Changing Gears

They stole my brand-new bike from where
I’d left it in the yard.
Since I was only eight years old,
I really took it hard.

I’d only had it for a week
But it fit all my needs –
The brakes were on the handlebars
And wow! It had three speeds!

It was metallic blue and oh,
The other kids would stare;
But one day when I came outside,
It simply wasn’t there.

We searched in vain on every street
Within the neighborhood.
We really thought it would show up,
But it was gone for good.

My parents didn’t have the funds
To purchase a replacement.
Instead, they found a clunker
Rusting in somebody’s basement.

My second bike was old and slow
And really not much fun.
The tires were fat, the rims were scuffed,
The count of speeds was one!

I’ve never owned another bike
But cars I’ve had a few;
And one thing I can tell you is
Each one was spanking new!

Sacrifice

We sacrifice for our children.
We’d sacrifice for a friend;
But sometimes if we hesitate,
We’ll possibly offend.

We give when giving’s needed
Or ‘til the well runs dry;
Yet there are times we’re asked to give
And we may not comply.

It’s not that we don’t want to,
But life gets in the way.
We have to hope that those who ask
Think saying no’s okay.

Decisions often plague us
And when we have to choose,
There’s one side that is winning;
The other has to lose.

So whether as a parent
Or a relative or pal,
We might cause disappointment
Or a downfall in morale.

For there are times when it appears
There’s little to discuss.
At times like these, the sacrifice
Takes second place, to us!

Not Worthy

The New York Times won’t publish
All the wedding news it gets.
Unless you are “acceptable,”
They’ll send you their regrets.

With attributes like wealth or fame
Or Ivy League degrees,
The Times may run your story,
But there are no guarantees.

I’ve always know this as a fact
But recently I’ve learned
That even in obituaries,
Some folks will get burned.

There isn’t space enough, they say,
To honor all who’ve died;
So only certain folks deceased
Deserve their place inside.

An influential person,
Or one “offbeat,” even “quirky,”
Will trump an ordinary guy
For reasons somewhat murky.

And so a woman from the west,
Who sculpted cows from butter,
Received her dose of fame while others
Got tossed in the gutter.

A local businessman who was
A veteran and giver
And art collector didn’t have
The goods he could deliver.

The obit writer at The Times
Did let the family know.
“Of course his life was worthy,”
But his story’s not a go.

My husband promised when I died
I’d make The Times – “Don’t sweat it.”
But now I realize there’s no way,
So he should just forget it.

It seems some people count for more.
There is a great divide;
But somehow that should be erased
When someone’s up and died!

Unleashed

A dog, unleashed, made its attack;
Its owner’s focus had gone slack.
I heard a canine yelp of pain;
Such agony it did contain.

The owner of the wounded hound
Scooped up her dog and held her ground.
She screamed in fury, loud and clear,
A tirade meant for all to hear.

She had a point; there is a law
That dogs need leashes. We all saw
The pet who’d charged was running loose;
The owner could have no excuse.

The irony’s what got to me,
For it was plain as it could be
That lack of leash caused to transpire
Unleashing of another’s ire.

Invisible

A woman, blinded by disease,
Wrote poetry and then,
Inspired to write a novel,
Picked up paper and a pen.

Elastic bands across the pages
Held the pen in place.
With more than twenty pages done,
Not once did she erase.

Her son paid her a visit
And she proudly showed her prize.
He had to break the news, which had
Been hidden from her eyes.

The pages had no writing;
They were blank, ‘cause here’s the kink –
The whole time she’d been writing,
Her poor pen was out of ink!

The local police, forensic branch,
Jumped in and took the case.
The paper’s indentations gave them
Clues they could embrace.

Before too long they did restore
The writer’s missing plot.
She’s back to writing, hoping that
Her novel has a shot.

However, now a volunteer
Types all she has in store.
This writer’s words are out there
And invisible no more!

Eighteen Geese

Eighteen geese all honk hello
Outside the staid museum.
What they mean I wouldn’t know
But I am glad to see ‘em.

They peck upon the green while I
Stroll by the choppy river.
Although the sun lights up the sky,
The wind brings forth a shiver.

