Words from the Weary

When writing a poem every day,
You shouldn’t let time slip away.
            For what is required
            Gets lost when you’re tired
And thoughts tend to wander and stray.

Yet hours at times disappear
When events and constraints interfere.
            So you dash off some lines
            Hoping when the sun shines
They won’t sound quite as bad as you fear!

Wings

We’re told that when we raise our kids,
We have to give them wings
To see what’s out there in the world –
The plus and minus things.

They learn of love and friendship;
They discover hate and fear.
Their grasp of life and how it works
Grows clearer by the year.

From choices laid in front of them
They settle on a route,
Forsaking our opinions
Which to them are often moot.

We stand there on the sidelines
And there’s not a thing to say;
For once the wings are good to go,
They’ll likely fly away.

Stuck

Stuck within a sea of cars,
There’s nothing you can do.
You crawl ahead as brake lights lift,
But there’s no getting through.

Signs inform you of delays
But that won’t move you faster.
How much time ‘til you get home
Depends on the disaster.

So you drive and hit the brakes
Ad nauseam and wonder
When the traffic sea will part
And lift the cloud you’re under.

‘Til that time, frustration mounts
And tempers start to flare.
All this time’s a’wasting
And you’re here instead of there.

Hopefully, there’ll be a break
And cars will start to flow.
Then, at last, you’ll get to where
You’d always hoped to go.

Overalls

An article of clothing
That I’ve clung to from the past
Is overalls and yes, I know,
Their “coolness” factor’s passed.

With all their buttons, they’re a pain
To get into or out of,
But they’re extremely comfortable,
A fact there is no doubt of.

I actually own three pairs –
Two denims, one of green.
They work in weather hot or cold
Or even in-between.

I rarely wear them anymore -
They’re mostly tucked away;
But something made me grab them
And I’m wearing one today.

So if you spot a chick
Who looks a farmer wannabe
In the middle of the city,
There’s a chance it might be me!

Uprooted

I used to rock my baby
‘Neath an overhanging tree
Which grew right by the river,
Just a block or two from me.

Its leafy boughs provided shade
To my most favorite bench,
A haven in the city
Where a new mom could entrench.

In recent years, those branches
Formed a bower where I’d rest,
To read or write a poem or two,
With breezes that caressed.

For more than thirty years, that tree
Has stood there like a friend.
I never ever thought I’d see
Its life abruptly end.

This morning, though, I passed that spot
And noticed too much sky.
The tree is gone, a fact my brain
Was dying to deny.

It isn’t worth it to protest;
The awful deed is done.
No more will strollers have a place
Of shelter from the sun.

But so much more than summer shade
This neighborhood has lost.
When roots are wrested from the ground,
To me, a line’s been crossed.

City Windows

Windows in apartment buildings
Gaze out at the city,
Taking in those urban views,
Both bustling and gritty.

Some have curtains, some have blinds,
Others show off shades,
Hiding the inhabitants
And all their escapades.

From the outside looking in,
You simply cannot tell
What goes on behind that glass,
And that is just as well.

If eyes are windows to the soul,
As I have often heard,
That metaphor applied to homes
Would really be absurd.

For every city dweller
Lives with panes to see outside,
Those windows often covered up,
A haven meant to hide.

A country curtain lets us peek
To see what life’s about,
But city windows have one job –
To keep those peepers out!

Two Deaths

Margaret Thatcher died
And so did Mouseketeer Annette.
Just one of them is somebody
I never could forget.

For she was part of childhood,
In my home, just like a friend,
Until she disappeared
When Mickey Mouse Club had to end.

Her movies didn’t thrill me;
Seems like boys liked them the best,
Which made me wish that someday
I’d have something like her chest.

I never did; yet she remains
A vision from my youth,
A Mouseketeer forever
(Not my favorite one, in truth).

So Thatcher’s long obituary
Wasn’t one I read.
Annette’s, which brought me to my past,
Was what I read instead.

Punctuation

Morning is a question mark –

Serenity or drama?
Afternoon's a semi-colon,
Period or comma.

