Category: POEMS (Page 1 of 30)

Rhymes of all kinds

Retirement is not without Hassles: 70th Birthdays #2564

July 23, 2024 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

As we head back to Indiana in a week, I’ve prepared this poem for a group of eight media friends celebrating their 70th birthdays:

Six Ad Chicks and Two Dicks

As we enter old age,

We honor six Ad Chicks,

And a couple of sales pimps,

Known as the “Two Dicks.”

We forgot a few,

I have no doubt.

But like so many buys,

Some were just left out.

We party at the Mousetrap,

This family of Media friends.

And will blow out the candles,

Before the evening ends.

England, Kaiser, Albrecht,

Reilly, Flora, and Roman Chicks,

You all don’t look your age,

Warner, Harbin Birthday Dicks.

Septuagenarians unite,

No, I didn’t say SEX.

Back then, it was calls,

Not e-mails and texts.

“The client has needs,”

Numbers to crunch.

Settling our differences,

Over a cocktail lunch.

Agencies and Media,

Never on level ground.

One rounds up,

The other down.

Arbitron ratings,

Were still a thing.

Stuck at our desks,

Ring, phone, ring.

It wasn’t as though,

We could take it along.

Plugged in the wall,

The cord not so long.

The phone was your friend,

Or the nagging enemy.

What’s my share?

Came the desperate plea.

Billboards and print,

Added so many choices,

Does the client prefer,

Pictures or Voices?

Let the Buyer Beware,

And the Seller prepared.

Or those promised spots,

May not get aired.

Your insert or display ad,

Might not be placed.

Then a disgruntled buyer,

Had to be Faced.

Being Queens,

And dealing with Jokers.

It often led,

To heavy smokers.

There once was no cable,

Podcasts or streams.

We all had comp tickets,

To follow our teams.

Events and concerts,

Payola galore.

Trips made the bad buys,

Hard to ignore.

Another powerpoint,

Stacks of Media kits.

But If you agree,

I’ll get you in the Pits.

And in retirement,

There’s no front row seats.

Back Stage passes,

Or fancy suites.

So glad we got together,

Before more of us departs.

And those who couldn’t make it,

Are forever in our hearts.

Happy Birthday to you….

Retirement is not without Hassles: See You in January #2548

June 28, 2024 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

As promised, here is the summary poem of our Disney/Portland trip to celebrate my wife’s birthday. We stayed with her daughter, who works for Nike, and husband who is campaigning for City Council. We went to some of our favorite restaurants like Apizza Scholls, Salt & Straw, Buffalo Wild Wings, and Ling’s, after our final Disney dinner with my family in Orlando at Be Our Guest. We ventured into wine country with friends, visited the Portland Art Museum and other downtown haunts, and took their dogs, Ham (who barked at me incessantly) and Falco, to the Thousand Acre Park. I continued to struggle with my legs, but their vehicles shuttled me close to all of our destinations. The final Bridgerton episodes were on Netflix, a service we no longer subscribe, so we watched on their projection screen, ate fresh morel mushrooms from the farmer’s market, drank wine, and went to a Portland Pickle’s baseball game. Before we left, we stopped by Powell’s Bookstore where they were married five years ago and caught some magnificent glimpses of Mount Hood. Once again, you had to be there to understand all the subtle, humorous nuances of this particular poem. We’ll see them again in January.

C.U. in January

Disney Grey Stuff,

Beauty and the Beast.

For a family of 6,

A Pricey feast.

Dreaded presentation,

For Marriott bucks.

Off to the airport,

Middle seat sucks.

Midnight arrival,

Baggage delay.

Barely get there,

Before THE birthday.

Screen door lunch,

Apizza pie.

No Birthday Bear,

But Megan buys.

Mitch campaigning,

But time to make eggs.

Mike having issues,

With cramps in his legs.

But walked a Thousand Acres,

And peed behind a tree.

Let my natural instincts,

Take ahold of me.

Wings with Matt,

Bridgerton finale.

Remembering walks,

With Falco and Tally.

With the IU gang,

At Domaine Willamette,

In case you’re wondering,

It’s Wag-yu, dammit.

