Biting the Dust

February bites the dust

As every month and season must

And we’ve no choice but to adjust

As life goes flitting by.

 

On calendars we’ll turn the page

And check the mirrors, where we’ll gauge

How different we look as we age;

Reflections do not lie.

 

Yet March is waiting ‘round the bend.

On its arrival, we’ll extend

A lukewarm welcome to pretend

Misgivings don’t apply.

 

Before we know it, one more year

Will gobble days and disappear,

But hopefully, we’ll persevere,

With rhymes yet to supply.

Gray Vs. White

The pigeons and seagulls were having a fight.

(Reporters might call it the “Gray versus White.”)

Lined up on the railing, awaiting some food,

There seemed to be tension, an ominous mood.

 

Since in that location, for year after year,

The pigeons have roosted; they’ve made their career

Of circling over the benches to wait

For the lady who feeds them, a sunrise-time date.

 

But lately, the seagulls have gotten the word

Of this ritual, squawked and relayed bird to bird,

So the railing’s been crowded as it’s ever been

With the early morn quiet disturbed by the din.

 

The fight wasn’t physical; no feathers flew,

Though the circular flying meant double the poo.

As I passed on my walk, I just hoped that my luck

Would hold out or you might hear me yelling out – duck!

Backlash

The publisher of Roald Dahl’s books

Thought changes should be made

To make the books “inclusive,”

But attention has been paid

 

With many writers speaking out

To criticize the plan

(Despite the fact that Dahl’s ideas

Made many not a fan).

 

An example that I read of

Would remove the use of “fat”

If a character was overweight –

Now what’s the use of that?

 

What they’d substitute, I wonder;

Still, most children are aware

Of dishonesty in writing

As in life, which isn’t fair.

 

Yet another word replacement

Would be “parent” used instead

Of both “mother” and of “father,”

If one’s gone – divorced or dead.

 

Or if someone has two mommies

Or two dads, perhaps they mused

That by substituting “parent,”

Kids would not then be confused.

 

Still, a writer’s words are sacred

And reflective of the times,

Therefore, posthumous replacements

Feel like literary crimes.

 

Now the publisher’s decided,

After unexpected flak,

There’ll be two competing versions,

Which, to me, seems out of whack.

Order, Order, Order

I can order, order, order

And return, return, return.

I’m an Amazon supporter

But I guess I’ll never learn

 

That the odds of really finding

Something perfect while online

Takes a mountain of reminding

That most things won’t wind up mine.

 

Either it appears in person

Nothing like when on the screen

Or my views on it will worsen

When my mirrors intervene

 

Or the comfort level’s lacking

Or it’s sparking zero joy;

Then it’s time to send it packing,

Keeping truckers in employ.

 

So it’s back to the computer

Where I’ll start my endless scroll.

Surely I’ll find something cuter –

I can feel it in my soul!

MagnaTiles

School is closed, the grands are off

And both are home, each with a cough.

Aside from iPads, books and art,

What kind of project could we start?

The MagnaTiles, once a fave,

(Which luckily, their folks did save)

I dug out from a giant bin

And so the building did begin.

They each worked on their separate parts,

Both using their designing smarts 

And long before they lost their steam,

They joined together as a team.

A boy and girl, two years between, 

Don’t often to the same things lean

And yet today, they made it work,

Their dual pride an extra perk.

The castle done, with lots of praise,

They each went on their separate ways,

But I was thrilled I got to see

Some lovely sibling harmony.

On My Keychain

On my keychain there are keys

To what, I have no clue.

“Just throw them out,” my husband says

And that’s what I should do.

 

Yet there’s a little nagging thought

That someday I might find

The locks those keys will fit and if

They’re gone, I’m in a bind.

 

For if I take them off the chain

And stash the keys away,

The odds of finding them again

Get lower every day.

 

At some point in the past, I knew

Just what each one was for,

But like my aging brain cells,

They can’t help me anymore.

The Stairs

Our B&B room, 2 flights up,

Was fine for us at first,

Until the freeze arrived and then

Those feelings were reversed.

 

For when we left our room to get

Some early exercise,

The stairs and handrails wore a coat

Of ice, a real surprise.

 

We aren’t young and what we knew

Quite strongly in our guts

Was that attempts to get downstairs

Would land us on our butts.

 

The hosts were not around and so

We waited ‘til we felt

The sun perform its magic

As the ice began to melt.

 

An hour later, we could leave,

The lesson paramount,

That age has consequences

We must take into account.