Light and Dark

Three sisters used to babysit 
Back when my kids were small.
It's years since I have thought of them
But some things I recall.

Josephine, the eldest,
Was both gentle and subdued.
She liked to keep the lamps down low
To keep a peaceful mood.

Lydia, the youngest,
Was an energetic sort.
Each bulb was set to blazing
Like a night-time tennis court.

And Henrietta, in-between,
Was full of smiles and fun.
Some lights were on for brightness,
But not every single one.

My husband is like Josephine,
Preferring rooms near-dark,
While I resemble Lydia,
Her choices on the mark.

When we're both home we compromise 
And just so no one's pissed,
We tap our Henrietta;
Light and dark thus coexist.

The Polar Vortex

They hope to scare us, talking of
This dreaded arctic air.
The weather stations hype it up
With warnings of “Beware!”

Like Harry Potter’s Voldemort,
Whose name they wouldn’t say,
This Vortex shouldn’t be announced,
To keep our fears at bay.

Yet tales of Minnesota temps
Of minus 54
Convince us that we shouldn’t even
Venture out the door.

The irony is that it seems
That once this freeze has fled,
It will be 54 above
Within the week ahead.

Best Actor

Reviewers didn’t love it
But of all the films I’ve seen,
My very favorite told the tale
Of Freddie and of Queen.*

Sometimes actors who are special
Can embody, on the screen,
Personalities so perfectly
There is no in-between.

So though I know Rami Malek
Starred in every single scene,
Freddie Mercury was there
On every stage or limousine.

Which is why I really get it
When the judges do convene,
That the honors for best actor
Go to…(you know who I mean!)

*Bohemian Rhapsody

Postcards

How cool to get a postcard!
For someone took the time
To buy one, write it, stamp it
And then send it. Sometimes I’m

Away and make the effort,
But often I do not.
It’s easy to tell everyone
That somehow you forgot.

With FaceTime, Skype and Twitter,
The postcard seems so quaint.
The person who would bother, though,
Will not get one complaint.

The fact that someone thought of you
While off on a vacation
And put it into writing is
Beyond all expectation.

Busting with News

While watching some tennis, my telephone rang;
My grandson was busting with news. 
My son asked, “You watching the Open?” I was,
But a phone call I couldn’t refuse.

I heard the instructions, “Now Henry, don’t tell,
‘Cause Nana is watching the match.”
He solemnly promised and got on the phone
With a message he had to dispatch.

“Your favorite, Nadal, was a loser today!”
I heard my son’s “Henry!” and laughed.
From anyone else, I might grumble a bit
About spoilers and getting the shaft.

But some slack can be cut when a grandchild’s involved
And in truth, Rafa’s playing was poor;
Plus, what better way is there to get some bad news
Than from someone you simply adore?

Purple Lows

An overwrought poem, I suppose
Might go florid describing a rose
But there’s something much worse
Than an overblown verse –
It’s the mind from which flows purple prose.

(written for a contest about the color purple)

Billy Joel

The younger moms outside ballet 
Discuss what's in their lives today.
Compare and share's their major goal;
Today, the topic: Billy Joel.

They've been to concerts, know each song;
I'm sure once there they sing along.
I also am a fan and yet
There's something that I just don't get.

For Billy Joel has lived more years
Than I have, though in age we're peers.
Yet in their 30's, all these gals
Talk Billy-talk as if they're pals.

Good music, though, of course is meant
For all, with age not relevant.
Still, these same women glance my way
And based on age, have naught to say.

Relentless

Relentless raindrops ricochet 
And race in rivulets,
Creating perfect puddles
Boots will trounce with no regrets.

It's rare that such intensity
Will keep up at this pace,
Reminding us that Nature
Likes to put us in our place.

So bring it on and let it pour -
The windshield wipers work 
And with umbrellas there's no need
From planned events to shirk.

The rain, relentless though it seems,
Eventually will slow
And we can thank our lucky stars -
At least it isn't snow!

Pinchas Gutter

Pinchas lives in the museum
Where I volunteer.
His hologram is what I mean
That helps him to appear.

A Holocaust survivor
Born in 1932,
His family shared the fate expected
By each Polish Jew.

But Pinchas lived and always will;
Technology ensures it
And interactive software
By a research team secures it.

Nine hundred questions he was asked,
With cameras recording,
Resulting in a project
Both amazing and rewarding.

For visitors can thus “converse”
And Pinchas tells his story,
Reality more powerful
Than myth or allegory.

Pinchas is a teaching tool
But feels more like a friend
And by his presence we can learn
That hope may yet transcend.

World Cruise

A fat brochure arrived today:
Come book a world-wide cruise
For 2021; Come on!
What have you got to lose?

You get two choices, based on length –
One hundred sixty-one
Or just one hundred forty days
Of sailing in the sun.

The cheapest stateroom’s fifty-three,
That’s thousands; for a pair,
Just double that. The better rooms
Accelerate from there.

The owner’s suite, for two,
Adds up to (gasp!) three-forty thou.
Does such a number sound obscene?
The answer is, “And how!”

To visit ports around the globe,
There’s so much you can see,
But reading the brochure, I thought,
“Why was this sent to me?”