Pasta Allora,

Flor wine.

Farmer’s Market,

Morels to dine.

Art Museum,

Monet and shoes.

Salt and Straw,

Mount Hood views.

Stranger Danger,

Ham annoyed.

His growls and bark,

Hard to avoid.

Golf Shuttle,

Ling farewell.

Suitcases packed.

New truck smell.

Once amused,

By drinking Dickel.

My new favorite,

Is “Pickle, Pickle, Pickle!”

A stop at Powell’s,

But not to Marry!

If not Next Tuesday,

C.U. in January.

Retirement is not without Hassles: More with Every Year #2546

June 27, 2024 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Another birthday and another Limoges gift for my wife. The tradition continued after several frustrating attempts to provide some memories from our Egypt/London adventure. A broken box was delivered (I jokingly patched it with a Band-aid), then a second effort failed to be mailed, while a third attempt turned out to be a duplicate. Finally, I settled on Stonehenge to celebrate her 68th. We were off to Disney World and Portland with great expectations, as portrayed in this poem:

More with Every Year

London landmarks,

Were twice broken.

Booth and Bridge,

Band-Aid jokin’.

And with so many,

In your collection.

A duplicate order,

Upon inspection.

But on these boxes,

I continue to binge.

As we go to places,

Like Stonehenge.

Compared to Egypt,

Not too impressed.

But, this pile of stones,

A bucket list quest.

I would build such,

Monuments for you.

But, lacking handy skills,

Wouldn’t know what to do.

Bluey and Disney World,

Lead up to your Birthday.

But being with your Megan,

Makes it a special day.

Flight into Portlandia,

Ling’s, Apizza, and wine.

Another brief glimpse,

Of the White Stag sign.

Wishing you,

A five-peak day.

Banana Cake,

And kitty play.

“So Happy Together,

With Falco and Ham.

Then to the spa,

For some glam.

Fosse and Tally,

Schnauzerville bound.

With Pee on the floor,

As she comes unwound.

But we’ll be back,

In eleven short days.

To watch her attack,

The dry food maize.

It’s time to turn,

Another page.

And you’ll be closer,

To my dreaded age.

Happy sixty-eight,

Let it be clear.

I love you more,

With every year.

The trip itself will be summarized in the next poem.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Neighbor #2544

June 14, 2024 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Continued from Post #2543. Written for an upcoming 70th birthday party:

Seventy times Two!

I attended the 40th,

When we were just kids.

And since that time,

We’ve all hit the skids!

Zoomin’ and Dickeling,

Are now in the past.

These thirty years,

Have gone by fast.

Juneteenth is now,

A National Holiday.

My wife, Denise, born,

The very same day.

The banks are closed,

Or I’d enclose checks.

And today’s your best chance,

To beg for some sex.

Instead, you get,

Another rhyme.

But there won’t be,

A next time.

We know Tim’s got,

And Karen, too!

Tom Walton genes,

But “E,” NOT you!

I’d suggest a shot,

Or two, on a dare.

But that’s not covered,

By Medicare.

The bald truth,

Is under those caps.

Let’s get this over,

And return to our naps.

We’re still neighbors,

Though far away.

Wishing you both,

A Happy Birthday!

Retirement is not without Hassles: Write On! #2543

June 14, 2024 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Twenty-one weeks have come to pass since surgery with the only remaining indications being a long scar and some mild tenderness in my chest. The gym is restoring some of my strength, but I miss the ability to simply lace up my tennis shoes and hit the streets. The chiropractor has diagnosed my leg issues as bypass sciatica and the treatments continue. I have been finally able to surpass the mile mark on the treadmill with only mild discomfort. As we prepare to be on the road the next ten days, my home exercise routines will be on hold. I know there’s a gym at the Marriott Vacation Club and workout equipment in Porland, but I’m hoping to get in several miles of walking each day. The benches at Disney World will undoubtedly become my new friend.

I have a couple of birthday poems that I need to write on the plane ride. One will be an update from this tribute 30-years ago:

“Who’s Zoomin’ Who” became our theme,

“Four Asses,” we were quite a team.

