When I go out to dinner,
I do not want to share.
I don’t care what is on your plate;
I don’t want to compare.
I scan the menu up and down
And then make my selection.
When it arrives, it’s meant for me
And not for your inspection.
“You want to taste my fish?” I’m asked.
Some people never learn;
For then the expectation is
To taste mine in return.
And so the answer’s always No!
Yet comments never cease.
“Your fries look really good!” They are,
So let me eat in peace!
Each morsel on my dish is mine
And I intend to finish.
Perhaps my attitude will make
Your thoughts of me diminish.
I’m sorry if that is the case –
Dessert I’ll split just fine;
But when the meal’s delivered –
You eat yours and I’ll eat mine!
Sometimes life is such a bore we run on automatic;
Then it’s time to tango for a dash of the dramatic.
Or when things are dull and only gusto will suffice,
We cha-cha or calypso to inject a dose of spice.
We hustle off to work each morning, foxtrot through the day
And hope that time’s electric slide just melts the hours away.
At clock-out time we say goodbye and jitterbug on out;
We hokey-pokey home because that’s what it’s all about.
Some easy days we waltz on by; we’re caught up in the swing
And lindy-hop or tap our way through all that life can bring.
We may go round in circles or, to deal with our despair,
Find someone we can partner with and do-so-do with flair.
For life is like a dance and we are held within its sway;
We dip and twirl and fake the steps, from polka to ballet.
The music of the atmosphere imbues us with its beat
And if we choose to hear it, we just follow with our feet.
Come wrestle with a gator!
Said the poster at the fair.
With tape around its mouth, it looked
Pathetic in its lair.
Yet in a cage adjoining it,
A tortoise ambled 'round,
Its movements sure and steady,
One foot lifting off the ground.
With claws extended, it appeared
To glide on tippy toes;
Its ancient eyes gazed straight ahead,
A true reptilian pose.
The children leaned and stroked its shell.
It didn't seem to mind,
Although I'm sure it would have liked
A stroke from its own kind.
That tortoise kept on moving,
Though perhaps to help prepare
For a coming-soon encounter
With an unsuspecting hare!
Elevated railroad tracks
Abandoned long ago
Have been transformed into a place
Where grass and flowers grow.
With benches made of wood or stone
And artwork interspersed,
The desolation and despair
Have all but been reversed.
If visiting the city
Is a plan that you have made
Then walk upon the High Line
And behold what’s there displayed.
It’s part and parcel of the town
But also quite unique
So stroll the High Line if
A New York feeling’s what you seek.
If a golfer who’s clumsy and falls
Loses grip on the clubs that he hauls
He'd trip on a trap
With wood in his lap
And have problems in finding his balls!
for Craig Cornish's limerick contest
Morning is a question mark –
Serenity or drama?
Afternoon’s a semi-colon,
Period or comma.
If the day’s routine,
You’d list its parts behind a colon:
Keep those hours rollin’.
Hyphens give one pause, though things
May not be out of joint.
What you must be careful of’s
The exclamation point.
For this little bugger
May show anger, joy or fear.
Many people would prefer
It never would appear.
Punctuation rules the day
And shows us what we’ve got.
Nighttime comes and then we’re left
With dot and dot and dot…
Without a doubt the sun will rise.
The gym rats all will exercise.
The candidates will tell their lies
‘Cause that’s what life’s about.
Without a doubt the dawn will break.
Someone will make a huge mistake.
There’ll be some sadness – hearts will ache;
Of sorrow, there’s no drought.
Without a doubt the day will end.
Someone will make a brand-new friend
While others find some rules to bend;
Both good and bad will sprout.
Without a doubt the moon will show,
Sky will darken, stars will glow.
From poets’ pencils, words will flow
For they can’t do without…
I hereby resolve to declutter.
I’ll slice through my closets like butter.
What looks dated and torn
Or what I haven’t worn
Will be bagged up and tossed to the gutter.
I say the same thing every year.
When I promise, I’m really sincere;
But for true execution
Of this resolution
A fairy would have to appear.
And then, with a wave of her wand,
Old garments would up and respond.
They would float out the door
And I’d lock it before
With my newer things she could abscond.
A fairy’s unlikely to show,
So my closets will still overflow;
But I’ve learned how to cope
Though there’s always some hope
That I’ll give a few things the heave-ho!
Gussie Moran, a tennis star,
Created quite a stir
When she wore lace-trimmed underwear,
Created just for her.
In 1949 this was,
On Wimbledon’s staid courts;
The British folk were scandalized,
According to reports.
Designed by Teddy Tingling,
A tennis pro and Brit,
The all-white skirt (above the knees!)
Had newsmen in a snit.
They said she brought “vulgarity”
And even, more so, “sin”
Into a sport that prior
Only let the proper in.
Along with her obit, there was
A photo of her wearing
These very clothes; to us, today,
They’re anything but daring.
But bravo to this fearless gal!
Her charms she did assert
When she gave fans at Wimbledon
A shock beneath her skirt.
Today the New York Marathon's
Become a non-event.
The runners' opportunities
To race both came and went.
At first the mayor said it's on,
Despite the storm's destruction;
And then, last minute, pulled the plug
And gave a new instruction.
The racers coming to New York
Most likely were confused;
And those who paid for flights and rooms
I'm sure were not amused.
It's sad that all that training
For this race has come to naught,
The miles of pavement pounded
On each sneaker that was bought.
But certainly the mayor
Could have hurrried his decision.
His turnabout last-minute call
Has earned him great derision.
The city wasn't ready yet
To up and celebrate.
The mayor should have known that,
But discovered it too late.