Boots was its name, adventure its game,
As it approached the lily pond.
Although the cat was really quite tame,
To a challenge it loved to respond.

An alligator lurked in the reeds,
And Boots would visit every day.
The gator would glide out of the weeds,
And swim over to where the cat lay.

At first, Boots’ owner was quite concerned -
Alligators were creatures to fear.
But over time it seems she had learned
You can’t believe all that you might hear.

The animals got along just fine,
Enjoying each other’s company.
In its mind the cat had drawn a line,
Where, should the gator cross, it would flee.

Day after day they basked in the sun,
And talked long of animal affairs.
Sunday the cat’s eyes shut one by one,
Dozing, the cat was caught unawares.

Boots woke in the alligator’s jaws,
Viewing the world through well-honed dentures.
It scratched the gator’s tongue with its claws,
Escaping, and done with adventures.

RJM

Hoot Mon! He’s back, ‘tis JTB
With a corrker of a poem.
It’s been a while, it seems to me,
Since this way he deigned to rrroam.

To goo ole Jock, give ma regarrrds,
And a fine tight seal on his purrrse.
Worrds, a Scot ne’rr frreely discarrrds –
The terrm “talk is cheap” he will currse.

If a lass hopes to wed a Scot,
Therre arre some lessons she should learrrn.
Be surre to serrve frrugal meals hot,
And expensive condiments spurrn.

And wearrr ye na fancy garrments -
Best to keep yourr attirre plain.
Be sparrring, too with all comments,
Orr else he shan’t see ye again.

And rremembberr who wearrs the pants,
Forr on this, sturrrdy unions tilt.
If marrriage is to have a chance,
Be surrre to keep him in a kilt.

RJM

Andy was a famed inventor,
Dealing with things of tiny size.
A little flea, his first mentor,
Helped him to miniaturize.

The flea would present an idea,
And Andy would toss it around.
Sometimes it would take a full year,
Till Andy found an idea sound.

He was a stickler for research,
Always running test after test.
On his eyebrow the flea would perch,
A comfortable place to rest.

The flea is onto something big,
Andy’s fortune is guaranteed.
It is a teeny weeny jig
To make common pins at high speed.

But they have trouble with a switch,
So the flea orders new tests now.
Near Andy’s eye he feels an itch,
And swats the poor flea on his brow.

RJM

If I could be a Psychic,
With all those special powers,
Lottery numbers I’d pick,
And cash would grow like flowers.

I’d be forewarned of events,
From disasters I’d be free.
For all practical intents,
Earth would be Eden to me.

And no problem reading minds,
Folks would all be open books.
Imagine secrets I’d find -
How easy to avoid crooks.

I’d probably have no friend,
People would hold me in awe.
Though some would likely pretend,
Till learning all that I saw.

Politicians would fear me,
Knowing I’d see through their lies,
Lawyers wouldn’t come near me,
For that same premise applies.

How I would be sought after
For psychic ability.
Please, desist with that laughter,
Such people do claim to be.

Why are they strangely selective
With this power that they spread?
Is magic so defective,
Some must commune with the dead?

They even charge for service,
And, indeed, find fools to pay.
Shouldn’t Saddam be nervous
They’d give his secrets away?

George, in the Yellow Pages,
You simply look under “P”.
“Psychic Friends” all the rage is -
Hidden weapons they will see.

RJM

The old conductor approaches,
Ticket puncher in his gnarled hand.
For decades he’s ruled these coaches,
As they rattled across the land.

Eyes reddened from cinders and smoke,
In days of burning coal and wood,
Smoke coating the cars with its cloak,
As out on the platform he stood.

He’s inhaled rank diesel fuel,
And withstood its noxious effect,
While wielding his old punching tool
On tickets he’d come to collect.

Each journey would bring new faces
That he’d greet with congenial air.
Traveling to distant places –
Coded tickets might tell him where.

He wasn’t a well-traveled man,
On the same trip every day.
In Chicago his route began,
And ended south of Santa Fe.

He knew each tree and sweep of grass,
Church steeples he’d name off afar,
Desert shrubs and cactus they’d pass,
At night he knew every star.