Was wearing tights a real-life scheme?

Or was it just a silly dream?

We once turned on your garden hose,

And dove for Dickel, legend goes.

We Dickeled too much, I suppose,

Cause Doug blew noodles through his nose.

Tim, you’ve picked your friends and foes,

I’ll bet you’ve even picked your nose.

The thing you can’t pick, everyone knows,

Is a relative like Mike, and that fact shows.

To keep in shape you both abide,

But there’s something age can never hide.

Your body’s like a classic ride,

Shiny on the surface but rusted inside.

So here’s to a couple of Birthday boys,

Eat, Drink, Spend, and make some noise.

Cause he who dies with the most toys,

The winning widow still enjoys.

Happy 40th, Mike and Tim

For those of you that don’t know, George Dickel is a whiskey brand, “Who’s Zoomin’ Who, a hit song by Aretha Franklin, and Doug a fellow partier. To really understand, however, you would have had to be there.

Both Mike and Tim were born on June 19th. It was tough to write at the time, because Mike was a close friend while Tim was only an acquaintance. In fact, I’m not sure that I’ve even seen Tim since then. Mike’s wife, Karen, recently posted a Facebook request to send them both greetings on their upcoming joint 70th birthday. Karen is Tim’s brother.

Coincidentally, my wife was also born on that Juneteenth day, although a few years younger. In fact, she wasn’t yet my wife thirty years ago. I will craft her poem separately, as part of a traditional Limoges Box gift.

Fortunately, none of us have a widow.

Write On!

Retirement is not without Hassles: Pink Elephant #2510

April 20, 2024 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

It’s been a tough week since returning from our cross-Atlantic adventure. I haven’t felt much like sitting down at the keyboard after bouts with dizziness and nausea. Initially, I thought I might have Covid, but the test proved negative. I sat down at my desk on Monday and the room began to spin. Maybe in the back of my mind I was suffering from Tax Day, but I had already sent in my pound of flesh before the trip. My wife was playing bridge, while I watched our new schnauzer puppy, Fosse and her sister Tally. Otherwise, I was ready to settle into a homebound routine. By dinner time, I had the chills, lost the chocolate that filled my stomach, and couldn’t maintain any sense of balance.

I was hard pressed to remember the last time I was this sick, undoubtedly vulnerable after heart surgery. I was soon in bed under a pile of blankets but still couldn’t control the chill spasms that racked my body. Also, my head was pounding like the Iron Claw had a death grip on me. In the past, I would have probably recovered by morning, but the day was spent on the couch with a diet of plain toast, rice, and sips of Gatorade. My wife picked up my grandson at the bus stop and prepared for her first day of school in more than a month. She also had an evening Zoom meeting with her former high school classmates as they finalized details for their 50th reunion. I struggled to set up the computer.

Wednesday wasn’t much better. Dog duty was a hassle, and the grandkids were coming over to see the new puppy. We ordered for Pizza Boss delivery. I took a couple of Nyquil Cold & Sinus Nighttime tablets to knock me out. By morning, I suffered another relapse and made a doctor’s appointment. All the energy I had went into binging of the Stormy documentary and the series, Truth be Told. I tried to go for a walk but was just too weak and unsteady. I was not looking forward to driving my wife to and from school the next morning, along with picking up my grandson, and running a slew of errands in between. There would be no time for a nap before our Borrego Street get-together in the evening.

An early alarm set me scurrying for dog duty, followed be a quick shower and drive to school. The doctor then scheduled me for a MRI, wanting to take a look at my inner ear. I picked up a prescription for Dramamine, got a haircut, shuttled my wife home, mailed a package, and delivered my grandson home from the bus stop. It turned out to be a nice evening with the neighbors, but I had little energy.

Today is our 23rd wedding anniversary. We were married in Las Vegas at the Bellagio. My wife had already bought herself some pearl earrings on the cruise, claiming them as an early gift from me. We’re headed to the Pink Elephant in Boca Grande for dinner. I wrote this poem to celebrate the occasion:

Pink Elephant

Not too much to drink,

Or a hallucinogenic pill.