The Hudson traffic plows up foam;
Miss Liberty stands regal.
A morning such as this, at home,
Feels too good to be legal.

Before the crowds of tourists hit,
It’s peaceful, calm and quiet.
Upon a scuffed-up bench I sit;
You really ought to try it.

From eighteen geese and morning chill
To what the day may send me,
Inside I am content and still,
With plenty to defend me.

Other People's Lives

Most folks like to shower;
Some prefer the bath.
Life allows such choices;
We can access either path.

Lots of folks skip breakfast;
Many wouldn’t dare.
When we look at others’ lives,
It’s natural to compare.

Most homes have the TV on;
In others, no one watches.
Some adults sip sodas;
Others like their beer or Scotches.

Many homes are sparkling clean;
Others look quite messy.
Some folks dress in jeans or sweats;
Others opt for dressy.

Many people nest at home;
Others love to travel.
Some folks garden to relax;
Others just plant gravel.

There are those who read or cook
Or paint or dance or sing.
Every person somehow finds
Whatever is his thing.

I think of other people’s lives,
So different from my own;
And love the fact we all create
Our private comfort zone.

Shakespeare's Birthday

Today’s the day we celebrate
The birthday of the Bard.
His authorship has caused debate,
Which I just disregard.

For William Shakespeare’s poems and plays
Will never find an equal.
His way with words and turn of phrase
Leave no room for a sequel.

It’s centuries since Shakespeare died
Yet all his words are living.
His brilliance let him still provide
The pleasure he keeps giving.

So on this day I’ve penned this sonnet
Just so we could think upon it.

Ifs, Ands Or...

The front of my building has bushes
But also unfortunate gluts
Of something invasive and ugly –
A mountain of cigarette butts.

I’ve never seen somebody toss one –
I doubt if my tongue could be held –
For such utter contempt for the garden
Is certainly unparalleled.

Though smokers must bide by restrictions,
On streets they may puff as they please;
So when time for a toss is upon them,
They answer to no referees.

You’d think they would be diplomatic,
Considerate, civil and kind;
But second-hand smoke and its dangers
Isn’t all that they’re leaving behind.

The next time I notice a smoker,
I’ll follow his trail as he struts,
And gently remind him that Nature
Has no room for his ifs, ands or butts!

Half-Staff

The mayor’s flag is half-staff high;
A fireman has died.
The tears that will be shed today
Won’t be the first ones cried.

Not many people die at work,
But firefighters do.
A job like that is one that just
The bravest would pursue.

Their families are left to claim
The honor they deserve;
And those of us outside their realm
Respectfully observe.

A firefighter’s funeral
Fills everyone with sorrow.
That half-staff flag reminds us
We won’t all be here tomorrow.

A Monkey Tale

My mom’d just had a baby
And so to give her space,
My nana and my grandpa
Took me to a special place.

We passed a toy store on the way
And quickly we were stopping.
I found a doll I really loved;
I’d nailed this thing called shopping.

My nana loved to buy me things
But mom had made it clear
No matter what, there was to be
No toy or souvenir.

I left the store dejected
But we drove on to the zoo.
It cheered me and improved my mood,
As zoos are wont to do.

I noticed something rather strange –
A monkey with no cage.
At five years old the danger
I was not equipped to gauge.

As I bent down to pet it,
Its reaction was pure fright.
Before I knew what happened,
I’d received a monkey bite!

My nana was hysterical;
I guess I was as well.
The doctor stitched me up
And I kept up my crying spell.

To calm me down, my grandpa asked
How can we stop those tears?
A lightbulb flashed – the doll! I said,
Quite clever for my years.

And so I got a brand-new doll,
Accessories to match.
My grandpa’s guilt was dangling
Like a prize for me to catch.

The lesson that I learned was this:
No matter your intent,
A promise made is etched in sand
More often than cement.

Unfair

Sometimes in life, though we’ve paid all our dues,
We’re given the screws; we’ve been had and we lose.
The shot that we thought was our best one has failed.
Our hopes have derailed; opponents prevailed.