Of his uniform he was proud,
With stripes marking each fleeting year.
But now, no more stripes were allowed -
Age seventy was almost here.

An adequate pension he’d get,
He would end the traveling grind.
He only had but one regret –
Not finding stuff folks left behind.

RJM\

You’re too old to cut the mustard,
Your lower plate is in the jar,
And your upper plate is busted,
For biting apples went too far.

“Hot dog!” you say to Cream of Wheat,
Congealing nicely in your bowl.
Ah, wouldn’t a frankfurt be neat,
With mustard on a soft roll?

The jar lids are much tighter now,
And wide pliers come in handy.
Mustard upsets you anyhow,
But peach yogurt sure tastes dandy.

The Gulden years are here at last,
Bringing gastritis to the fore.
Follow with Pepto-Bismol fast,
Or your tummy will sure be sore.

RJM

They had been removing a drainage pipe,
And the work crew took two sections apart.
Catching an awful whiff of something ripe,
The closest fellows jumped back with a start.

Using a pole they pried loose a chicken,
Then a half-dozen more - bones mostly.
The putrid odor could almost sicken,
And the foreman found the delay costly.

He drove a bulldozer right to the spot,
Against the broken pipe he set the blade.
Holding his nose to block the smell of rot,
He and machine a mighty effort made.

The pipes separated, leaving a gap,
Thereby releasing even more foul stench.
Then, like a wild creature freed from a trap,
Some dark thing slithered out into the trench.

Utility workers gathered around,
For this was a sight few of them had seen.
A huge alligator lay on the ground,
Full seventeen feet of lumped ugly green.

This wasn’t to be a normal workday,
And the foreman was resigned to that fact.
Scrambling to stay out of the gator’s way,
None of the men for agility lacked.

To the top of the pipes the workmen climbed,
To consider just what they had to do.
Twelve noon, the nearby cathedral clock chimed,
And they sat baffled until half past two.

Between them all, they came up with a plan,
One of them would have to run to the truck.
Because the gator was eyeing each man,
They drew small scraps of paper for bad luck.

The foreman, himself, drew the smallest piece,
And slowly he slid down onto the ground.
The movement of his legs never did cease,
As for that vehicle he was then bound.

The alligator pursued him half way,
But turned back, realizing it was too slow.
The foreman in that truck was forced to stay,
Until some distance that gator did go.

Then the swift foreman made a return trip,
And the men pulled him up onto the pipe.
The gator almost had him in its grip,
Just missing him with its mighty tail’s swipe.

The foreman had brought with him lengths of rope,
Which he handed around to the work crew.
To lasso that gator was their last hope,
Or the rest of the day’s work would be through.

Like urban cowboys, they slung their wide nooses,
Again and again looping the creature,
As it swung its head, oozing with juices,
Hoping man was the lunch menu’s feature.

It took quite a while to hog tie the brute,
And the men were dirty and exhausted.
One guy came up missing a rubber boot –
In the alligator’s mouth he’d lost it.

The creature was hauled away to the zoo,
Financial problems there were a factor.
Almost anything that gator would chew,
So they fired the garbage contractor.

RJM

My wife’s taken up Tai Chi,
With video tapes and all.
She completely ignores me,
Held in the instructor’s thrall.

She has a daily routine –
Exercise in slow motion.
And it’s seldom that I’ve seen
Her commit such devotion.

Stretching and bending with ease,
She has the movements down pat.
That Ying Yang ball she will squeeze -
Imaginary, at that.

She dances with grace and poise,
Swaying before the TV –
Muted, so there’s no noise,
As she gyrates silently.

I paid her no attention.
Her thing. I wouldn’t intrude.
Till she happened to mention
Her female teacher was nude.

Now, I find every day,
I, too, enjoy her routine,
But, I confess that no way,
I'll take positions I've seen.

RJM

Tell us, tell us, talking head,
Tell us what the speaker said.
Though we listened to each word,
Tell us, please, just what you heard.

Indeed, we speak English too,
But we need to hear from you.
Just in case a word was missed,
Repeat the speech - we insist.

