The British

I wonder, as we near the 4^th of July,
If the British take note, with a sonorous sigh,
Regretting the fact of the colonies lost
All those long years ago at a terrible cost.

In light of political forces today,
I think it’s more likely that what they would say
Is, “Whew! We were lucky we cut off those ties
And we thought that their accents were all to despise!”

When It Is Hot

When it is hot, then I am not
Exactly at my best.
When temps do climb, I know that I'm 
Depleted of my zest.

And I will flee humidity
If I can go inside
And pump the air to numbers where
Some coolness can preside.

Let tanners sweat but you can bet
I won't be in the sun 
And I've no guilt for I just wilt
Until the heat wave's done.

The Court

The Court, they report,
Will be coming up short
When Kennedy leaves
(Plans nobody can thwart).

We’ll see who will be
Chosen as nominee,
Surely someone divisive,
I can guarantee.

The fears that appear
From the left will steer clear
Of conservatives’ hopes
That the old days draw near.

This split, I submit,
Means we’ll all take a hit
As the country unravels;
A bad time to quit.

The Thing about a City

The thing about a city is
That it is so diverse.
Each neighborhood’s unique
So visit each one and immerse.

We tend, at home, to stay real close
To where we hang our hats,
But not too far away exist
Divergent habitats.

Just venture from familiar blocks
And give in to the flow.
You’ll be surprised to find
A city you don’t even know.

Privileges and Perks

We're members of the Gardens;
We pay our yearly dues.
Their parking lot, though (15 bucks!)
We have to pay to use.

They toss in several passes
Each year when we renew,
But why make members pay at all?
I haven't got a clue.

This policy is bogus 
And another thing I hate
Is on those chintzy passes
There's an expiration date.  

A membership to something
Should have privileges and perks, 
For what's the use of joining
When that rule no longer works?

A Slice of the City

Here in the park, on my perch in the shade,
A slice of the city is clearly displayed:
A child chasing butterflies (not with success),
Some tree-climbing boys giving branches some stress.

Both big dogs and little, their tails all a’wagging
And nannies with strollers, their energy lagging.
A wheelbarrow pushed by a park volunteer
And kids running freely, with nothing to fear.

Of course, there are sparrows and pigeons galore;
A cardinal, too, which I’ve not seen before
And there on the river, a sailboat glides past
While motorboats churn up a wake, moving fast.

A girl on a scooter, in circles goes ‘round
And wheelchairs and joggers can also be found.
It’s lovely to be here; my day is complete
When I get to spend time in this urban retreat.

You Don't Need

You don’t need fancy toys or food
To entertain your friends or brood,
Just lots of real attention paid
To reinforce connections made.

For love is felt when it goes deep
And every kinship that you keep
Will thrive when nurtured like a plant;
Indifference, though, will disenchant.

Forget the showy gifts and treats.
Affection paired with time completes
Attachments goods cannot replace;
The truth in this we should embrace.

A Weekend with the Grands

First the ride (with kids' CDs)
Then supermarket (mini-cart);
Buying lots of food to please 
Then snacks and playground, for a start.

Books and Curious George on tape,
Dinner, Face-Time Mom & Dad;
From routines a great escape.
What a time we all have had!

Baths and bedtime story, then
Hugs and kiss and cozy tuck;
Next some calm for hours when
Our perfect streak has lost its luck.

One child up who needs attention
(Seems it's not an easy fix). 
If you see me, please don't mention
Age and lack of sleep don't mix.

Breakfast, music, puzzles, playing;
Happy Birthday Daddy call.
Ride to Music Fest and staying
Long enough for smiles for all.

See the water wheel still turning;
Marvel at the way it works.
Home for lunch with time for learning.
(Smart genetics has its perks.)

Visit friends to see their fishes;
Hit the playground once again.
Back for dinner and some wishes
That I'll have the time to pen.

Winding down with books and bingo
And a VCR cartoon.
Two short bedtime tales, then zingo - 
Day is over, none too soon.