Penguin Parents

Two penguin parents and their chick
Are bringing people ‘round
To ogle at their lifestyle
And the happiness they’ve found.

Australians are delighted
At the airing of this tale
For the parents, Sphen and Magic,
Are both penguins who are male.

Their obvious affection
Led their keepers to decide
To entrust them with an egg
Neglectful parents did provide.

They built a nest and alternated
Sitting ‘til it hatched,
Each spending near a month, a time
No other penguins matched.

Though humans often battle
Over whether gays should wed,
They should look to Sphen and Magic,
Seeing what their love has bred.

Measles

Measles, mumps and chicken pox,
Insidious diseases,
Were all a part of childhood,
Paired with earaches, strep and sneezes.

But that was many years ago
And scientists have found
The vaccinations needed
So those germs won’t get around.

Except in some communities
Where parents do refuse
To inoculate their children
Due to controversial views.

So new cases of the measles,
Once now gone, have reappeared
And now hundreds are infected,
Which the health officials feared.

To the anti-vaccinators,
With your self-indulgent ways,
You’re infringing on your neighbors;
Sometimes selfishness betrays.

No Swimming

Henry blew off swimming 
But was scheduled to go.
Daddy wasn't happy 
So of course he let him know.

We're here to spend the weekend
While his mommy is away,
So ultimately only Daddy
Has the final say.

If he stuck to his decision,
Henry had to make a choice -
Give up something, maybe Nana -
Hearing this, he found his voice.

"No, I will not give up Nana!"
Daddy, hearing that, agreed,
So his tablet and some special books 
Were items he did cede.

Still, he stuck to what he wanted
And avoided swimming chills
Though he may regret it later
At the time his tablet fills.

But to me, it was amazing
That I played a little part 
In the bargain, for my grandson
Proved I'm tucked inside his heart.

Nyah! Nyah!

When Nancy told Donald to wait
For his speech on a different date
He was naturally riled 
And, like any young child,
He responded by throwing his weight.

So he canceled the trip she had planned 
To see troops in a faraway land.
For the place where he's at
Has no tit without tat
And he has to prove he's in command.

Many children outgrow nyah nyah ways
But some carry them all of their days.
It's disheartening, though,
That such venom should flow,
Leaving all who read news in a daze.

The Salters

They filled the barrows up with salt,
Preparing for the snow
And pushed them on the walks and ramps
Where passengers will go.

A sprinkle here, a sprinkle there,
By hand or by machine,
To coat the surfaces to keep
The pathways nice and clean.

The sun is out, the sky is blue;
It’s crisp and clear and bright
And yet a storm’s predicted,
Which we’re told will start tonight.

By then I’ll be at home, all safe
And cozily inside
While thanks to salt, the ferry goers
Will not slip and slide.

A Penny's Worth

If thoughts are worth a penny
(Which was once the going rate),
Then those folks who haven’t any
Should just bide their time and wait.

If we factor in inflation,
What we think’s worth so much more
Than the age-old application
Of that passé metaphor.

Still, no matter what they’re paying
To express what’s in our head,
There will still be some displaying
Merely emptiness instead.

Repeating Myself

A poem a day for ten-plus years
So naturally, there’d be
Repeated subjects cropping up,
Since they all come from me.

Of course, some themes require
Ruminations and returns,
Resulting in new verses
Dealing with the same concerns.

Yet at times when I’m done typing
A new entry from my book,
My computer lets me know that
I should take a second look

Since a poem is in existence
With the title I just chose,
So I either must rename it
Or delete it, I suppose.

If that happens, I’ll retitle
For it’s never to the letter
But I end up disappointed
If my former poem is better!

Every Minute

A car goes crash, a baby’s born;
A surgeon makes a cut.
A window opens for some light;
Another one is shut.

A sale is made, a bid is lost;
Investments take a hit.
Some progress happens somewhere,
Quite a lot or just a bit.

The news is great or things are worse
Or hanging in the air.
Decisions may be made or someone
Gives in to a dare.

The mini worlds we live in
Sometimes keep us safe inside,
But life goes on and we can never
Absolutely hide.

Whatever happens happens
To ourselves or to a friend
Or a relative or stranger
But it’s foolish to pretend

That each day and every minute
Something isn’t taking place.
If we’re lucky, we’ll be spared
And have no negatives to face.

The Queen of Clubs

I left the car and on the ground
I was surprised at what I found:
A playing card, with folded crease
And possibly, some tire grease.

The Queen of Clubs was lying there;
The other cards were who knows where.
Did it slip out from in its deck?
There really was no way to check.

Or was it placed with some intent?
If so, I wonder what it meant.
I'll never know, for soon we left, 
The Queen of Clubs still there, bereft.

Somewhere somebody's hopes will crush 
When he can't make a royal flush.

Highway Hawks

Highway hawks perch regally
On branches way up high,
Surveying their surroundings
As the traffic passes by.

No leaves to offer camouflage,
They're easier to see
And heading to New England
Half a dozen I did see.

Though immobile, I imagine
Any second they might swoop,
Plucking rodents from the roadside
Which their talons swiftly scoop.