If the day’s routine,
You'd list its parts behind a colon:
Ordinary expectations
Keep those hours rollin'.

Hyphens give one pause, though things
May not be out of joint.
What you must be careful of's
The exclamation point.

For this little bugger
May show anger, joy or fear.
Many people would prefer
It never would appear.

Punctuation rules the day
And shows us what we've got.
Nighttime comes and then we're left
With dot and dot and dot...

Unbroken Rules

I’ll bet that you will never see
A follower of rules like me.

While others speed as lights turn red,
I’ll brake and sit and wait instead.

I will not sample grape or gummy;
Only paid food hits my tummy.

Never will I cut a line;
Like all wusses, I’ve no spine.

Chutzpah is a trait I lack;
Nervousness is more my knack.

Rules are made for fools like me,
A modern-day anomaly.

Broken Rules

I think that I will never see
A rule unbroken; disagree?

Traffic laws, command for games;
Making false insurance claims.

Ten commandments, trespass signs;
People cutting checkout lines.

Litterers and all molesters;
Scammers cheating lame investors.

Those who simply won’t comply;
Laws for them just don’t apply.

Rule creators can’t persuade
Some that rules should be obeyed.

Brown Thumb

Bought myself a cactus plant
With flower on the top,
Such a dazzling orange
It seems phony, like a prop.

Set it on my windowsill
So light and air will fill it;
Wonder how long it’ll take
Before I start to kill it.

Manhunt!

Close the city! Stop the cars!
Folks should stay inside
While the police determine where
The bomber chose to hide.

Shut the airport! Halt the trains!
Cancel all you’ve planned;
There’s a madman on the loose,
So all should understand.

If I lived near Boston, though,
I think I’d be annoyed.
All the day’s appointments
Would instead be null and void.

Better safe than sorry
Is what’s said while he is sought,
But patience must be wearing thin
Until this guy is caught.

A Drink Before Dinner

Every night before he ate,
My Zayde* had a drink,
A shot glass filled up to the brim
With whiskey – rye, I think.

His hands were shaky, but I swear,
He never spilled a drop;
And while we watched him lift that glass,
All else would simply stop.

That drink would mark the passage
Of the daytime into night,
A celebration of the fact
He’d made it through all right.

That’s my interpretation,
Though it’s possible, of course,
He drank because he liked a buzz
And whiskey was its source.

No matter why he did imbibe,
I’ve kept with the tradition,
Although I lean towards beer or wine,
My drinking definition.

I sometimes think of Zayde
As I’m downing my first sip,
And think that he’d approve
As long as I don’t waste a drip.

*my great-grandfather

City Crawler

Early morning, city street,
Glancing down around my feet,
There, as if upon a trail,
Sat a tiny little snail.

How he got there, I don’t know;
Snails and cities just don’t go.
Still, somehow, he made his crawl
Smack inside an urban sprawl.

Though I thought to move him to
A safer place to see him through,
I opted not to interfere
With fate, which must have brought him here.

Either he’ll survive or not;
I believe he has a shot,
Though New Yorkers, I’ll admit,
Don’t like creatures slow as _ _ it!

Eye of Newt

Terrorism conjures fear
Like witches stir a brew.
Both have dire circumstances
When the day is through.

Bombs that blow and planes that crash
From devious devices
Are the modern eyes of newt,
Which crones toss in as spices.

Panic percolates and boils
And fills our souls with dread.
Beefing up defenses
Makes us paranoid instead.

Terrorists plant seeds of doubt
Which worm inside the core.
Like a sip of poison,
There’s no need to do much more.

For when that fear’s inside us,
He who conjured it must grin
And cackle like the hag who knows
Her potion’s lodged within.

Mayhem at the Marathon

The world is filled with wackos;
How horrible and sick
To plant some bombs and walk away –
What makes such people tick?

What satisfaction can be gained
By knowing you’ve destroyed
So many lives? A question
That would even stymie Freud.

A joyous day, the marathon;
For Boston, it’s supreme –
The runners at the finish line
In constant steady stream…

Then boom! A bomb explodes,
A second following behind,
To permanently shatter
Everybody’s peace of mind.

We watch the images repeat
And just like J.F.K.
Or 9/11, we get hooked
And cannot look away.

I guess the bomber’s purpose, then,
Like those who’ve gone before,
Is playing puppet master –
Only that and nothing more.

But people aren’t puppets
So if evil’s got the strings,
There’s no end to the heartache
That his awful action brings.

UFOs

Until the day we know for sure,
Flying crafts will make us think
Outer space has beings who
May seem to be a missing link.

Unidentified is what
The people who’ve had sightings claim.
Many wackos hope “abduction”
Will bring them desired fame.

Still, it’s something to consider –
If such objects do appear
And their occupants surpass us,
Why would they be stopping here?

Surely there are other planets
More appealing, which is why
UFOs, if they exist,
Would more than likely pass us by.

Eenie Meenie

Eenie meenie miney mo –
Make a choice and let it go.
Don’t let indecision grow.
Eenie meenie miney mo.

Once you’ve settled on your pick,
Do not waffle – let it stick.
Just look forward – that’s the trick;
Give regrets a giant kick.

Eenie meenie miney mo –
Don’t let all your worries show.
You’ve decided – let it go!
Eenie meenie miney mo.

After a Trip

You look at your pictures back home from a trip
And somehow it doesn’t quite seem
You really were there, with that smile on your face –
You’d swear it was only a dream.

Yet there is the proof, in each pose you peruse –
The scenery gorgeous and clear.
The photos are tip of the iceberg, somehow –
The same goes for each souvenir.

You cannot recapture the way that you felt –
Sensations each sight did provoke;
Vacations, like dreams, are quite real when you’re there
But returning, they vanish like smoke.

You print up the pictures or fashion a book
And do all you can do to remember;
Each image, like fire, though, once so intense,
In the end fades away to an ember.

Teacher's Pet

In every class I’ve taken yet
There’s one who longs to be
A brown-nose, suck-up teacher’s pet
And man, it bothers me!

The one who always answers first
Or quickly volunteers
To hand out what must be dispersed
Ahead of all her peers.

The one who helps the teacher out
With every chore and mission;
Whose smiles are phony, there’s no doubt,
Just like a politician.

The one who needs the spotlight’s glow
And thus, appears quite greedy;
But more than likely, that’s not so –
She’s probably just needy.

Yet from the teacher’s point of view,
That pet makes life real easy.
The rest of us, however, find
Such actions really cheesy.

Dem Bones

Inside every one of us,
A skeleton resides.
Unless exposed by X-rays,
It’s protected and it hides.

The thin among us feel its bones,
Reminding us it’s there;
While those of pillowy proportions
Know it’s tucked somewhere.

In med school, students learn the names
Of every single bone.
On Halloween, a skeleton
That dances might be shown.

But other times, we all forget
That underneath our skins,
We all resemble one another,
More alike than twins.

My (Almost) Orange Hat

I wandered in the hat store
And there it boldly sat –
Bedecked with bright white flower –
A cheerful orange hat.

Once on my head, it beckoned,
Quite jauntily, indeed,
Attracting more attention
Than a person’d really need.

My husband did encourage;
The salesgirl said – it’s you!
But everything has negatives
And this one had a few –

Like, who knows when I’d wear it
And there’s so much it won’t match;
I guess for every purchase
There’d most likely be a catch.

And so I turned and left,
My hat remaining in the store.
Since I was on vacation,
I can’t get there anymore.

Regret’s a foolish feeling,
More malignant than benign;
And what a fool I was to leave
That hat that should be mine!

Jellyfish

Like pulsing poufs of gossamer,
They float beneath the sea,
With tentacles a'trailing -
Could such creatures really be?

From minuscule to eight feet long,
They glide and luminesce.
How long they live and how they die
Is anybody's guess.

They have no brains or hearts, and yet
They're graceful, smooth and cool;
But with their stinging tentacles,
Their prey would call them cruel.

Today at the aquarium,
I watched them blob and drift,
A mesmerizing spectacle,
Which felt just like a gift.

