Mixed Blessing

It's poetry pentameter in me,
And everything I see is unstressed, stressed
When flood of verse iambic bursts through free;
Unquestioning, I ride its cadenced crest.
Oh, should I not feel blessed that meter such
As that which is the sonnet's very heart
Inside my soul erupts - a Midas touch -
Which I to every line of rhyme impart?
So easily it flows I know not why -
A rhythm that I'll carry to the grave.
This metronome's  my own, and though I try
At times to change the measure, I'm it's slave.
For when I effort make to pen free verse,
My gush iambic thus becomes my curse!

Weekly Rendezvous (TGIF)

I waken with a smile and I hum.
No obligations beckon me today.
I'm happy and carefree.  My Friday's come.
No other day can make me feel this way.
First a little boxing with a kick -
Next rush into the dressing room and change;
Then finish with my make-up.  In a lick,
I've split.  Where I go next you might find strange.
I have between eleven-ish and twelve
My rendezvous to make, but first I go
To buy a local paper, and I delve
Into the part that tells what I must know -
The starting times of newest shows reviewed.
I'm off!  (With purse in tow I've stowed with food.)

The Onset of My Skeletal Demise

For half my life my body served me well,
And I felt blessed, for it was more than good
From nursery and on through childhood.
I ran and skipped and leapt; I rarely fell
While strong I grew, inhabiting this shell,
And heartily afflictions it withstood.
Pain crept with age, and doing all I could
To aid my frame, the more it did rebel!

I tell the cause surmised of my ill luck,
Why misaligned, from bed I barely rise.
In infant's crib between two rungs was stuck
my head, and being yanked did traumatize
my tender neck; effects have run amuck
All down my spine - the start of slow demise.

Vindictive

I saw you driving near me on the road.
I signaled left and pulled into your lane.
You'd think I was the anti-Christ - your bane.
You leaned upon your horn; such anger showed
You hit the gas and never even slowed.
By then, too late, I guessed you were insane
And flustered, tried a faster speed to gain
As you bore down, and I was nearly mowed!

Oh, yes, I know that I deserved some blame,
But must you make life hell for those from whom
You want a thing your way, and they don't do it?
Red light.  I stopped and readied for your game.
One digit lifted (wish you'd flown your broom).
You came, long finger raised; I'd beat you to it!

Of Elegant and Inelegant Men

Imagining a life with an elegant man,
I see a man whose hands are silk to me,
And stunning in a suit, well-groomed is he.
He loves to read and understands Chopin,
And whisks me off to Paris and Milan.
His dwelling has divans and a nice settee.
We meet the afternoons for chat and tea
And chauffeured,  ride inside a black sedan.

Such a man a mystery shall remain
For me, champagne to my accustomed beer.
I'm steered toward men my opposite and plain.
In their domain is bane what I revere.
Poetry and culture they disdain.
Yet toughened skin is sunned; their hearts sincere.

Double Entendre

Wind, your double essence is well-known.
Whispered summer breezes you exhale;
Then suddenly you turn.  You surge and wail,
Expelling rage, you bluster or you moan.
Your brute relentless nature then is shown
For you become a cyclone, Hound of Hell,
Or show yourself a monsoon, squall, or gale.
Unquelled, a devil's wrath with dust is sown.

As you intone, we're stricken by your power.
Whipping wind, who thrashes us below,
You're merciless until that final hour
Your vehemence ceases.  Gust, I hate you so.
You scour Earth for those who next must cower.
Two-faced tempest, most indeed you blow!

The Emperor of Poems

I finished with my reading of your prose-
Your latest now composed for all to see,
And almost all of those you know agree
There flows profundity from words you chose.
So cleverly your thoughts you did expose
Their meaning from before my eyes did flee.
But devotees would think you walked the Sea
of Galilee and on the Sabbath rose.

Emperor's clothes, your poems, like in the story,
Are senselessness.  You strut them out immense
In their pretense, a void shown in glory.
No consequence for you.  No innocents
Calling out your poems are desultory.
Amongst the dense, you reign with providence.

My Puffed Up King

Gratified by something in the air,
My nostrils swell.  I follow where it trails.
It wafts from yonder stand at County Fair
This scent, for me, most pleasant of all smells.
And like some ravenous determined hound,
I'm led to midst of cotton-candy pinks,
To where the happy children gather round,
munching candy apples; slurping drinks.
And there I find my love I've known since youth-
that food for which nostalgia leaves me weak,
And which I've clutched at movies.  (I'm uncouth.
I wolf it down and then a refill seek!)
Of buttered salted kernels puffed I sing,
For Popcorn rules the realm of snacks as king

Poetry Penned (#59)

I like a pen inside my eager hand.
I scribble words that come; I cross some out.
And poetry cannot be always planned,
For often I am running all about;
When I am in a store or on a drive,
My muse pops in with magic to reveal.
I grab my pad and hope that I arrive
Safe and well from writing at the wheel!
For I cannot revive collective thought
Which comes together smoothly at one time
If with my pen and paper I am not;
Without my tools of trade, there goes the rhyme!
So ink is  the extension of my mind,
For I cannot computers always find.

My Fruit Basket (#72)

You ask what in my basket we should take
Of any kind of fruit; well, here's the truth.
I much prefer my fruit in pie or cake,
Or chocolate covered for my sweety tooth.
No apples, peaches, pears or plums for me.
I find bananas boring. Am I sick?
Of all the fruits that grow upon a tree,
The cherry is the only one I'd pick.
Those mangos slither down my throat; I gag!
And though papaya can be rather sweet,
Exotic fruits of which the natives brag
Are just "ok." I'll stay with my red meat.
Place melon, grapes or cherries in my basket
And can you make them seedless if I ask it?

Waiting in A Line (#71)

I'm late for work, and this line is crawling along
With only two windows open here out of ten.
Inside my head I'm wailing a misery song
And wishing I lived in a century way back when. . .
In days when people could still afford to buy land,
And they could breathe, for the population was small.
Folks that you met would offer to give you a hand
And rarely would ask to see your I.D. at all.
But now you are only a number in a line;
Each year that arrives you pay to keep your car.
Yes, honor Big Brother, or else you'll pay the fine,
And nor does it matter in which of the states you are.
I'd rather just own an old chugging Model-T
Than stand in a line at this frigging DMV.

Admonishment for Poet-Gods (#66)

How different was our world so long ago
In days when writing was a skill to hone
And poet "masters" as artistes were known,
With names like Wordsworth, Shelley, Frost or Poe.
Our realm of poetry did grow and grow.
It modernized; now many forms are sown
By poets (few of us of world renown)
Though poetry itself has endless flow.

But now we just a dime-a-dozen be.
A pittance can be gleaned, and to be read,
Instead of getting paid, some pay a fee!
If work of peers you shun, yet you are fed
By others' praise, you are no honoree,
For God himself has not your swollen head.