Thursday, May 21, 2015

In Sync

In married life, I really think
It helps a lot to be in sync
For if your wavelengths seem to match,
There won't be holes you'll have to patch.

Your lifestyle choices should agree
Though even that won't guarantee
Smooth sailing in the years ahead
(Which most expect when they are wed).

When differences at times appear
And one of you've slipped out of gear,
You've got to find a middle place
Which both of you will then embrace.

For big decisions must be shared;
Together, then, you'll be prepared
To face the future as a team.
(It's not as hard as it may seem.)

Wednesday, May 20, 2015


How, oh how, can some endow
A building wing? Well, holy cow!
So many millions must impress
All comers, thanks to their largesse.

Such lavish generosity
Is well beyond the scope of me,
For sums like that I won’t pretend
Are numbers I can comprehend.

Yet so much more than any bank
These benefactors we should thank,
For their donations help us out
And that’s what giving’s all about.

Of course, they get some tax deducted
When their building wing’s constructed.
Plus, they get their just acclaim
When on the walls, we view their name.

Endowments, though, will hardly drain
The cash their bank accounts contain.
It must be nice to scratch that itch
And give, but still be filthy rich!

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Under the Bed

Under the bed there are lots of things stored:
(In the city, such space simply can’t be ignored.)
An alternate quilt meant for wintertime use,
A cart for the laundry with one wheel that’s loose;

My black boots and brown boots and costumes and props
From short plays I’ve written (and none of them flops!).
A newspaper stack with some articles saved,
A Chinese umbrella my daughter once craved;

A pocketbook gift with the tags on (too big!),
Some art supplies, books and a Halloween wig,
A suitcase with clothes that I no longer wear –
That just about covers what’s hiding down there.

I’m certain my storage spot isn’t unique;
It’s private and perfect – if no one will peek!

Monday, May 18, 2015

Henry at the Wheel

The carnival had rides galore –
A Ferris wheel, a carousel
And some that spun around real fast
While flying in the air, as well.

For little kids, there were the cars
That circled ‘round upon a track.
When I saw Henry at the wheel,
I sure was taken quite aback.

He’s 20 months and wants to be
In charge of all if he’s allowed.
Why, eating yogurt by himself
(With his own spoon!) sure made him proud.

His parents took him to the fair
And sat him with a little friend
Inside a race car where they both
Indulged and steered and played pretend.

A second ride was by himself
And that’s when I came strolling by,
Surprised and thrilled and nervous
And emotions which I might deny.

They grow up oh, so fast! I never
Realized all the ways I’d feel
When gazing at my grandson,
Not a baby now, behind the wheel.

Sunday, May 17, 2015

West Side Story

Since “West Side Story” hit the stage,
No show could quite compare.
Such music, lyrics, dances, plot
Are magical and rare.

The gorgeous tunes you can’t forget
Are Bernstein at his best
And Sondheim’s words would leave the world’s
Top poets most impressed.

The choreography delights
With every Robbins move
And Arthur Laurents told the tale;
Will Shakespeare would approve.

I saw the play again today;
It never lets me down,
Deserving every accolade
That’s earned it its renown.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Giving Gifts

It’s very tricky giving gifts
‘Cause it can be a waste
If what you’ve chosen doesn’t jibe
With the receiver’s taste.

The hours you spend searching
For what they will love, you hope,
Often ends with shallow smiles
And the verdict clearly – nope!

‘Cause the vibe was off, the size was wrong,
The color or the style
Missed the mark that you were aiming for,
By possibly a mile.

For those folks who hate to risk it,
Well, a gift card might suffice,
But a gift that hits the sweet spot
For the giver’s twice as nice.

Friday, May 15, 2015

A Poem

A poem is written to be read
If only by the poet.
Of course, it's gratifying if
To others she can show it.

But oftentimes, the words remain
Just floating there, in limbo,
The writer standing to the side
With head cocked, arms akimbo.

Yet even if no feedback comes,
The poet's had her say
And when she reads what she has penned,
She smiles and feels okay.