Oh, how nice to hear it twice,
Only once will not suffice.
So, let’s hear it, talking head,
Or we’ll read his views instead.

RJM

The angry sea was raging,
As he tightly gripped the wheel.
Losing fight he was waging,
His doom, this storm might well seal.

Those small craft advisories
He wished now that he’d heeded.
He’d never seen such high seas -
Wild waves never receded.

No sails hoisted, hatch shut tight,
The sloop, creaking as it pitched.
Would he make it through the night
To the wheel post tightly hitched?

Then, at last, there came the dawn,
And waves began to subside.
Keel imbedded in a lawn,
It had been a storm-tossed ride.

RJM

He was having trouble walking,
When a jogger sped past on the ice,
As if snail’s pace he was mocking,
But he’d already fallen twice.

Of course, it didn’t help a bit
That he’d stopped off at Murphy’s Pub,
But, Saint Pat’s day, he had to sit
And with a few friends, elbows rub.

He knew he’d had more than a few,
And had trouble navigating,
And the leather soles on his shoes
Proved to be more aggravating.

Homeward, he inched along the street,
Hardly a leg to stand upon,
When, suddenly, progress was fleet -
Carried home by a leprechaun.

He thanked the elf with drunken grin,
Who, as those wise green eyes shone bright,
Said, “For Irish, we’re just filling in,
Pink elephants are off tonight.”

RJM

Three large male Blue Jays would fight
Over pecking rights to the feed box.
Bickering went through the night,
While sneaking along came the red fox.

The birds were preoccupied
With their very silly argument,
While the wily fox relied
On stealth, as ever closer he went.

The feed box was soon forgot,
As the red fox made a mighty leap,
Two of those foolish Blue Jays he caught,
Before they could make a peep.

RJM

“So, Irving, what’s the matter,
Aren’t you feeling quite yourself?”
She moved aside a platter,
Chicken soup was on that shelf.

“No, Ma, I’m feeling rotten,
I doubt I can eat a thing.
From the fridge she had gotten
Soup, which she was now heating.

It was Jewish tradition,
And loving mothers knew best.
In poor Irving’s condition,
She must put it to the test.

“Heck, Ma, I can hardly stand.”
Irving said, trying to rise.
To skip the soup, he had planned,
Eating that, he thought unwise.

But he collapsed in his chair,
To weak even to get up.
The smell of soup filled the air,
Mother stirred a steaming cup.

She gave the spoon a last tap,
Bringing soup to the table,
Said, spilling it in his lap,
“See, now to rise, you’re able.”

RJM

Troops now engaged in battle,
While dissenters line the street,
Spouting uninformed prattle -
Perhaps, preferring defeat?

Naïve displays of ardor,
As if we ALL don’t want peace.
Protestors make it harder
To bring war to surcease.

Terrorism gains its hold
At home and around the world.
Now’s the time to back the bold,
To keep battle flags unfurled.

Civilization beset
By brazen barbaric acts,
Yet, to this nation’s regret,
Dissenters ignore these facts.

Ill-focused is their anger,
As they flail about and whine,
Denying the real danger
In appeasing rabid swine.

Ask these demonstrators when
They’d endorse a call to war.
They will equivocate then -
Indecision is their flaw.

Turning of the other cheek,
Has not made this nation strong.
Americans freely speak,
But dissention now is wrong.

With our troops in harms way,
Dying to stamp out terror,
It’s clear that this task’s delay
Is found in their own mirror.

RJM

Behind women and children they hide,
Mosque used as offensive position,
An army without honor or pride,
Faced with a noble coalition.

Prisoners, they torture and kill,
As barbarians they prove to be.
Long they’ve usurped Iraqis’ free will,
Sentencing people to misery.

Impersonating civilians, too,
Another of their cowardly ruses.
Their comeuppance is long overdue –
Time to end this regime’s abuses.

Feyadeem, Al Qaeda, other scum,
Fanatic terrorists to the core.
Now the day of reckoning has come –
For dead victims, we even the score.

And for those yet lacking in resolve,
Still confused about reasons for war,
As traits of the enemy evolve –
You’ll know terrorists for what they are.