We either can wallow or rise from the muck
And swallow our pride and proceed with pure pluck.
There’s nothing to gain staying down in the dumps;
Just rein in the pain and accept a few lumps.

Tomorrow will dawn like it usually does.
We’ll look back and wonder what all the buzz was;
And maybe we’ll put it all high on a shelf
To satisfy something inside of ourself.

If not, then we’ll flounder, a fish in a net;
An easy-out grounder or Russian roulette.
For life is unfair much more often than not
And despair is the lot that at times we have got.

Slowing Down

Although we’d like to do the things
We’ve always done before,
Our bodies sometimes let us know
It’s time for less – not more.

When we were young, we’d party hard
And drink and stay out late;
Yet now we find ourselves at home
And nodding off at eight.

A walk of several miles once
Was just the appetizer.
Now it’s like a five-course meal -
And who knows if we’re wiser?

For wisdom means accepting things
That we cannot control;
And it’s a challenge to admit
That age has claimed its toll.

The truly wise will slow it down
And readjust their pace;
For life is more a journey
Than a flat-out non-stop race.

If some refuse, they stand to lose;
Rejecting this advice
May cause more problems than they know
And they will pay the price.

Untangling

Some folks spot solutions
Whereas others just see tangles.
Possibilities exist
When viewed from different angles.

It’s a talent, rich and rare,
Which I do not possess;
So when conflicts come to light,
I suffer from the stress.

A friend heard my dilemma
And she came up with a plan.
I’d agonized and drawn a blank;
She took the facts and ran.

The answer she suggested
Was so brilliant and precise
It solved my problem perfectly
And was the best advice.

If you don’t have a mind that can
Untangle every knot,
Make sure you have a friend that does,
Just like the one I’ve got!

Foreign Languages

Hearing conversations
Spoken in a foreign tongue
Serves as a reminder of
The folks we live among.

Immigrants from distant shores
Residing where we live
Add a little spiciness
With all they have to give:

Hints of other cultures,
Both alluring and exotic;
Customs that we might just find
A tiny bit quixotic.

When I hear people talking
In a language rich and strange,
I wonder at the meaning of
The words that they exchange.

It’s like a secret code to which
I do not have the key,
And likely what they’re saying
Doesn’t have to do with me.

Yet still, if we could comprehend
A language not our own,
Perhaps the world would cease to be
A xenophobic zone.

Darn!

Years ago, when socks had holes,
A housewife would start sewing.
She would try to nip that rip
Before it started growing.

Darning was a nifty skill
Among her many duties.
She’d mend all the clothes, from coats
To tiny baby booties.

Folks today don’t have the time
Or skill or inclination
To make repairs on clothing;
It’s not worth the aggravation.

So when a toe pokes through a hole,
Most people will not stitch it.
It’s easier, by far, to shrug it off
And simply ditch it.

It seems a waste, but after all
This life just overflows
With items that we use and toss –
That’s just the way it goes.

A housewife from the past
Would cluck her tongue and think it rash
To take a sock with one small hole
And toss it in the trash.

But that’s just what I did today;
And though I am aware
I could have darned that hole, instead
I’ll buy another pair!

Blast from the Past

I’m many years and miles away
From when I went to school.
Those days are tucked inside my brain
And stay there, as a rule.

But walking on the street today,
Right near where I reside,
My high school days and present ones
Did suddenly collide.

A man was strolling, looking down,
His sweatshirt boldly lettered.
I saw my high school name and
Memories became unfettered.

I asked him if he’d gone there
And his graduation date.
He beat me by ten years or so,
But we could still relate.

No matter where we go in life
And how much we’ve amassed,
We’ll never travel far enough
To leave behind our past.

Good Night Irene

The folks who name the hurricanes
Have scrapped the name Irene.
It seems a rather drastic step,
But really, it’s routine.

When hurricanes wreak havoc
And a lot of lives are lost,
The name’s removed forevermore
Because a line’s been crossed.

It’s happened many times before
For it just seems much kinder
To choose a brand new handle
That won’t be a sad reminder.

