To my sisters after their comments about my apple pie recipe in a local news magazine.

I'm hearing the cries
About my apple pies
From sisters who make life so hard.
They rant and they rave
"Mom would turn in her grave
If you made up the crust without lard."

"You forget," one alleges,
"Rag strips for the edges:
And how about flutes for the steam?
How dare you make pies
Without fresh Northern Spies?
And how could you spoil with ice cream?"

To my sisters deranged
The times they have changed.
Lard went the way of brown suits.
And the bags from the store
Are brown paper nor more,
So how can I make little flutes?

And finally, I'll say,
Northern Spies in PA
Aren't apples, but agents from Erie
My pies are not mother's
But win over others.
God bless you my sweet mother dearie.

An e-mail to my daughter, Katie, after she made fun of my late night e-mail poems:

There once was a coed named Kate.
Who got messages from Dad kind of late.
Said she kind of terse,
"It could be much verse
He could call me at quarter-to-eight."

After our Aunt Grace's funeral:

Ode to a Grace in Urn

Here lies Grace, our matriarch,
Her ashes in an urn.
Which proves to us that money wasn't
All she had to burn

.

To my siblings after Aunt Grace's will was announced:

It's nice to know
Grace left some dough
For all of us to split.
But who much cares
When fourteen heirs
Will get their shares of it.

To my brother, Dick, after his heart surgery:

There once was an Anderson, Dickie.
Whose heart gave a hint of no tickie.
Said Dick to the doc,
"In my heart there's a block:
It's a bomb with a short fusie quickie."

So the docs searched for blood flowing red,
But they found just a trickle instead.
And were thrown off their guard
When they found only lard
From his toes to the top of his head.

But they fixed him and soon sent him on.
With a scolding that left him so wan:
"We want you, big Dick
To look like a stick.
Better yet, like your young brother, John."

To my son, John, on getting his first job as a banker:

What happened to the son we knew
The one who dressed in rags.
Now he wears a shirt and tie
With poly-cotton tags.

What happened to the son we knew.
The one who stayed out nights.
Now he's in his room at nine.
At ten he cuts the lights.

What happened to the son we knew.
The one who loved the dames.
Now he's settled down to one.
At least that's what he claims.

What happened to the son we knew.
The one we thought we had.
Seems the older he becomes.
The more he's like his Dad.

To my niece (from NY) and her husband (from TX) on the birth of their son, Austin.

We just saw the picture of Austin,
A cute little tyke to be sure.
But with parents from New York and Texas
His blood lines are not very pure.

 Send him to school in the East, kids.
He'll shape up for sure after that.
Until then you'll have to contend with
A half-breed in ten-gallon hat.

Dave, we hate to see you go
We wish you all the best.
The ladies here would take you home
If you weren't heading west.

Your airline job, I'm sure you'll find
Like drinking your own beer
After time you'll find yourself
In upper atmosphere.

We'll miss your kind demeanor, kid - 
Your red hair, charm and wit.
But he who takes your place next week
Won't miss you one damn bit.

To a bank customer, whose wife thought I was the country singer, John Anderson: