At a New Year’s Eve party with three of my sisters and their husbands in Naples, FL:

La-La_Land

Here we are on New Year's Eve
Down in la-la land.
Where life is good... that is, of course
You've got 900 grand.

My sisters and their spouses, too
Long since left the cold.
And came to Naples to retire
But me? I'm not that old.

But since they're here, I'll visit them
To feel those sibling "forces."
(And in between I'll get to play
Their tennis courts and courses.)

In four more years I'll come down, too.
To join my sisters three.
But I can wait until that time
'Cause now it's nearly free!

To my wacky friend who decided to buy a coffin that could be used as a bookcase while he was living.

We’re not scoffin’
At your coffin
There’s no wonder ever why.
‘Cause Mr. Hartnett,
You’re so smart, yet
You’re a whacky kind of guy.

Were it not for
What you got for
When you got your darling Carroll,
There’d be calls to
Niagara Falls to
Send you over in a barrel.

When you die, John,
We will cry, John,
Not a one of us will mask it.
But we’ll wonder
When you’re under,
"Are there bookworms in your casket?"

To our friends, the Bridges, at their 35th Anniversary party.

Thirty-five years of this marriage
They said it unlikely to last.
But she never burned down her Bridges,
And he never brought up his past.

Somehow they kept it together.
The reasons aren’t very complex.
She wanted money and power.
He wanted beauty and sex.

Whatever the reasons, we love it.
And the fact is we can not deny.
We love getting asked to these parties
Without having presents to buy.

To my brother-in-law, Fran the coach at Penn State, upon turning 54.

Middle age has passed you by
And now you’re 54.
Soon you’ll get the discount price
At theaters and more.

Soon they’ll talk of you the way
They talk of mentor, Joe.
One the job for 30 years
With 30 more to go.

Soon you’ll know the aches and pains
That come to all your peers.
(Come to think, those aches and pains
You’ve had for 20 years!)

Soon you’ll take up hobbies like
Collecting coins and stamps.
Soon the team won’t call you, “Coach,”
But “Old Man Fran” or “Gramps.”

The game of life when growing old
Is what you make it be.
But if you let it take its toll
Don’t blame the Referee.

To my wife on her 60th birthday.

The day has come; you may be numb.
You’ve reached the big 6-0.
But all the gang, and Dr. Lang
Are only those who know.

It’s true, in fact, you never act
Like sixty, heavens knows.
Your driving force? Tis I, of course,
Who keeps you on your toes.

I think of you, as fifty-two
And that, my dear, confirms.
That you are worth, a bunch on earth
In present value terms.

Your clothing shines, right to the nines.
You always look just right.
And you’ll look cute, in your birthday suit
When we’re in bed tonight.

To my nurse after having a kidney stone removed.

A banker whose business was loans
Had kidneys that gathered up stones.
So whenever he’d whiz
You’d hear a plop and a fiz
Intermixed with occasional groans.

To my wife on Mother's Day

Mother's Day is here again
And you may not concur, 
But though you're not my real mom, Grace,
You act as though you were.

You tell me what to eat each day
From non-fat foods to veggies.
You tell me how to wear my clothes
And straighten out those wedgies.

You clean my clothes, keep me neat,
And take our thorns and splinters.
You keep me cool on summer days
And keep me warm in winters.

So, as you see you're like my mom
But think me not a “wus.”
Just be glad your oldest “son”
Thinks like Oedipus.

To my wife on her 52nd birthday.

I've written poems for birthdays, dear
And poems for other times.
But now it seems your laureate
Has used up all his rhymes.

I've made up rhymes for things you are..
The things that I adore,
But now I'm lost in poet's hell.
My rhymer rhymes no more.

Rest assured I'll get it back
When you are old and gray.
So I can pick on you again
With lots more I can say.

Hope you're feeling well this year
Since now you're 52.
Without the rhymes I'll simply say,
"Gracie, I love you."

To my wife on her birthday, January 14.

Your birthday's so soon after Christmas
It's hard to come up with a gift.
So we didn't again dearest Mommy
In hopes that you wouldn't get pifft.

Remember the ring back at Christmas.
I'm afraid it will just have to do.
It counted for Christmas and New Year's
Your birthday and Mother's Day, too.

To my wife on her 30th birthday

Another year has passed us by
You've reached your middle 30's
Seems like only yesterday
We talked of bees and birdies.

We changed that talk to action, dear
And see what it did bring.
A little bit of baby's breath
With a slightly squeaky ring.

Now, as your figure finds it's norm
Don't drop back ten and punt.
'Cause I'm just glad to see you're back
But most of all your front.

To our school superintendent 
after his hip was replaced

There once was a superintend
With a hip that was needing a mend.
Said he to his doc,
"Put this hip into hock
And give me a new one pretend."