I saw a Pink Elephant,

And it was a thrill.

We dined there, too,

In a romantic light.

As the sun sets,

On our anniversary night.

Gasparilla Island,

Surrounded by Gulf.

Where the privileged play,

Tennis and golf.

No more pirates,

Just Bush and Saban.

Snowbirds abound,

A tropical haven.

Boca Grande,

With its beaches nearby.

As we drove the miles,

Under a sunny Blue Sky.

It’s the perfect spot,

For a Twenty third.

No flying Elephants,

Bird is the word.

I want to express,

My love for you.

Because of all,

The things you do.

My wife, best friend,

And nurse of late.

Travel companion,

And dining date.

You cook and clean,

Without much help.

While mothering two pups,

The newest full of “whelp.”

My go-go girl,

You’re always busy.

Maybe it’s you,

Making me dizzy?

Afternoon bridge,

Aqua-fit and tap.

While elderly me,

Takes a nap.

You thrive on friends,

And party planning.

And if there’s time,

Poolside tanning.

You love the beach,

And your golf cart.

Thanks for giving,

Your whole heart.

I couldn’t ask

For any better.

Lover, Looker,

And Go-Getter.

Twenty-four hundred miles,

From where we said I do.

I’d do it all again,

As long as it’s with you.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Long Trip – Long Poem #2509

April 20, 2024 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Ramblings from a Traveler

On the way,

To Barcelona.

Leaving our house,

For Peter and Mona.

Four Continents,

In thirty days.

Eight Ports,

But short stays.

Dress slacks for dining,

Were required each night.

But with only one pair,

I packed a bit light.

We land in Buenos Aires,

St. Pat’s Day Parade.

But missed all the parties,

As jet lag made us fade.

After heart surgery,

Can’t carry a bag.

Plus, my pace,

Tends to lag.

Carnaval Show,

In Montevideo.

And when at sea,

On walks we’d go.

Rio de Janeiro rain,

Pancho Giant Jesus?

Luz does her best,

To try and please us.

Hot and muggy,

Bad tour of Recife.

Lost our guide,

Kind of a relief,

Equator crossing,

Kiss the fish.

Sky full of stars,

Make a wish.

This Viking journey,

With Cindy and Pat.

With all this food.

We’re sure to get fat.

Double Cappuccinos,

Unlimited wine.

A glutton’s delight,

All “Mine Mine Mine!”

Pat had a birthday,

Another wine toast.

As we were approaching,

The African Coast.

Caprese and Gelato,

Almost every night.

But the other courses,

Made my pants get tight.

Five full days at sea,

I tried to keep my steps up.

But devoured those bone-ins,

One too many pudding cup!

Through Good Friday,

Another deck lap.

Afternoon bridge,

While I took my nap.

Paolo’s covers,

The Viking band.

Piano Tim, Jakub’s bow,

When no place to land.

Explorers’ Dome,

3-D and cocktails.

Movie Popcorn,

Talks about whales.

Sao Vincente bus,

Cobblestone roads.

Snake to the top

For a shot of Ponch.

Easter Sunday,

April Fools jokes.

Chocolate bunnies,

But sugar-free Cokes.

Casablanca docking.

Classic movie words.

Boobies everywhere,

Too bad they were birds.

Losing my debit card,

I guess I’m one, too,

A visit to the doc,

And scaring you.

Rock of Gibraltar,

In the midst of the night.

All that I saw,

Was a flashing light.

Next stop Malaga,

Picasso’s birthplace.

And as a young boy,

Sketched his first face.

An overcast Barcelona,

But still quite unique.

Sagrada Familia church,

With peak after peak.

Gaudi is gaudy,

Kings too haughty.

Cathedrals lawdy.

Flamenco naughty.

The time kept on changing,

Our clocks never right.

A mall fills the arena,

Where bulls once did fight.

Never enough Euro,

To pay the fee to pee.

And there was no water,

Though right on the sea.

All of the fountains,

Were bone dry.

So there was little urge,

When I strolled by.

Hop to Mallorca,

For an extended stay.

