We caught them unawares.

I think they’d tuck their petals in
And drop off back to sleep,
Their winter slumber peaceful and,
When undisturbed, quite deep.

But when the time is right, they will
Be set for their debut,
As year to year they greet the spring
When winter waves adieu.

Jangles

The best part of vacations
Is they alter your routine,
Like giving up the tuba
For the jangly tambourine.

You leave your comfort zone behind
And venture into where
Nobody knows who you might be
And no one seems to care.

You visit places you have only
Read about in books
And taste cuisine created
By some unfamiliar cooks.

The scenery is different
From what you are used to seeing
And being in such strange surroundings
Might be somehow freeing.

The oom-pah-pah of daily life
Has all the normal angles,
But sometimes, just to spice things up,
You need to hear those jangles.

Pity the Poet

Pity the poet who cannot produce,
When writer’s block’s mocked as a flimsy excuse.
Ache for the author whose well has run dry,
Each crumpled page taunting his need to deny.

Sigh for the sculptor who stares at the stone,
Once viewed as companion, now feeling alone.
Cry for the craftsman, the quilter, the painter
Whose passions, once purple, grow paler and fainter.

Worry for all who once flourished and soared,
Existence distilled, now bereft and/or bored.
Wonder if such is what waits for us all
Unless we still heed creativity’s call.

Your Plants

Your plants will die if you don’t give
Them sunshine, air and water.
They need some nurture, like a greener
Pet or son or daughter.

When going on vacation, you
Must delegate a fill-in
Or else your sprouts won’t make it,
Even with some penicillin.

Be sure your proxy won’t forget
Or take the mission lightly
Because in just a few days’ time,
Some leaves may look unsightly.

And it would be a doggone shame
To come home from a journey
To find a wilted mess, just crying
Out for an attorney.

A little water’s all it takes
To keep your greens alive,
A welcome sight when travel’s done
And back home you arrive.

The Ocean

It’s hard for us to understand
Or really ascertain
The vastness of the ocean,
For it’s taxing to the brain.

However, though our comprehension
May those gray cells strain,
There is a sad example
To help realization reign.

For an ocean, like a monster,
Who is guarding its domain,
Has just opened up its giant maw
And swallowed up a plane.

It’s barely left a crumb or two
For searchers to obtain;
And such enormity might make
Awareness more mundane.

To Wait

You’re given an appointment –
You check the time and date;
And then when you arrive, you find
You always have to wait.

But why? is what I wonder,
For experience should teach
Those who schedule appointments
When they start to overreach.

Excuses must abound, but hey –
There’s traffic everywhere;
And if there’s an emergency,
That still just isn’t fair.

I get to where I need to be
Before I’m even due,
For being late, to me,
Is something utterly taboo.

Yet all I get is extra time
Which then I have to fill.
I read or if I have the chance
To write, I surely will.

So it’s not really awful
If I’m made to sit and wait,
But why this always seems to be
Is up for some debate.