RJM

My two year old filly
I named “Tearful Tillie”

Put her on the track
She never looked back

Always kept oats in her stall
She stands 17 hands tall

Her groom rubs her down
Not a fault has he found

I feared entering her in a claimer
I had paid too much to her trainer

I placed her in an allowence
Income and outgo had to balance

Her odds on the board were astronomical
I found that quite comical

My laugh came to an end
She never came in

Now she eats her oats in a barn
On a small broodmare farm

But to me she is still a winner!

Ladybird

Jessica Lynch seems fated
To take Hollywood by storm.
Recall who demonstrated,
While she was being done harm.

When her story reaches the screen,
Note well the cast of players.
If war protestors are seen,
Make ticket cash hers, not theirs.

Mail her the ticket money,
Make a protest of your own.
Some loyalties are funny,
When financial flags are flown.

It is hypocrisy’s height
To now venerate her role,
When they opposed the brave fight
That she embraced with heart and soul.

To the town of Palestine,
West Virginia, USA,
(Personal checks will be fine)
Send the ticket’s cost her way.

RJM

You were missed in your hometown
Folks missed having your smile around

Your soon to be back home

Best wishes in goals of your own

No longer viewed as a girl
Now a hero to the world

In honor of Jessica Lynch

Ladybird..

From French wine we’ll now abstain,
Grey Poupon we’ll frown upon,
Peugots we will not buy again,
On things French we’ll look with scorn.

Motel Six is in a fix,
As far as we are concerned,
To Evian we’ll say nix,
Yoplait Yogurt we have spurned.

All perfumes we’ll look over –
Can’t stand the smell of Chanel.
From the White Cliffs of Dover,
The long view has gone to Hell.

So much for touring Paree,
Goodbye to Eiffel Tower.
French colors did we see
Furled in her lowest hour.

Thank you for nothing, Chirac.
Friends like you we sure don’t need.
Clearly, loyalty you lack –
Iraq stance prompted by greed.

RJM

Covering stories with honest simple
Clear brevity
His life was not long to be

I will miss him and his smile
Not allow myself
To forget him for a long while

Ladybird

In the heart of Baghdad today,
Citizens assembled to cheer,
Watching Saddam’s regime lose sway –
At last they had nothing to fear.

A sledge battered the statue’s base,
Iraqis lined up for their turn.
Objects were hurled at his evil face,
Elsewhere did Saddam’s posters burn.

United States troops assisted
With a mighty M-88.
That statue never resisted,
Quickly toppling to its fate.

Cars were abandoned where they stopped,
As drivers ran to join the throng.
Chants of joy when that statue dropped,
Ending so many years of wrong.

The statue was then beheaded,
To be dragged along through the street.
No more, that man would be dreaded,
As his face made a fitting seat.

Jubilation reigned in that square,
As freed Iraqis were all smiles.
Every Marine standing there
Knew why they’d traveled all those miles.

RJM

Who ate the last chocolate chip?
How grossly self-centered they are.
For the last one, it’s best to flip,
But somebody here went too far.

Oh, what an awful nerve they had -
On that cookie my heart was set.
Now I am getting really mad,
And I’ll find out who it was yet.

Aha! There are crumbs on this plate
That I discovered in the den.
Oops, that was mine. I stayed up late,
Watching TV long after ten.

Yes, now I remember that snack,
And with milk it really went good.
Still, I can’t stand people who lack
Courtesy to share as they should.

RJM

A potted plant held under his arm,
He kicks the loose-tied shoes from his feet,
Lest muddy loam raise his wife’s alarm.
Then on the porch he drops to a seat.

Gardening has now become a chore,
No more is it a labor of love.
Some days his joints becoming so sore,
He has trouble slipping on his glove.

Still, he enjoys the feel of dark dirt,
And the sun beating down on his back,
So, even though his old bones might hurt,
He will gamely repel each attack.

Rising early to face a new day,
He’s determined to get back outdoors.
This price for gardening he will pay,
As stiff and aching joints he ignores.

