Just for the Rhymes Sometimes

  

I once read faint praise that was quite the reverse

About a particular rhymed sample of light verse.

The reviewer it seemed was put off

By some of its rhymes at which he did scoff.

The poor man, though, was misunderstood

Indeed his view was just the reverse.

When he noted the words had been twisted

To create the rhymes real words had resisted.

He really expressed admiration

When he asked “what in tarnation

Made the poet believe that in his creation

He could use such rhymes so many times

And not one day face condemnation?”

When he rhymed the roof’s eave

With his friend Murphy Steve

To describe what he could not retrieve

He was criticized like you wouldn’t believe.

But in fact this critic was expressing admiration.

On the Occasion of My Daughter's Fortieth Birthday

I’ve learned a secret that I’ll share for free.

I know it will be true if you’re at all like me.

About this birthday you may be grumbling

And when asked your age, you might be mumbling.

But one day you’ll wish you were forty-something.

Goodbye Obama of the Graying Hair--Hello Tweety Bird

Why is it that politicians seem to become more lovable after they leave office?  I see it happening right this instant with President Obama.  He has softened his tone, spoken from his heart—much more so than it ever seemed before, at least to me.  His hair is markedly turning gray, which accounts for his growing wisdom (Just check my picture and you will see the same sign, only more pronounced).  Anyway, whatever the cause, my opinion of our outgoing president seems to improve daily, or so it seems.  He has held a difficult job for eight years and has learned a few things; some of which he is now unveiling, a little at a time.

I am also becoming increasingly aware of our incoming President, who like other humans has his faults.  Like some other humans of a certain ilk, however, he is unaware of any of those faults at all.  Increasingly, I am hoping for that day when he becomes our “outgoing President.”  Which is, I am afraid, probably the next time my outlook on his antics will improve.  So Tweet that one, Mr. President.

B.B. and Lucille

Listened this morning to B.B. King

Can’t stop myself, that man can sing.

His gal Lucille, she sure sounded fine,

With her his work-well it’s just divine.

You’ll never find for me a better way

To get up and smile to start my day.

Lucille it was who taught him how

To sing those blues-B.B. says that now

Why did B.B. give his guitar that name

He said she saved his life and became his friend

After that his life was never quite the same
And yeah they stayed together ‘til the end

If somethin' saves your life, will you have the sense

to grab a hold somehow or just sit on the fence?

THE PATH NOT TAKEN (Or How We Might All Have Been Better Off, Somehow)

I’m taking this path that might prove unwise

But some precious things show up in disguise

As my mind winds down, cognition thwarted,

This pastime--I wonder--will it be distorted?

Or might I be making a good new connection

As I channel my energy in this direction?

It’s a bit of light verse that I’ve begun.

It might prove a bite that’s hard to swallow

Or a load of shite that’s hard to follow.

Either way, it’s OK, I'll have some fun

And perhaps one day when it's all done

It all might just entertain someone

Ah, It's Golf

The old sport of golf, which I occasionally play

Can confound and frustrate, even on a good day.

Despite hours of practice at that old range,

I flail at the ball in manners quite strange.

 When I play I notice the beauty around me,

But I lose all that as I head for that first tee.        

Instead I’ll focus on any mistake I might make

And start paying ahead for the bad swings I will take.

Most golfers I know, though they’re humble

Are yet proud of their long-practiced skill

And expect those results from the driving range will

Show up at the tees, the fairways and greens

Along with birdies and pars, not scores in the teens

But much of the time their skills take a tumble

And as their club meets the ball they may mumble

Not words they’d intend or normally use,

Instead words about feces or certain sex acts.

It seems this is the duty that golfing exacts.

And we’re all here today just paying our dues

When I hear so much of this grumbling and all

I wonder about my first lesson last fall

Is this what the pro called ‘addressing the ball?’