So, soon he was back in the fray
Clicking his heels all the way.
And, without pain in his hip
He can now add some zip
To kicking some ass every day.

To our nephew, Chris, on his 20th birthday, after he ran for 2 pts on a faked extra point attempt.

Christo, we heard you turned twenty
But when you were seen on TV,
We watched as you ran
Like your old father, Fran
(Except you were slower than he.)

Notwithstanding the way that you did it,
Your efforts two points did it yield.
And that, my dear lad,
Was two more than dad
Scored in four years on the field.

So keep up the good work and effort.
Have fun in your next college year.
And wait for the fun
As you turn twenty-one
And you finally partake of a beer

.

To my wife on our 37th anniversary

I may not ever have to see
A future anniversary,
Since even now at thirty-seven,
It’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven. 

You are, my dear, the cause of this
For giving me eternal bliss,
Helped by, too, no need to mention,
The present value of your pension. 

Problem is, a recent scan
Proves I’m a “well-developed man.”
So I’ll be here for many years
Buying tools and things at Sears.

And playing golf and playing scrabble
And other things in which I dabble.
But count on me to be not far.
From home or St. Clair’s E.R.

For I am here for you to please
For all our anniversaries.
And in between those dates I can
Be your humble handyman.

To our niece, Meg, and new husband, Luigi, at their wedding rehearsal dinner

We wondered for years, Would it happen?”
This marriage of Luigi and Meg.
Although they had dated for decades,
Luigi was NOT going to beg. 

What happened was both of them realized
They long ago circled the block.
What’s more, biologically speaking,
Luigi was near 12 o’clock. 

We wondered, however, if Luigi
Would fit in this clan gathered here,
Since he is Italian (we’re guessing),
And for us that’s a brand new frontier.

We’ve let in some Protestant outlaws
And a couple from non-Eastern states,
But our only Italian connection
Is the food that we put on our plates.

If opposites are truly attracted,
Then the Longos will have what it takes,
Margaret is calm and collected,
While Luigi’s Italian, God sakes!

Luigi’s 5-7 when stretching
Meg is 5-7 when stooped.
Luigi is quiet when drinking
Margaret is not when she’s looped.

But we know you will both make it happen.
As you go down the path, man and wife.
Luigi take care of our Margaret.
That is, if you value your life!

To our daughter, Katie, on her 23rd birthday.

Katie, you’ve hit twenty-three;
A graduate, long at last free.
But you’re in quite a pickle
When you ain’t got a nickel
(Freedom is fickle, you see.) 

Ben’s in a pickle to boot
Cause he doesn’t have any loot.
So when you’re together
The question is whether
A gin game beats trivial pursuit.

This birthday, I’m sad to report,
Will still leave you few dollars short.
Moreover, your fears
Will be real in 10 years
When we’re asking you, for support.

So get a job you can do well
At a bank or a big S&L.
If you salary don’t make it,
You can always just take it
And remember, we’ll never tell.

To my wife on her 43rd birthday

Now that you’ve hit 43
I must note that you’re older than me.
But there’ll be no guffaws,
Since you’ve hit menopause,
Only projections of what is to be.

Wrinkles will make you look wise.
Support hose will cover your thighs.
And your teeth barely white
Will soak overnight
Next to your bifocal eyes.

These thoughts are undoubtedly weighty.
Don’t worry about them my matey.
You can look as you please
Cause with Alzheimer’s Disease
I’ll think you’re the house cleaning lady.

To my wife who complained about my snoring

I guess that I shall never be
A bedmate who is problem free…
A bedmate whom you curse and cuss
For being snuff-fa-luf-a-gus.

A bedmate who explodes and snorts
Like Vesuvius from all reports.
But adds to that, a crowning blow,
By saying that it isn’t so! 

A bedmate who removes the covers
When not intent on being lovers.
And worse than that…now and then
Comes to bed long after ten.

A C-PAP mask would solve our plight
(Both of us could sleep the night.)
But night-night kisses through a mask
Could come to be a daunting task.

I suggest you plug your ears
To let our love nest last for years.
Or if our love starts turning south
Maybe you should plug my mouth!
 

A Poem About Lack of Culture in the Anderson family.

Twas back in 1935, I think,
When Daddy said to momma
“Let’s fill our life with cultured things
Like music, dance and drama.”

Let’s send Margie to Lucille Bach
And Bill to drama lessons.
We’ll send our Neill to summer stock,
And Dick to Elsie Stephan’s.

It’s just too bad that Andy’ clan
Felt culture not their show.
They didn’t stick it out too long
And wasted poor Dad’s dough.

But good old Dad consoles himself
And Mom he always pardons
Every time he hears Dick play
His favorite, “Country Gardens.”