His wife tells him he’d better slow down,
For he isn’t as young as he was.
But he responds with a stoic frown,
“Yup, I’m aging. Everyone does.”

On his own terms, he will carry on -
His motto is “To sit is to quit.”
Ninety years since the day he’d been born,
Not only neath his nails is true grit.

RJM

Dutifully, dear Mary
Lifted his weary old head,
And in no way contrary,
She did just as he had said.

Gurgles of purest pleasure
Began rising from his throat.
He enjoyed the full measure -
His false teeth began to float.

But Mary quickly plucked out
The sickly man’s lower plate,
Then he gave out with a shout,
“More! That goshdarn stuff is great!"

Again Mary raised the glass
To the dying man’s parched lips,
And he gulped it down real fast –
There was no time left for sips.

Then, growing more alert now,
He called out for one more drink,
Smacked his lips, and yelled, “Wowie!
One more should do it, I think.”

Mary thought, oh what’s the harm,
And the glass he drained real quick.
Winking, he grabbed Mary’s arm,
And said, “I’m not even sick.”

Now Mary abhorred drinking -
Her sly old husband knew it.
A fine ruse, he was thinking.
She grabbed the jug and threw it!

It caught him on the temple,
‘Twas a very solid whack.
The funeral was simple –
Mary buried him out back!

RJM

Drinking’s a terrible habit,
And it’s ruined many a man.
Some see a beer can and grab it,
Wringing out all the drops they can.

I see the same can and must ask,
“Who invented this awful stuff?”
You could give some a keg or cask,
And they still wouldn’t get enough.

Think how poor families suffer,
With all that money spent on booze.
Alcohol sure makes life tougher,
Yet, some drinkers just can’t refuse.

“Have a drink!” How they love that phrase,
And they’re delighted to accept.
Then they'd drink till they’re in a haze,
While at home so many wives wept.

Yes, drinking is an awful curse,
And what a hangover it brings.
With cigarettes, it’s even worse,
Someday I’ll quit both of those things.

RJM

On napkins he started his writing career,
Merely scribbling down all his pithy thoughts.
His thinking expanded with every beer,
And soared to the heavens with each whiskey shot.

Ideas, drawn from folks who entered the bar,
Each of them making some apt contribution,
Or course, there were the lewd ones who went too far,
Thinking sex a poetic institution.

Yet, he often found that most drinkers had class,
Especially as the evening wore on.
Yes, he felt such a pleasure clinking each glass,
He didn’t mind sleeping it off on his lawn.

And there he would wake, his pockets crammed with notes,
Which his Muse and he would sort out in his home.
Then the next evening his bar mates would vote
For what they considered their favorite poem.

Standing at the copper bar he would recite
Those fresh metered passages, with proper rhyme,
His pals’ drunken voices would shout in delight,
And on drinks he’d never have to spend a dime.

RJM

Why, oh why had she fallen
In love with a spelunker?
Whenever he came calling,
He pulled up in a clunker.

Shovels and picks on the floor,
Helmets and lamps on the seat.
Rope, and pitons by the score,
And bags of trail mix to eat.

His boots were always muddy,
And his skin extremely pale.
Knuckles worn raw and bloody,
From cutting himself on shale.

He had to wear dark glasses,
For bright daylight hurt his eyes.
Subterranean gases
Have been known to sterilize.

He has a dark, scraggly beard,
And a low and pensive brow.
His stooped posture’s sort of weird –
Here comes Og, her caveman, now!

RJM

They sat there on the green bench,
Lethargic in high noon heat.
A peanut bag one did clench,
For the pigeons at their feet.

They lived in their memories,
Settled now in this warm spot.
Visited by families,
Who reprieve from winter sought.

Saint Petersburg, on the Gulf,
Idyllic retirement.
Time now to indulge one’s self,
Not needing much to be content.

Together fifty-two years,
Separate traits had now fused.
A perfect match, it appears,
And no wish ever refused.

He patted her on the knee,
And stared fondly in her eyes,
Saying, “A while longer, please,
We’ll get married when she dies.”

RJM

We merely need an audience,
Even though it may be but one,
And then these poems we will dispense,
For, you see, we find that it’s fun.