I'll never get below the waves
To see them out of tanks,
So Monterey's Aquarium
Deserves my deepest thanks.

An Insider's Eye

Touring as a tourist
You can only get so far.
The guidebooks give the highlights
So you know just where they are.

But if you have a cousin
Who's a local, as do I,
You get to see the city
From a real insider's eye.

The neighborhoods, so varied,
Every hill and all the views,
Presented on a platter
I could patiently peruse.

The ocean with its fury
And the fog around the bay,
Seen with someone who resides there
Leave impressions that will stay.

Though I've traveled lots of cities
With just books to be my guide,
It's a privilege to have access
To an eye that sees inside.

Visiting Alcatraz

Visiting a prison
Gives a tiny little taste
Of how a convict takes his life
And has it all erased.

From walking in the open air
To confines of a cell
Must feel like stepping off a cliff
Into a living hell.

No privacy or room to move,
No access to the sky;
Each prisoner must sit and ask
Himself one question - why?

For nothing could be worth the price
That person's gone and paid,
As memories of friends and family
Slowly start to fade.

Though Alcatraz is empty now,
So many jails are filled,
The penance for assorted crimes
And vengeance for those killed.

If criminals could only see
The future they might face,
Perhaps they wouldn't find themselves
In such a somber place.

Wine Country

Never been to Tuscany
But when it comes to wine,
Napa and Sonoma
Are a substitute just fine.

Even on a rainy day,
The rows of endless vines,
Combined with verdant hills
Create magnificent designs.

At every winery, you sip
And sample, sniff and taste;
What you don't like, they simply toss -
A necessary waste.

I wonder what they do with all
Those rejects in that bucket.
Of course, they say - end of the day,
They take that wine and chuck it.

But maybe when the tourists leave,
They bottle what was tossed
And sell it as a "special blend"
At some expensive cost.

So think of that when next you sip
And when those thoughts appear,
Just follow my example - say,
"I think I'll have a beer!"

Muir Woods

People bat these words around -
Majesty and grace;
Yet it's hard to find them both
Embodied in one place.

I've gazed at snow-capped mountains,
Seen that Canyon, truly Grand;
And loved Sedona and the red rocks
Of that native land.

But when I saw the redwoods
Jutting straight into the sky,
No words could paint that picture
So I will not even try.

I will repeat majestic, though
And that will have to do,
For once you see those trees
I think that you'd be humbled, too.

Reunion

Met a nice pair on an Ireland tour;
They were a pleasure to know.
With 3,000 miles in between our two homes,
The friendship could not really grow.

Yet here we are now on a visit out west;
Six years have flown by since we met.
My husband suggested we give them a call -
Who knew what response we would get?

The answer is one of delight and surprise
And so we met at a museum.
The years in between seemed to melt like a dream
And we were so happy to see 'em.

We caught up and schmoozed and went out for a meal.
We toasted our meeting with wine;
For coming together, as strange as it seems,
Is part of some lofty design.

We said our goodbyes with a powerful hug,
A heartfelt expression of Zen.
It was a reunion both wistful and sweet,
For we might never see them again.

A Balm

I’m flying ‘cross the country
From the east to western coast
To cure a touch of wanderlust
That I self-diagnosed.

It’s great to visit places
Unlike where I’ve settled down,
To wander through a different city,
Countryside or town…

To travel to some vineyards,
Try some restaurants and wine;
And trade in my routines
For some adventure by design.

To kick my heels up just a bit,
If only for a week,
Is like a balm to soothe the soul
And that is what I seek.

Headache

Little hammers tapping
In the space behind my eyes
Warn me that there’s more to come
As pain intensifies.

It isn’t quite a migraine –
Likely it’s induced by stress –
Yet that knowledge gives no comfort
Nor does it hurt any less.

Advil often takes the edge off
By providing quick relief;
There are times, though, such a respite’s
Non-existent or too brief.

Headaches all my life have plagued me
So I know that it will fade,
But ‘til then there’s no escaping
All those hammers on parade.