Glad I'm spared of such theatrics.
I enjoy their haughty pose
Which majestically inspires
Much more poetry than prose.

Biaccidentally

By accident I saw a note
Which had a word I'd never seen.
"Biaccidentally," she wrote.
It caught my eye; what did it mean?

A combination, it appeared 
Of two expressions, I could tell -
"By accident" and what I feared 
Was "accidentally" as well.

A clever hybrid, two words joined,
Creating something new and fresh.
However, not all words get coined
For they'd be better not to mesh.

The Buck Stopped Here

A dentist was having no luck
Because Freddie’s teeth were so buck.
Clearly braces he’d need;
Dad and mom disagreed.
Every argument left them all stuck.

Freddie’s dentist did not intervene,
Giving simple advice – “Keep them clean.”
He deserves some acclaim;
Ipso facto, the same
Jutting teeth sang the lyrics of Queen.

Guessing Game

I must confess I like to guess
(And strictly based on how they dress)
Which people hope that they express
The parts of them meant to impress.

For what folks wear, if you compare,
Is either plus or minus flair
And those who really hope to snare
Attention surely do prepare.

The ones more shy we pass right by;
On neutral colors they rely
To keep the space they occupy
Beyond the public’s prying eye.

Still, I suspect I’m incorrect
Quite often, for a disconnect
May happen from what I expect
And what some clothing might reflect.

Learning from Mistakes

Life is filled with choices
And we pick the ones we get
Though quite often we hear voices
Filled with longing and regret.

We cannot undo decisions
That were carelessly selected
For we’re not allowed revisions
And must stick with those elected.

Still, with much deliberation
We can learn from our mistakes
And provide defibrillation
For the heart that nearly breaks.

So, since time will keep advancing
We must not let hope get lost.
There may yet be cause for dancing
If we keep our fingers crossed.

Cart(e) Blanche

The double checkout line made clear
That if you have a cart,
You join the people on the left
And help to do your part

To move the lines much faster.
If a basket you do hold,
The right-hand side is where you go;
The sign is big and bold.

So there I waited; in my basket
Three things I was buying.
My line was long but moving fast,
Most customers complying.

But naturally, a few spots up,
A woman did depart
From courtesy and manners,
For she pushed a filled-up cart.

No store employee sent her back;
Nobody reprimanded
And those of us behind her
Lacked the chops her move demanded.

Some people think that rules exist
But that they are exempt.
Such selfish rude entitlement
Deserves our best contempt.

A Day at the Circus

Elephants and lions,
Even seals have all been banned,
Though dogs and horses focused on
Their trainer’s crisp command.

Clowns, now lacking make-up,
Kept the audience amused
And jumpers on the trampoline
Were crazily enthused.

Trapeze artists soared above
And acrobats displayed
Such strength and balance it appeared
Of other stuff they’re made.

The circus, though it’s different
From the way it used to be,
Still provides a fun-filled outing
For both friends and family.

The Kindergarteners

The doors fly open; racing out
Are kindergarteners, one by one.
With beaming grin, each gives a shout
To those who wait when day is done.

It’s mostly, “Mommy!” sometimes “Dad!”
Depending on who’s standing there
But I am thrilled when I have had
The greeting that’s beyond compare.

For from his lips, a “Nana!” springs,
A childish call of pure delight
That to my heart, such joy it brings,
That it deserves a copyright.

Another year or two, I think,
Before that eagerness does wane,
For innocence, in just a blink,
Will vanish, though I’ll wait in vain.

My Jacket

My jacket's either black or blue -
Does this stuff happen to you, too?
I bought it thinking it was black;
If blue, I wouldn't take it back.

Yet now my scarf and gloves don't match 
If it is navy; that's the catch.
If it is black, then I'm okay;
Its looks change every single day.

To solve this puzzle, I'll be wise 
And splurge when I accessorize 
On choices that will be evolved
To match them both - my problem solved!

January

Just as all beginnings do,
A new year makes its big debut
Necessitating fuss and noise
Until the old year it destroys.
Awaiting, though, a nice clean slate
Reflected in a brand-new date –
Your future yours to help create.

All Rise

I pity those who can’t eat bread
But opt for gluten-free instead
For sourdough with hardened crust
And slathered butter is a must.

A bagel topped with lots of seeds
Is all a body really needs
Or onion rolls that softly squish
To complement most any dish.

A loaf of rye with caraway
Or garlic knots can make my day
And pumpernickel, deeply brown,
Has never ever let me down.

A fresh-baked challah, ripped apart,
Then dipped in sauce – be still, my heart!
Focaccia’s another treat
That must be sad to never eat.

I could go on and on, you know,
Expounding on the joys of dough.
For me, the truth is absolute –
There really is no substitute!

My Calendar

The squares are blank; I jot down all
The birthdays to remember,
From one this week right up until
The last week in December.

I hang it on the wall right where
The old one used to be,
A colorful reminder of
The dates of note to me.

I add appointments, travel plans
And volunteering days,
So rarely do I miss a trick;
Such perseverance pays.

The new year dawns with promise
And with many voids to fill.
My calendar’s a testament
That on most days, I will.