To my wife's teaching associate at her bridal shower (her gift had to start with the letter "N").

“N” is the letter I’ve chosen
To help with some marriage advice.
This, from a women who’s been there,
And done that, since hit with the rice. 

N is for “Never” give in to
Your husband’s demand for more sex.
Tell him that once every fortnight
Is all a librarian expects.

N is for “Nassau” in winter
A place you must yearly be takin.’
A place to which you are entitled
For bringing home half of the bacon. 

N is for “Not” as an answer
When hubby inquires if you’re cooking.
Tell him you’re no Martha Stewart
But a hell of lot better looking. 

N is for “No” to Jeff’s mother 
When coupons she wants you to clip.
Get into witness protection,
And give the policeman a tip.

N is the “Nightie” I brought you
Not a bit “Naughty,” you see.
But with the Champagne in the bucket
You’ll get a lot farther than me.

A poem I wrote for Fran Ganter, to read to Joe Paterno at an "Dapper Dan" awards dinner.

I’ve been with you, Joe, 
Since when, I don’t know,
But time has passed quickly as light.
And now is the time, 
To express in a rhyme
Some things bad and good here tonight.

Your honesty, coach,
Is beyond all reproach,
But sometimes you don’t tell it straight.
Like when you came down, 
To recruit me in town
You said I would play for Penn State.

But you failed to disclose, 
When Penn State I chose
(And I’m sorry if this will embarrass)
That you also recruited 
A fullback more suited.
Some guy by the name, Franco Harris.

Then a few years went by,
And I was the guy
You let call the plays, as you claim.
But once again, Joe, 
What I didn’t know
Was that didn’t mean in a game!

I’m not one to gripe, 
Or to engage in a snipe
But it seems when our game’s on TV
That some folks assume, 
When you yell, kick and fume,
That you really are yelling at me.

But I must reveal, 
Our long standing deal
Whenever a game’s to begin.
I take the boos,
Whenever we lose,
And you take the cheers when we win.

I don’t have a tally, 
Of times Happy Valley
Was almost a memory for me.
When schools made those offers 
To empty their coffers
And make me their head coach to be.

But each time you’d cry,
And said you would die
Without me you’d sure have a stroke.
So I thought it bad, 
If I were the cad
Who caused Joe Paterno to croak.

 I may just expire, 
Before you retire
But meanwhile with your help, I’ve grown.
Cause you are “da man,” 
A real Dapper Dan;
A legend I’m proud to have known.

To my wife on her 50th Birthday

50’s the number of degrees, Grace
You’re temperature varies at night.
50’s the number of pills that
You take for the ills that you fight.

50’s the number of times, dear
You’ve forgotten to turn down the heat.
And 50’s the number of cookies
It takes till I think you are sweet.

And 50’s the number of nudges
You give me each night when I snore.
50’s the percentage of regular
You pay for your clothes at the store.

50’s the age which allows you
To sign up with AARP.
But because of our age differential
Don’t plan on the meetings with me.

50’s the times on the golf course
You’ve taken my lessons you dread.
And 50’s the times you’ve decided
To play it your own way instead.

50’s the number of years that
Our marriage will continue to be,
But 50’s the number of times that
I’ll remind you you’re older than me

.

Two poems to my wife on Valentine's Day

Rose are red
Violets are blue.
Your glasses are thicker
Than white Elmer’s glue.

Actually, that’s great.
I tell you no lies.
Each day I look better
In your blurry eyes.

Valentine's Day, all the cheapskates resent,
Since eighty-four bucks on the average is spent;
But thanks to the guys spending one-sixty-eight.
I can get by with a card for my mate.

Thinking of you on this day at the club,
I knew you would cherish your new laundry tub.
And though not a gift on this Valentine's Day,
It'll last a lot longer than a flower bouquet.

To my daughter, Katie, on her 16th birthday

16's a beautiful age, Kate.
Perfect for our little star.
It's also the number of year's that
You'll owe us for buying the car.

16's the number of guys that
Call you each night after nine.
And 16's the gauge of the shotgun
I'll use if they step out of line.

16's the number of days since
You've shaven your legs of their hair.
If you let them grow 16 days longer,
We'll mistake you for Smokey the Bear.

16's the number of goals that
You've scored on your school's soccer team.
And 16's the number of minutes
You've got til you wake from your dream.

16's the number of questions
You missed on your first driver's test.
If it weren't for your name, age and address
You would have missed all of the rest.

16's the number of times that
We've thought of how lucky we seem
To have you, dear Kate, as our daughter
For 16 great years on our team.

To my wife on Mother's Day, which happens to fall around the same time as our anniversary.  Several poems with the same theme.

Happy Mother's Day, dear mom
And Anniversary, too.
The fact that they are back to back
Means one gift, 'stead of two.