So next time in the alphabet
When they are up to “I,”
The namers of the hurricanes
Think “Irma” rates a try.

A name that’s linked with evil
Often vanishes from view –
Baby Adolph wouldn’t even get
A decent cootchie coo!

History Alive

Visit official historical homes;
See where a president slept.
Wander the rooms where he breathed and he ate;
Marvel at all that's been kept:

Diaries, writing desks, clothing and clocks;
Dishes and goblets and swords.
Hairbrushes, mirrors and hundreds of books;
Frames holding lots of awards.

Pots and utensils employed by the cooks;
Furniture purchased in France.
Gardens all blooming with thousands of bulbs;
Slippers once worn at a dance.

All the minutiae of living condensed
And polished for us on display.
We can imagine how life used to be
When it is presented this way.

Names that we learned in a history book
Suddenly spring forth to life.
Here is the chair where the president sat;
There is the gown of his wife.

Trolling the past doesn't need to be dry.
Jump in the car - take a drive.
A trip to a battlefield, bunker or home
Can make history feel so alive.

The Scenic Route

It's good to take the scenic route
When you are on the road;
Like when you're eating pie,
It might as well be a la mode.

Though pie is much more fattening
With ice cream piled on high,
Each bite with extra calories
Tastes so good you could die.

The same goes for the scenic route -
Though it has extra miles,
The views that you experience
Will yield both sighs and smiles.

If you can spare the extra time
Or risk a few more pounds,
Choose ice cream and the scenic route
For joy that knows no bounds.

Encounter

A squirrel dashed in front of me,
An acorn in his mouth.
I was heading up the block;
He was going south.

He on four feet, I on two;
Each, though, in a hurry.
I’d increased my pace a bit;
He was all a’scurry.

I had many chores ahead;
Maybe he as well.
What a squirrel’s day is like
Is kinda hard to tell.

Still, we both were racing home
With breakfast on our minds –
He, no doubt, an acorn,
One of his more precious finds.

I’d be having coffee
With some matzoh and some cheese,
Each of us anticipating
Food we hoped would please.

Yet, we’d shared a moment,
Like an urban tip of hat:
A species cross-connection
And c’mon, how nice is that?

Share Not

When I go out to dinner,
I do not want to share.
I don’t care what is on your plate;
I don’t want to compare.

I scan the menu up and down
And then make my selection.
When it arrives, it’s meant for me
And not for your inspection.

“You want to taste my fish?” I’m asked.
Some people never learn;
For then the expectation is
To taste mine in return.

And so the answer’s always No!
Yet comments never cease.
“Your fries look really good!” They are,
So let me eat in peace!

Each morsel on my dish is mine
And I intend to finish.
Perhaps my attitude will make
Your thoughts of me diminish.

I’m sorry if that is the case –
Dessert I’ll split just fine;
But when the meal’s delivered –
You eat yours and I’ll eat mine!

River Musings

Canopy of blue above me,
Cirrus clouds, like mist on high;
Ripples dapple down the river,
Tiny whitecaps drift on by.

Distant cars flash ‘cross the bridges,
Airplanes glide as smooth as glass;
Joggers bounce on brand-new sneakers,
Seagulls swoop with grace and sass.

Tranquil breezes ruffle weedlings
Sprouting in the sidewalk cracks;
Children pedal bikes in training,
Anxious parents at their backs.

Flag across the water flutters,
Pigeons perch upon the rail;
River traffic’s non-existent –
Not a motor, tug or sail.

Easter Sunday in Manhattan
Is as peaceful as they come.
Gone is all the noise and hubbub;
Missing is the normal thrum.

Sitting quiet in the sunshine,
Soaking up the springtime air,
I’m content to pass the hour
In a mood relaxed and rare.

Making Memories

Every day we live might be
A day that we’ll remember,
Burning brightly just before
It fizzles to an ember.

How are we to know at first
Which memories will stick?
The choices aren’t ours to make –
The brain will search and pick.

An ordinary moment
Sometimes stands out from the rest.
Only time determines if
That flash will pass the test.

In our later years, perhaps,
We’ll look back at this day,
Remembering some magic tug
That held us in its sway.