And if we meet a kindred soul,
Who will reciprocate with us,
Well then, we’ll let the good times roll,
For in cyber space there’s no fuss.

“Set your bread upon the waters”,
As that ancient expression goes.
Who knows to what distant quarters
Our poetic nonsense flows?

More than a way to pass each day,
It’s a search for that connection
To one more poet who, too, may
Have avoided close inspection.

In cyber space we safely hide,
While posting terse meter and rhyme.
Criminologists can’t decide
Whether doggerel is a crime.

But, if we’re incarcerated
For poetry against the state,
We’d be thoroughly elated
To have a poetic cellmate.

There, upon the walls of the cell,
We could write poems every day,
And all the time, knowing full well,
They could no more lock us away.

RJM

They gathered around the teksac,
Much weeping and gnashing of teeth.
It was quite damp in the eltsac,
The ceiling dripped on all beneath.

He would be missed by Ardnassac,
Who adored her father so much.
However, her brother, Repsac,
Had never even kept in touch.

The son was decreed a ffotsac,
For his father wasn’t a fool.
Repsac frequented sonisac,
And was no longer fit to rule.

They were a backward family,
But the neeuq would now step forward
To continue the monarchy,
While the gnik went to his reward.

RJM

Two professors went afield
Carrying a lot of gear.
This vacation sure appealed
At the end of the school year.

In serene open spaces
They had both chosen to camp,
Far from scholarly places -
They’d read by kerosene lamp.

Time then for introspection,
At rest in hushed solitude.
An excellent selection -
Nobody there to intrude.

One night, while lying awake,
Dean Brown asked colleague, Dean Cook,
“Of the sky, what do you make?”
Dean Cook took a pensive look.

“Well, theologically,
God is indeed omniscient.
And, cosmologically,
Creation is not yet spent.”

Impatient, Brown inquired,
“But man, what is it you see?”
Cook said, “I am inspired
More, astronomically.

“Millions of planets and stars -
Galaxies without number.
Credibility it jars
So, that I’m roused from slumber.”

Cook smiled and went on again.
“Meteorologically,
Tomorrow we might see rain.
Though it will just fall locally.”

Said Brown, “Gads, Professor Cook,
You speak pedantically,
When it takes but one quick look
To learn our tent is gone. See?”

RJM

“Answer true or false” was written,
“To every listed question.”
At the class rear Bill was sitting,
With the windowsill to rest on.

He first studied the directions,
And then commenced to move his pen.
Giving questions slight inspection,
He quickly answered one through ten.

Then he pushed the exam aside,
And concentrated on outdoors,
While other students really tried
To raise the grades of their test scores.

The papers were soon collected,
And in two days grades were posted.
Poor Bill’s grade left him dejected -
It was not as he had boasted.

The professor, he then sought out,
For he felt he deserved an “A”.
Syntax was what it was about -
Directions had led him astray.

With “true or false” he’d answered all,
Exactly as he had been told.
The professor couldn’t recall
Meeting a student quite so bold.

The English Department declared
That Bill was absolutely right.
From flunking the test, he was spared,
But not to his classmates delight.

The years passed, and Bill moved along,
To be governor of his state.
Soon, because party ties were strong,
He made the presidential slate.

Most said it was hard to believe,
When, in fact, the White House was his.
And once he almost had to leave,
But nobody could define “is”.

RJM

“Hey, Fred!” He heard the loud call,
But continued to walk down
The long concourse of the mall
To pick up his wife’s new gown.

Closer, he heard it again,
“Hey Fred!” from the crowd behind.
He swiveled his head just then,
But speaker, he couldn’t find.

JC Penny store ahead,
And he turned toward their main door.
Then, again, he heard, “Hey, Fred!”
This call he chose to ignore.

Then the caller grew bolder,
Speaking right into his ear,
Putting hand on his shoulder,
“Hey, Fred, my man, can’t you hear?

I stopped and looked at his face,
No one that I’d ever seen.
He was wrong, in any case,
I told him my name was Gene.