For though there has been no blunder
On this weekend on our own,
It's so tiring, I wonder
How we ever raised our own!

Per Pack

When I was a smoker, 50 cents 
Was what I paid per pack.
If I'd a dollar bill, I would
Get half my money back.

Today, while we were getting gas,
I saw there on display
The cigarettes lined up in boxes,
Waiting for their prey.

But I was staggered by the price,
For $13.29
Was the current going rate
And that should be a sign

That smoking isn't worth it -
Just alone due to the cost;
(And that's not even counting
All the lives that have been lost!)

The Pigeons

The pigeons bob their heads and strut
And pause to do some pecking.
Their throaty conversations
Interfere not with their trekking.

A sudden startle sets them
With a flutter in the air.
Ten seconds later they alight,
Unbothered by the scare.

Their iridescent necks dig deep
Into their feathers, scratching,
Perhaps to loosen bugs which likely
Might have been attaching.

The sparrow and the grackles
Let the pigeons do their thing
And neither seem to notice
When the other group takes wing.

Although they’re nicknamed “rats with wings”
(An epithet quite mean),
The pigeons certainly belong
As part of New York’s scene.

That Nice Cape

An older man and I cross paths
Each morning when I walk.
For months there was no contact –
Neither nod nor wave nor talk.

Until last week, when all at once
Our glances did connect.
I smiled and then he nodded;
Recognition, I suspect.

For several days we waved hello.
I thought that would suffice,
‘Til yesterday, when he did say,
“That cape of yours is nice.”

My woolen navy cape I wear
On autumn’s chilly days.
With big gold buttons, it attracts
Its share of glimpse and gaze.

My walking pal was one of those
But filed that fact away
Until the ice was broken
And a lead-in came his way.

We never know just what effect
We have when paths align
And for my new acquaintance
I must thank that cape of mine.

Under the Overpass

My morning walk is sandwiched
‘Tween the river and the road
And I’ve seen a homeless guy there
With a tent as his abode.

Several others sleep on benches
And one slumbers on the ground,
Yet since yesterday a couple
On a mattress can be found.

They were curled up under covers
With no pillows and no sheets
Underneath a concrete overpass
Connecting to the streets.

Though at night it must be private,
In the early morning sun
They were there on view for exercisers
Out to walk or run.

Most just gave a glance and passed them
But I couldn’t help but muse
How they wound up on that mattress,
Not a “bedroom” one would choose.

Life is sometimes cruel and heartless,
Filled with status that appalls
And I felt for that poor couple
Who, at least, deserved some walls.

Fat

Americans are way too fat;
That’s what statistics say,
For 65 percent weigh more
Than what they ought to weigh.

With explanations varied
There is always an excuse
Why, despite a stringent diet,
People’s poundage won’t reduce.

I was once a trifle heavy
And I hated buying clothes;
Every bulge upon my body
Seams and zippers would expose.

Yet I see so many out there
From the plump to the obese
Who, for reasons I can’t fathom,
With their weight have made their peace.

Are they capable of changing?
Though the experts tell us so,
Most will keep on growing bigger;
As to why, we’ll never know.

On Fathers' Day

My husband is a father
And my son’s a dad as well,
A job at which the both of them
Do very much excel.

The one to whom my cards went
Has been gone for many years,
Though love, in all its stubbornness,
Still somehow perseveres.

Of course I think of him today
And though we had to part,
There’ll always be a spot reserved
For him within my heart.

Every Wedding

Every wedding’s different
From the music to the vows,
The venue to the food and drink
And toasts the pair allows.

The table decorations,
The bridal party’s clothes;
The readings at the ceremony
That the couple chose.

The gown, the veil, the flowers,
The photographer and dance;
The thousand details hardly
Reminiscent of romance.

Yet every wedding’s special
And unique to just those two,
Reflecting the decisions
Leading up to their “I do.”

And though you might compare them,
From that walking up the aisle,
All that matters is the way
The bride and groom begin to smile.