Besides you're not my mom you see.
So you're not due a gift.
Besides you've got most everything.
I think you get my drift.

Notwithstanding all of that.
I still combed all the stores
To get you something you would need
To help you with your chores.

Since iron was, you doctor thought,
The thing just right for you,
I give you this and all my shirts
For you this week to do.

Our anniversary falls on the 14th
And Mother's Day also, it's true.
Which means that your gift won't be doubled,
But actually cut up in two.

It was hard finding gifts for you, honey
After giving for 29 years.
How many diamonds and rubies
Can you wear on your fingers and ears?

We think you're the greatest of mothers,
And the best among wives in the State.
But remember you wouldn't be either
If you didn't have kids and a mate.

We're celebrating Mother's Day
At midnight, mom, you see,
So I can stretch one gift for that
And Monday's jubilee.

And you'll be glad to know, my dear
This gift, though very nice
I got from Marshalls ½ off
The tree times marked down price.

Thanks for being mom and wife
For all these years of bliss.
And if you stay awake past twelve
You'll get a great big kiss.

To my daughter, who was entering the 
University of Michigan as a Spanish major.

You know that I'm not good at Spanish.
But you're muy bono Kate as a grad.
Not to mention my mucha muchacha
The favorito one of your Dad.

But now that you're ocho+dias,
And college you now will attend.
Remember that padre y madre
Have nada dineros to send.

So spend your dineros with caution.
Studiando your lessons with care,
Or you assias be grassias amigo
And your bank account empty and bare

To my brother on finding old report cards of his.

Enclosed you'll find report cards from
Your high school sophomore year.
I found them in some attic box
And realized every fear.

'Cause daughter Kate compare them to
Some of mine she had,
And now concludes her Uncle Neill
Was smarter than her dad.

But I explained it all last night,
And now she's a believer.
I wasn't dumber than my bro
Just an un-achiever.

To a friend who, along with Elroy Face, the great relief  pitcher with the Pittsburgh Pirates, played a golf match against me and a friend.

The weather was fine, 
The course was devine.
The company exceptional, too.
But the turks from Chartiers, 
Amid cackles and cheers
Were richer when golfing was through.

We felt kind of bad, 
And, yes, a touch sad
For that's not how guests should behave.
You brought in the ace, 
The great Elroy Face,
But couldn't come up with the save.

We'll try it once more, 
In two thousand four.
Practice a lot until then.
But save up your bucks, 
'Cause two of us schmucks
Are coming out swinging again!

and his reply:

The pleasure was ours,
There were very few scars
And good times can come in a lump,
As for losing, we view,
An investment in you.
It's known as priming the pump.

To my nephew, Jon, before running the Boston Marathon

I’m told my nephew, “White House Jon”
Will run the Boston Marathon.
Best you know that it’s no bunk
You’ll be pressed to beat your unc.

Back when I was feeling great
I ran the course: 3:38
My time about a year ago
Was 4:19, I’ll have you know.

Of course, I’m over twice your age
So half my times will be your gauge.
That means 2:09 you’ll need
To beat your uncle John, the steed.

To a friend who became a grandmother

As a Granny, you’re a nanny,
Working fanny nearly off.
Babysitting, unremitting,
Without fitting in some golf.

But you’re willing, it’s fulfilling
While the little baby’s sucking.
Just be wary, cause it’s hairy
When the dairy starts upchucking.

To be truthful, you’re too youthful,
And too toothful to be granny
But you’re Molly is no folly,
The resemblance too uncanny.

What’s assuring is that during
All the whirring without slack
You can chuck it, tell ‘em “f___ it,”
And just give the baby back

.

To my friend, Tom Bishop, who had his prostate removed: 

We worried, Tom
About your date
With scalpel, gauze and suture. 
We worried ‘bout
Your tennis game 
And of your golfing future.

But doctors say
It went so well
You’re up and telling jokes.
Which says to us
That Bishop isn’t
Getting any strokes.

Despite our doubts
We hope you’ll golf
Before year-end, by chance.
If so, we hope
Your catheter
Stays tightly in your pants.  

Another poem to my wife about snoring.

Though you’re nudgin’ 
The “curmudgeon”
In the middle of the night
It’s a causing
Only pausing
In your constant snoring fight.

You could proctor
When the doctor
Checks his throat for an obstruction.
Then sedate him.
Operate him.
And give him Extreme Unction.

You could leave him,
or bereave him,
But the consequence is glum. 
Cause his pension,
Should I mention,
Is a mighty, tidy sum.

You could tape him,
And escape him,
But you’ll still hear mighty booms.
And romancing
Is enhancing
If you’re not in separate rooms.

The solution:
Absolution.
Cause you have no other choices.
And be happy
That your pappy.
Makes no other kinds of noises.