I could see he’d been drinking.
“You gotta have a double,”
He said. That set me thinking.
“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Across the mall we next went,
To the Ruby Tuesday place.
On doubles his dough was spent,
Insisting I had Fred’s face.

RJM

Walking into the seedy bar,
He saw her sitting on a stool.
She was smoking a thin cigar,
Legs crossed, thinking, herself, real cool.

Her red hair was piled in a heap,
Her green dress was cut pretty low.
Too much makeup made her look cheap,
And runs in her stockings did show.

She had a long scar on her face,
Probably caused by a sharp knife.
Typical of dames in that place,
None of them good catch for a wife.

He moved down to the bar’s far end,
Not giving her another glance.
He wasn’t there to make a friend,
Nor consider a new romance.

Customers often came and went,
While he kept refilling his glass.
Soon he happened to catch her scent,
A perfume that seemed to add class.

He slyly looked her over then,
Admiring her shapely form.
He ordered another beer when
He felt himself growing quite warm.

That long scar, he had to concede,
Might be caused by an accident.
Driving, perhaps, at too high speed,
And into the windshield she went.

An interesting hairdo, too,
Set high in that exotic way.
Mascara was a lovely blue,
Like the sky on a cloudless day.

Red hair certainly went with green,
The color of her pretty gown.
She looked like women he had seen
Outside the opera, uptown.

A shame that her stockings had run,
Probably snagged them on that stool.
But her legs were “A” number one,
He who’d stood her up was a fool.

He went to the restroom, and then
Changed his barstool on his return.
But his ardor was cooled off when
His advances she curtly spurned.

RJM

Nathaniel Hawthorne knew him well,
The Old Man of the mountain top.
But recently the fellow fell -
Erosion’s difficult to stop.

New Hampshire winters did their part,
Extremely high winds, acid rain,
All eating at the very heart
Of this crag on Cannon Mountain

Drivers on the highway below
Will miss his stolid profile there,
Through Franconia Notch they’ll go,
No more sharing his mystic stare.

Just a chance configuration,
Those boulders hung there many years,
Through changes in this young nation,
Some bringing cheers, some bringing tears.

Cables implanted with cement,
Workmen maintaining the old man,
Just postponing Nature’s intent -
Not even granite foils her plan.

Now commercialism steps in,
A substitute raised in its place,
Perhaps shaped in Fiberglas skin,
But never attaining such grace.

RJM

Thingamabob, thingamajig,
And a whatchamicallit, too.
They’re not too small and not too big,
These gizmos used by me and you.

Where’d we be without them, I ask?
They come in so gosh darn handy,
We use them to do any task,
And they all seem to work dandy.

My trouble is I never find
The whatziz that I’m looking for.
Instead, I try some other kind,
That I located in a drawer.

It doesn’t seem to do the job,
So I set the fool thing aside.
I still need that thingamabob
That somebody here tried to hide.

Finally, I see where it is,
But find it’s all stripped, scored and bent,
Now the question I ask is this:
To whom was that doohickey lent?

RJM

Zealously, he performed each chore,
Young as he might appear to be,
Xeroxing flyers for the store,
With a certain intensity.

Very few workers of his age
Used a modicum of the care
That he showed to every page,
Simply because such zeal was rare.

Repetition brought on boredom
Quite rapidly with his colleagues,
Prompting many errors for some
Of them, giving in to fatigue.

None displayed his concentration,
Mastered by his years playing chess.
Likely in all of this nation,
Kings of his fell to four or less.

Juggling chess and a career,
Isn’t what he wanted to do.
He had but few sponsors this year,
Giving him little choice, it’s true.

Feeding paper to the machine,
Every movement grace in motion.
Dedication, his boss had seen -
Coming, perhaps, a promotion.

But, fresh toner he was lacking,
And he was canned for slacking.


RJM

Aardvarks were, of course, first in line,
Behind were animals by pair.
Cats were among those to opine
Decks would be crowded inside there.

Even the fleas had to agree,
For the Ark had limited space.
Giraffes were best able to see
How long was the line to this place.

If all were represented here,
Jays squawked the boat would burst its seams.
Kangaroos jumped at that idea.
Leopards agreed with the cat teams.