For the way they gaze so deeply
Into one another’s eyes
Is the same at every wedding,
Yet it’s always a surprise.

Lake George

I'm sitting on a terrace 
And I'm looking at the lake,
So far from views I mostly see
It seems like a mistake.

This afternoon's a wedding, 
Which is why we made the trip,
And I am glad to be here
Giving my routines the slip.

Of course I miss the grandkids,
For our Fridays make me smile,
But opportunities like this
Come once in a great while.

So I'll savor my relaxing
And the vista in my gaze,
Soaking up the peace and quiet 
On this loveliest of days.

Pre-School Graduation

We weren't privy to Part I
(Just parents were invited)
But Part II was arranged so
No one extra would feel slighted.

The children came up to the stage
In pairs as every teacher
Announced their names and what
They'd like to be, a charming feature.

From astronaut to ninja,
Princess, baseball player, vet,
Even architect (our Henry),
Most will change their minds, I'd bet.

But you never know exactly what 
The future holds in store.
Will Henry's blueprints be the ones
We've all been waiting for?

That crossed my mind and then the children
Sang a little tune
And somehow pre-school's over...
Just a little bit too soon.

Getting Dressed

For the young, getting dressed is a breeze.
They don’t mind showing midriff or knees.
Skirts cut up to the thighs
That might lure strangers’ eyes
Are no bother; they wear what they please.

As we age, though, the mirror decrees
That we bow to the image one sees
And at last recognize
That we must compromise
So my short-shorts have morphed to capris!

The Dressing Room

I gather up a bunch of tops
And go to try them on.
The thought occurs that someday
Dressing rooms might all be gone.

As people order more and more
Online, it’s pretty clear
That stores with all their racks of clothes
Will one day disappear.

So dressing rooms will vanish, too,
Their mirrors and their hooks,
Some privacy provided
To check out how something looks.

I like that time alone in them,
Just me and my reflection,
Assessing every angle
For acceptance or rejection.

Then once I have decided
I hand back what doesn’t suit
And pay for what I want and head home,
Carrying my loot.

Of course, my home has mirrors
So that I can preen and strut
But I’ll miss the room where I discover
Just what makes the cut.

Suicide

Right before a suicide
Might something have been said
To keep that person on this side
Of life, instead of dead?

We hear about the famous ones
Who seemed to have it made,
Yet even they succumbed despite
The talents they displayed.

Inside each person’s head there is
A privileged domain
Which holds a private treasury
Of suffering and pain.

I guess that when it overflows
Its owner cannot cope
And suicide is what takes place
When anguish crushes hope.

Once

Once there was a tennis player*
From a town in Spain.
Ever since he started winning,
Clay was his domain.

As he rose up through the ranks
(He's number 1 today),
Fans would clamor for a glimpse
Of glory on display.

Though injuries and circumstance 
Have sometimes kept him down,
He always seems to reemerge 
To claim an Open crown.

Today he did exactly that
By managing to banish
His opponents at the French,
Numero once,** in the Spanish.

* Rafael Nadal, who just won his 11th French Open
** pronounced with 2 syllables

Give Credit...

The horse just won the Triple Crown;
Hard work and perseverance
Resulted in a victory
With little interference.

The training, grooming, practicing
All led up to the win
And now the celebrations
Must be ready to begin.

The jockey surely earned his pay,
A trophy his reward
But he gave credit, looking up,
To “Dios,” or the Lord.

Acknowledging a deity
Diminishes, to me,
The efforts which have been expended
Exponentially.

And if one’s prayers are answered
When the finish line is crossed,
What does it say to those who prayed
But still, their horses lost?

Self-Check

If you don't want to wait in line,
(Impatience is a trait of mine)
It's time to try (less pain-in-neck)
The registers that say "Self-Check."

You simply scan each item in
And your adventure will begin 
As items roll along the belt
So fast your ice cream will not melt!