Dozed by the pool,

While spring breakers play!

Placemats and magnets,

The shopping goals.

Our Son Antem villa,

Amidst eighteen holes.

Needed Fire Starter,

For burgers on the grill.

Denise made the meals,

With master skills.

We rent a Bimmer,

Parking a bummer.

The tormenter turns,

A knuckle numb-er.

No annoying horns,

But cyclists everywhere.

Not good at sharing,

Pass if you dare.

Narrow parking rows,

Mediterranean views.

Dancing Panda,

Shops full of shoes.

We hopped on,

But off -not too much.

Except when we,

Were hungry for lunch.

Port de Pollenca,

Miles of blue.

Romantic Lunch

Just us two.

We met our British friends,

On a Plaza to dine.

Dinner was affordable,

But not the parking fine..

Two trips to the airport

Six bags plus carry-ons.

Bolduman donuts,

Early morning yawns.

Tour Barcelona,

Renaissance night.

Spanish paella,

Six movie flight.

Home at last,

Back in our bed.

To travel again,

We need more bread.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Heart Felt #2478

February 13, 2024 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Here is this year’s Valentine tribute to my wife, who has been so very supportive and loving this past month following my open-heart surgery. She stayed with me at the hospital, sleeping several nights in a chair and has been at my side throughout this ordeal. As is the tradition, I bought her a Limoges Box that unfortunately arrived broken. It’s a London Phone Booth, where we spent our last vacation. I tried to repair it but ended up just adding a Band-Aid strip. I’ll eventually buy her another one to replace it, but I think it’s fittingly appropriate with my broken self still on the mend.

Heart Felt

I’m on the mend,

The phone booth not.

My Valentine’s gift,

Is broken and shot.

It was a reminder,

Of better days.

Our London stop,

And Marriott stay.

No problems there,

Unlike your last.

As I continue,

To recover fast.

Fewer pills,

Goodbye Sky Walker.

My numerous scars,

Still quite the shocker.

I can’t drive,

Even Fifty-five.

In fact, I’m lucky,

To be alive.

The best I can do,

Is a longer walk.

Though breathing hard,

There’s time to talk.

For your loving care,

It can’t be ignored.

You should win,

A Daisy award.

Unlike Humpty Dumpty,

I’m back together.

A leaky valve,

My storm to weather.

I’ve been patched,

A brand new start.

This Valentines Day,

A stronger heart.

Thanks for being,

My special Valentine,

Lucky for me,

That you are mine.

My love for you,

Will get me through.

Heart felt gratitude,

For all you do.

Broken things,

Can be replaced.

And mars and cracks,

Can be erased.

Just add a Band-Aid,

And all is well.

What once was broken,

Can hardly tell.

Retirement is not without Hassles: These Moments We Share #2458

December 25, 2023 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

It’s Christmas 2023, while fifteen years earlier (December 29, 2008) I was contemplating the start of a running streak that was originally planned for New Year’s Day. We flew into Indy from Austin, drove on icy roads to Elkhart to see my folks and had Christmas dinner at my wife’s sister’s home at Geist. We then traveled to Decatur to check on our unsold house and went to Bloomington to watch I.U. basketball lose in embarrassing fashion to unheralded Lipscomb. These were the days when Christmas was an absolute hassle, trying to spread our time between friends and family in three different states and four or five different cities. The bigger nightmare, however, was finding the Decatur home flooded from a broken pipe. I think I started my running streak a few days early to help deal with the stress of all this. I haven’t missed a Christmas morning jog since, still running away from my problems.

This year’s Christmas was easy. Brunch at a neighbor’s and dinner with family at home. It rained during my morning run, but it was my son who was rushing with the kids from place to place instead of me. It’s, in fact, the very first time that my son, his wife, and the grandkids have been with me in our home on Christmas Day – a monumental occasion! I’ll get to see the look on my five-year-old granddaughter’s face when she beholds the Barbie Dreamhouse that I assembled in our garage.

Earlier today, my wife opened her traditional Limoges box gift, a memory from our visit to King Tut’s tomb. I enclosed the following poem:

These Moments We Share

We’ve seen the world,

And Buddha’s butt.