Moored down by the water line,
Noah’s family was in charge,
Ordering lighting of the lamps
Positioned on their fancy barge.

Quails, nervous, fluttered in the air,
Rousted by bird dogs having fun.
Skunks, too, were enjoying their share,
Trying to smell everyone.

Upset was a red-nosed reindeer,
Very anxious to have its say,
Wishing to make it very clear,
Xmas it must be on its way.

You can imagine all the gripes,
Zebras kept score with their black stripes.

RJM

What was wrong with Noah, I inquire?
Was cramming the ark his main desire?
If he took time to swat
Two mosquitoes he brought,
Then repellent we wouldn’t require.

RJM

It was in our teens we met -
For me it was love at first sight.
She played a little hard to get -
I dated her girlfriend for spite.

I showed her a very nice time,
Proving to be a gentleman,
Hoping she’d report back that I’m
Not a fellow from whom one ran.

That strategy seemed to work fine,
For the next date she accepted.
Friendship ring soon said she was mine,
And for fifty years she’s kept it.

Other rings, too, adorn her hands,
But the first one, to us, means most.
Engagement ring and wedding bands
Are nice, but of friendship we boast.

RJM

They can not fail that will not try -
Never will they make a mistake.
A coward’s code that they live by,
Participation, they forsake.

Through life, they are but observers -
By complex, deemed inferior.
From action, these adept swervers
Dart and dodge in hysteria.

You’ll find them sitting in the rear,
During any class or meeting;
And how fast they will disappear,
If obliged to change this seating.

They never deign to volunteer,
Nor will they support any cause.
And if they are told, “Sign right here,”
He or she skillfully withdraws.

Vicarious, is how they live -
Dull days neither bitter nor sweet.
Of themselves, they refuse to give.
Their byword in life is “retreat”.

They stay home on election day,
Later boast of their winning choice.
Of world news, they’ve nothing to say,
No fear of a waffling voice.

Yet, for them there is a downside,
Having nothing at all to give.
From Death’s advance, they can not hide,
Regretting that they failed to live.

RJM

The photograph was old and worn,
Spotted by the dampness of tears,
Taken before their child was born,
When they thought they’d have many years.

But Jim was lost in World War Two,
A pilot over Germany,
Shot down with his entire crew –
He lived now in her memory.

She saw him in her grown son’s eyes,
The way he walked and moved his head.
Somewhere in Vietnam Bill lies,
Where his aircraft’s wreckage is spread.

And her beloved grandson, Nate,
Died aboard the Navy ship, Cole,
Early victim of senseless hate,
By terrorists with pointless goal.

Her heart hard-gripped by ceaseless grief,
She gave three men to her nation.
Soon, from her suffering, relief –
There’d be no fourth generation.

Nor would there be memorials
Recognizing her sacrifice.
No solemn testimonials
Or medals could ever suffice.

RJM

He didn’t mind the daily grind,
He’d gotten used to the routine,
And every day you could find
Him working behind his machine.

Never did he take a sick day,
And was always the first at work.
Forced to take vacations with pay –
Being idle drove him beserk.

Perfect attendance forty-years –
In fact, he had never been late.
On stormiest days he appears
Promptly, at a quarter to eight.

At production, he was the best,
Winning every monthly prize.
He wasn’t well liked by the rest –
They looked bad in the foreman’s eyes.

The job was his entire life,
Consuming all his energy.
No time for such things as a wife
And problems of a family.

But then came that fateful Monday –
An accident driving his car.
The ambulance took him away,
Rushing him off to the ER.

It was a concussion, they feared,
Holding him for observation.
Shortly, from bed he disappeared,
Rushing off to his workstation.

The foreman met him at the door,
For he was hours overdue.
He’d never seen the boss so sore,
Yelling, “Damn it, man, where were you?”

RJM

rvl: Don't delve too deeply into the files on that new job. Watching TV is depressing enough, especially in the Modesto CA area. Think happy thoughts, Ceil. Glad you're out there lurking. As I mentioned to JTB, there are two of you, I think....