Whatever you've found on the shelf,
Of course, you'll have to bag yourself.
For smaller orders, it's a breeze;
Just you alone you have to please.

There is a downside to this, too.
As cashiers go, now, just a few
Will have their jobs once we accept,
Despite our qualms, we're not inept.

Playing Potsy

Some sidewalk chalk, a pebble 
And a grandkid who would play
Set the stage to bring me back
To many years ago today.

I drew the board, explained the rules 
And as we hopped the squares, 
A wave of pure nostalgia
Up and caught me unawares.

Remembering the games I played
With friends on Brooklyn streets,
I realized there are certain things
Well-worth some late repeats.

But who'd a thunk way way back then 
The future would reveal 
A childhood game would, as a nana,
Still have such appeal.

The Manager

The manager has up and quit
Or maybe she’s been fired,
Yet someone thought she’d do the job
And fought to get her hired.

It’s hard to be the one in charge
When others may resent you
But there should be encouragement
From those who hired and sent you.

The reasons why she’s been let go
(Or chose to do the leaving)
Will not be shared and if they were
There might not be believing.

And so we must acknowledge that
Square one is where we’re heading.
The search begins anew - we never
Know what we are getting.

Lines and Wrinkles

I wish that I could just erase
The lines and wrinkles on my face
And also all that sagging skin
That proves which decade I am in.

When women crow, so smug with pride,
About their age, which they won’t hide,
I think, “Yeah, right! I’m really sold
On how much you like looking old!”

I won’t get face-lift surgery
And it would not be perjury
To say that Botox ain’t my thing,
Despite the smoothness it would bring.

So I will bear my aging mien,
Accepting that the senior scene
Is where, at my age, I must be,
But I’d prefer it mirror-free!

The Barber Pole

The barber pole goes round and round,
A relic of the past.
There aren’t many to be found,
A gem not meant to last.

Those jaunty stripes – red, white and blue
Would spiral out in front,
So if your haircut time was due
Then you could end your hunt.

But once you found your barber, you
Knew you would always go
To Lou, like Burt and Joel* would do
Or like my son, to Joe.

For females, poles did not apply.
We wouldn’t have intruded
Upon that lair, though who knows why
We women were excluded.

*my brothers

If You Knew Then

If you knew then what you know now
Who knows what might have been?
You might have landed someplace other
Than the place you’re in.

Your home, your job, your family
Might then be altered, too
And maybe you’d be happier
If you had had a clue.

Yet there’s a possibility,
If years could just reverse,
Another chosen path might then
Have made your life much worse.

So there’s no use in looking back
And wondering what you’d do,
For likely you would choose the same
Despite the things you knew.

Birdsong

My colleagues who were birders 
Could identify the sound
And name the breed of every bird
Whose chirping was around.

It didn't matter if they saw
One feather on its back,
The tweets and twitters said enough
For all the codes to crack.

I do not care which utterance
Emits from any beak.
I listen to the chorus
And enjoy the way they speak...

Especially when counterpointed
With a gentle rain.
When Nature's noises serenade,
There's such a sweet refrain.

Stolperstein (Stumbling Stones)

Of all the memorials I've come across
Acknowledging heartbreak and sorrow and loss,
The stolperstein dotting the streets of Berlin
Have reminded me most of what shouldn't have been.

These bricks made of brass are the work of one man*
Who, as part of a project, came up with a plan
To commemorate victims the Nazis had taken
Away from their homes, where their lives were forsaken.

In English, the "stumbling stones," as they're called,
Are carefully crafted and later installed
In front of the buildings where Jews did reside 
And were forcibly moved though they pleaded and cried.

Each brick (there are thousands) has name, age and date
Of the person who lived there and suffered the fate
Of a horrible torturous lead-in to death;
Inscribed, too, are camps where they took their last breath.

Memorial sculptures and artworks abound
Wherever a Holocaust victim's been found 
But to me, these brass bricks are the most poignant yet
And an image I know I will never forget.

*Guenther Demnig