Yellow Fellows

These are too green
Those are too ripe
This is my regular
Banana-eating gripe

For a banana aged just so
I am rather finicky
In persuit of that perfect yellow
I can get myself persnickety

So bananas young and old
Sit on my kitchen shelf
And to save trips to the market
I wish for a banana-buying elf

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Recipe Index

My mother had some index cards
And her Betty Crocker book
Grandma didn’t even have that
And she made a living as a cook!

But then there’s me, who cooks,
Like, maybe once a week
Who has two hundred recipes
For every dish I seek

Two shelves full of cookbooks
For every ethnicity and diet
Here’s one for vegan Italian
Oh, honey, we must buy it

With my monthly Martha Stewart mag
I tear out this, that and the other
I have six recipes for pickled seaweed
And could surely use another

Pasta sauce recipes? Oh, honey
I have a hundred, at least
But of course I stick to my two favorites
For most every pasta feast

Right now I’m on a bundt cake kick
Chocolate mocha’s just the start
And when I’m done with this obsession
I’ll move onto lemon tarts
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Get Well Soon

When hubby’s rundown
In bed and sick
I always wonder
What is the trick?

What should I do?
I’m a terrible nurse
In this piece of wifedom
He couldn’t get worse

Should we go to the doc?
Is it really that serious?
What is the temperature
When he might get delirious?

Eat chicken soup
And drink lots of tea
If you need more than that
Don’t look at me

Call your mother, I say
She’ll know what’s best
If you’re sick another day
I’ll need a rest

Lucky for us
He’s a real healthy guy
Otherwise my nursing skills
Might make him cry

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Super Bowl Saga—Second Quarter

I work on snacks
Hubby cooks chili
As traditions go
This one’s real silly
And fattening, too
If you must know
But that’s what we do
Every Super Bowl show
No matter who’s playing
We watch the game
Though my understanding
Of football’s quite lame
But there’s always dessert
To keep me involved
I guess it is good
That last call was solved
And now the half-time show
Is about to begin
Watching these games
Is no way to stay thin
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A Poem About Pizza

Pizza is my
Favorite food
I find it delicious
Very good

But here in the south
I know it’s unkind
A decent pizza
Can be hard to find

And as pizzas go
I am discerning
So to bake my own
I have been learning

The sauce I concocted
Is very tasty
On a pre-made dough
That’s not too pasty

With olives and mushrooms
And some type of meat
My homemade pizza
Is rather a treat!

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The Super Bowl Blues

Super Bowl Sunday
I’m just not the type
To get too wrapped up
In all of the hype

I watch a few ads
And do lots of snacking
But of football itself
My interest is lacking

First down or touchdown?
I really don’t care
Of most every play
I remain unaware

I eat too much junk
My mind starts to wonder
When is the half-time show?
Between chips I’ll ponder

That extravaganza over
And the food almost done
I head off to bed
Not knowing who won

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An Epic on Errands

Running errands
Is a funny saying
Cuz it seems to me
There’s always much delaying

Running means speedy,
Efficient, and fast
I wish it were so
Then it would be a blast

If according to plan
Every errand got done
If that really happened
Running errands might be fun

But when I do errands
I don’t win any races
Getting junk done
Puts me through my paces

Drop off the laundry
And fill up the gas tank
A stop at the P.O.
And then maybe to the bank

It doesn’t sound hard
In fact, it should be easy
But inevitably
These chores make me queasy

The traffic’s absurd
There’s a line at the P.O.
It always happens
By now you’d think I’d know

Exactly what I need
The drug store never has
And what was everyone’s problem
At the station getting gas?

After I buy groceries
Of course the rain begins
As I struggle with the cart
It hits me in the shins

I finally make it home
In one piece, more or less
Did I get my errands done?
On that please take a guess

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Party Pooper

A party here
A party there
This and that
Holiday affair
They all were fun
But now I swear
As an introvert
I must beware
Of too many parties
Just say I’m square
But afterwards
I sit and stare
At nothing much
Into thin air
Happy to be back
In my own quiet lair

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Third Annual Ode to Thanksgiving

Twenty years and counting
Thanksgivings with my Hubby
So many turkeys
It’s a wonder we’re not chubby

With each Thanksgiving
The usual gets debated
How to be certain
Both appetites are sated

For me, a basic turkey
Nothing new-fangled, please
Anything but bread stuffing
Gives me great unease

Please, no “improvements”
No oysters or other junk
Such absurd atrocities
Put me in a funk

Hubby has his own
Thanksgiving day demands
Of pies other than pumpkin
He isn’t a big fan

So even if we’re guests
At another Thanksgiving table
The following day we cook
Our own Thanksgiving staples

And my annual Thanksgiving Ode
Now another tradition expected
One of these years my rhyming
Might even be perfected

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