And visited the tomb,

Of pharaoh King Tut.

Our first might have been,

The Twin Towers on high.

The lights of Times Square,

And fireworks in the sky.

We’ve cruised the Nile,

Stayed in an overwater hut.

And at luxury resorts,

Shaded by the coconut.

We’ve heard prayers in mosques,

Synagogues and Churches.

And stood atop,

Some precarious perches.

Rocamadour comes to mind,

Or a rollercoaster ride.

I’m always much braver.

With you at my side.

Even at sunset,

It’s always proven true.

There is no better view,

Then looking at you.

We’ve been to the Pyramids,

Admired the Sphinx.

Stood in Monet’s Garden.

And by the statue that Thinks.

The Beatles and Big Ben,

Bourbon Street pubs.

Michelin Stars,

Vacation Clubs.

Nantucket to Napa,

Hood to Coast.

Key West to Mackinaw,

All Bucket stops we boast.

Coronado Island,

Caribbean getaways.

Hall of Fame museums,

San Francisco Bay.

Traveled on cruise ships,

Flown in First Class.

Marveled at Glaciers.

And Chihuly glass.

Normandy’s white crosses,

Or atop the Eiffel Tower.

A slow Positano ferry ride,

To fast Hydroplane power.

Castles and Temples,

Too many to mention.

Or Palace Guards,

Standing at attention.

A Maui Luau,

Huatulco waves.

Mountains and Oceans,

Crypts and Caves.

From Route 66,

To the Champs-Elysées.

I sometimes take the wheel,

But you always point the way.

Amsterdam and Rome,

Santorini blue domes.

Overall, in five states,

We’ve owned homes.

Petra and the Dead Sea,

Night Life on the Strip.

Our Bellagio Wedding,

It’s been quite a trip!

Planes, Trains, and Auto,

Ubers, Taxis, and bikes.

Despite my reluctance,

Even cliff-nics and hikes.

Stonehenge seemed tiny,

After all that we’ve done.

And soon we’ll be basking,

In the Mallorca sun.

But the best place of all,

Is in your arms.

Beholding your beauty,

Admiring your charms.

All would be meaningless,

If you weren’t there.

To hold me hand,

In these moments we share.

Christmas 2023

Sorry about all the formatting issues.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Mikey’s Been There #2449

December 13, 2023 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Years ago, I wrote a poem called “Bathroom Beast,” poking fun at my messy tendencies around the house. My tidy wife usually found a few things out of place whenever I left a room. (See Post #453). It was intended to be a children’s book, but I could not find an illustrator to do justice around the Pigwhalea character. Well, things haven’t changed, and I’ve since written a sequel called “Mikey’s Been There,” once again inspired by my wife, that I will introduce below, once I refresh your memory on the former silly classic:

Bathroom Beast

Pigs are messy,
Smelly and crude.
Happy in slop,
Rooting for food.

Whales are slimy,
Giant and wet.
Splish, Splash,
Have you got a net?

Pigs live in sties,
Whales in the sea.
Where did they meet?
How could this be?

Somehow it happened,
That two became one.
This mythical creature,
Weighs more than a ton.

Is it a whale?
With a pig’s snout.
It lives in our bathroom,
And I want it out.

It’s there every morning,
Don’t know where it hides?
Perhaps in the drain,
It boldly resides.

Snout or Spout?
Pink or Blue?
I’ve never seen it.
Have you?

Hogfish?
Moby Swine?
Pig-Whale-aaa,
Works just fine.

Water on the floor,
A ring around the sink.
Towels everywhere,
Don’t know what to think.

Clogged drain,
Counter all wet.
Help me get rid,
Of this unwelcome pet.

Puddles all around,
Not a dry spot in sight.
Little rubber ducky,
Are you all right?

Cap off the toothpaste,
Bottles askew.
Pigwhalea was here,
There’s clue after clue.

I’m very neat,
Each thing has its place.
I look in the mirror,
And see your face.

Brush out of place,
Cosmetics askew.
You’ve done all this,
Pigwhalea is Y-O-U.