Passover Memories

Tonight we’ll sit around the table
While we’re reminiscing
Both about the Israelites
And those whom we are missing.

Every Seder takes me back
To those when I was young.
I can hear my Zadie’s voice,
The Hebrew that was sung.

I can taste my Nana’s sponge cake
And gefilte fish,
So much love invested into
Every single dish.

Horse radish my grandpa made
Was mirrored by his face –
Beet-red cheeks and crinkled eyes,
Such merriment in place.

The hard-boiled eggs were split in two;
My cousin got the white.
I consumed the yolk, of course,
In one comedic bite.

Second night my father’s folks
Played host and that was fun.
My grandpa hid the matzoh
To be found when we were done.

We all know where it was, though;
On a pillow he reclined,
The Afikomen tucked beneath
His trouser-clad behind.

He’d get up slightly, just to reach
A serving plate or wine;
Then all the cousins made a grab
To say, “This matzoh’s mine!”

My parents are no longer here,
My grandparents as well;
But if I close my eyes,
On Seders past I like to dwell.

Tonight we’ll gather for the meal
But if I tell the truth,
It will be lovely, but no match
For Seders of my youth.

Crowded

A crowded subway’s like a jungle
Overgrown with vines.
You have to chop your way inside
By various designs.

You can’t use a machete
Or related jungle tool.
That sort of thing is frowned upon
In subways, as a rule.

Instead you have to push and shove
To hack your way inside.
A claustrophobic person
Would be rather terrified.

On trains in Tokyo, I read,
They prod you in with poles,
Like cattle to the slaughterhouse,
Resigned to certain roles.

Though here it isn’t quite as bad,
I let some trains go by.
When sardine folks glance out at me,
I will not even try.

But finally, I’ll brave my way
And worm myself a place,
Surviving as a member of
This crazy human race.

Early

I’d rather be two hours early
Than a minute late.
If there’s some waiting to be done,
Then I’m the one who’ll wait.

I never mind the down time –
I can read or browse or write.
At least I am relaxed and thus,
Anxiety can’t bite.

I never asked my mother,
So I don’t have a clue,
If I arrived into the world
The date that I was due.

But I suspect, and there’s no way
To really know for sure,
No matter what my due date was,
I must have come before!

Melting the Years

From ages one to twenty-one,
I knew my birthday had begun
When from its box, my mom would lift
My special candle, once a gift.

A cylinder of painted wax
It was, like certain artifacts,
A remnant of another age,
Which measured growth from stage to stage.

Each year was printed with a line,
With swirls of colorful design,
And on my birthday, with acclaim,
My mother’d proudly light the flame.

It took some hours ‘til it hit
The line below, then that was it.
I blew it out and it was clear
It would stay hidden for a year.

That ritual was never missed.
Its magic I could not resist;
For as that wick would start to smolder,
That was proof I’d gotten older.

All that happened long ago
Yet with living’s ebb and flow,
Birthdays link us to the past
And like candles, they don’t last.

Still today I see that girl,
Birthday crowned, with skirts a’twirl,
And I know just how she felt
As that candle’d start to melt.

Checks and Balances

The brain’s a clever system
For keeping things in check.
It stops you getting dizzy
Every time you turn your neck.

Your balance is adjusted
With every move you make;
But if the signal’s off, the world
Starts spinning by mistake.

A therapist can teach you
Just what makes your body tick.
Some exercises help
But only time will do the trick.

There’s so much we don’t know
About the workings of the brain.
I marvel at the complex paths
That make up its terrain.

April Fools

Today’s the day that mayhem rules
For pranksters known as April fools.
Through jest and folly they’ll provoke
And hope that all can take a joke.

Shenanigans and gags are fun
But they won’t work on everyone.
A jester has to know his crowd
To gauge what mischief is allowed.

Some people laugh off everything
While others suffer teasing’s sting.
On April Fools Day, even money
Says some pranks won’t come off funny.

Certain antics will appeal;
Others, though, will soon reveal
That what hits one man’s funny bone
May cause another to be thrown.