Happy New Year

Happy New Year, fellow Jews!
To others, this may come as news
But 5780's here
As Jewish calendars make clear.

We listen to the shofar's* call
And watch the minutes slowly crawl
Until from temple we retreat
To do what you'd expect - we eat!

Some apples dipped in honey start
The celebration and impart
The sweetness of the year that waits
If what we hope reverberates.

To most, it's just another day
To wallow through, for come-what-may
But if you've heard the shofar's sound,
May all good new year's joys abound!

*a ram's horn, blown on Rosh Hashanah,
the Jewish New Year 

Gender-Neutral Dolls

Barbie and Ken, you can now step aside
For Mattel's bringing new kids to town -
"Creatable World," as the dolls will be called,
In all skin tones from pale to dark brown.

Each doll comes with wigs, both a short and a long
And a wardrobe with skirt, shirt and pants,
So when children are playing, all choices are fine
And no one will be looking askance.

For gender-neutrality now has a place
In the market for fashion and toys
And being inclusive, the experts agree,
Curbs intolerance ere it destroys.

Though researchers found much support for these dolls,
Acceptance remains to be seen.
I myself am confused but I guess they'll be loved
By those children who feel in-between.

The Finger

We're on the highway, middle lane;
Some motorcycles pass.
The car in front slows down; my husband 
Presses on the gas

And eases left, right in the midst
Of Harleys fore and aft,
Not knowing that, in biker world, 
By accident, we'd gaffed.

We soon found out, though, for a hand
Shot up with finger thrust
Straight in the air - the middle one,
You've figured out, I trust.

We got the message, loud and clear,
And ceded them their lane
For choppers seem to rule the road;
That finger made it plain.

Floating Smile

A smile was floating in the sky 
Before the sun broke free.
I hope that others noticed it
Aside, of course, from me.

For such a sliver of the moon
Is magical and rare,
With just a hint of what we know
Is hanging, hidden, there.

The early morning risers
Who look skyward from the street
May, from time to time, be in for,
Like today, a happy treat.

Waiting at Pier 11

Helicopters hover;
Boats bounce on the waves.
Seagulls swoop and pigeons strut;
A toddler misbehaves.

Tourists take their selfies;
Cars in traffic crawl.
New construction blocks the sky 
With buildings thin and tall.

Water laps the pilings;
Clouds conceal the sun.
Another session waiting
For the ferry has begun. 

Oh, to Meter!

I have a friend I’ve never met.
She lives real far away and yet,
For her I have a great affection;
There’s an absolute connection.

If I passed her on the street,
We likely wouldn’t get to meet
For how she looks, I have no clue;
Her avatar will have to do.

And since that is a dragonfly,
It won’t help me identify
This poet from the Isle of Man
I’ve come to treasure, dear sweet Jan.

Her verses are a joy to read,
The humour almost guaranteed
And many on the Soup receive
Supportive comments she does leave.

We Soupers are a lucky crew
But if you’re in the favored few
Who call Jan Allison a friend,
You’ll understand the poem I’ve penned.

Police Boats

There’s a police boat on the river
With a flashing bright blue light
Keeping watch to guarantee this week
That all will be all right.

For the General Assembly’s
Taking place at the U.N.
And if trouble happens, no one knows
The where, the how or when.

So the cops and even Coast Guard
On the water do patrol
With the safety of the delegates
Their one abiding goal.

Yet I cannot help but wonder
If they think there is a chance
That some bad guys would attack
Via that watery expanse.

Guess they’re covering the bases
For you never can be sure
Though those boats with police and weapons
Don’t make me feel more secure.

Off the Grid

I never travel anywhere
Without my book at hand
For jotting down my daily poem,
No matter what I’ve planned.

For likely I will have a thought
I must commit to rhyme
And therefore I must be prepared
At any place and time.

My little book must fit inside
The shoulder bag I tote,
Along with sharpened pencils
To preserve the words I note.

I keep an eye out looking for
More books to fit the bill,
A task that, most surprising,
Isn’t easy to fulfill.

For just today, I came upon
Some notebooks in a stack
With varied colored covers
Small and portable to pack.

Alas, though, where I’d hoped for lines,
On every page, instead,
Were tiny boxes, in a grid,
An unappealing spread.

I wonder who would choose to write
On all those mini-squares,
Just waiting to entrap some words
And catch them unawares.

A Peek into the Past

Passing trees with gauzy nests
Of caterpillars hanging down
Jars a memory that rests
Within the folds of brain cell town.

My dad and all the neighbor men,
With flaming torches, did attack
Those selfsame sacs so ne’er again
Would gypsy moths be coming back.

We children gathered ‘round to gape
As fiery clumps fell from the trees,
A happening which helped to shape
A reminiscence there to seize.

The dads, the dusk, the shadows cast,
The neighborhood community
Unlocks a peek into the past
To visit with impunity.

Pumpkin

There's pumpkin coffee, pumpkin bread,
Pumpkin bagels, pumpkin spread,
Pumpkin muffins, pumpkin pie,
Pumpkin ice cream - my, oh, my!

Pumpkin donuts, pumpkin beer, 
Pumpkin pancakes and, I fear,
Soon there will be, oh my gosh,
Pumpkin soap with which to wash.

Everywhere's that pumpkin scent 
Reminding us what's evident -
Summer's heeded its last call
For pumpkin flavors herald fall.

Underneath the Surface

Certain feelings may be better
If they're left inside.
Public airings don't allow
Emotions room to hide.

People may peruse my poems 
And think they know me well 
But underneath the surface 
Sometimes hidden demons dwell.

The day is bright and sunny
And no aches or pains abound 
Yet instead of being lifted up, 
I'm rooted to the ground.

Sans Socks

The day’s a little chilly
(This touch of autumn rocks!)
Yet I will not capitulate
By putting on some socks.

The sun is brightly shining,
But on my bedroom floor
My sandals wonder why they haven’t
Made it out the door.

Though technically, it’s summer,
The temps did make me choose
A pair of canvas loafers
As today’s best pair of shoes.

Yet still, I’m just not ready
For my ankles to retreat.
They’ll enjoy some last hurrahs,
A celebration of de-feet!

Pre-Approval

If something needs to be approved,
The answer, it would seem,
Should be yes or no, unless, of course,
You’re living in a dream.

And that is where I am today
For logic’s been removed
When prescriptions can’t be filled because
They are not pre-approved.

Will someone please explain that “pre?”
It doesn’t make much sense
For a doc to justify the drugs
She’s chosen to dispense.

Insurance is supposed to help
Offset the patient’s cost
But with “pre-approval” jargon,
Some translation has been lost.

The Laundromat

In another lifetime, I was there
As sudsy clothes, a’jumble,
Went round and round until removed
In damp and twisted tumble.

Into the dryers they would go
While I just sat there, reading,
To help the time go by so boredom
Skulked away, receding.

When dry, the folded sheets and such
Into my cart were nestled
And schlepped to my apartment,
Up five flights I daily wrestled.

We moved within a year to where
Our building’s basement hosted
A bevy of machines to which
An elevator coasted.

Yet when I pass the laundromat
There’s surely no debating
That I don’t miss those days of carts
And inconvenient waiting.

Reading the Reviews

I planned to see a movie,
But checked out the reviews
To determine if it was a film
About which they’d enthuse.

The site I often go to,
Which has many a critique,
Gave a rating so abysmal
That in volumes it did speak.

Though of course my thoughts might differ
All the evidence implied
That my hours in that theater
Would leave me dissatisfied.

So I’m glad that their appraisal
And the info that I’ve gotten
Did prevent me wasting time on
A tomato judged as rotten.

Holding Court

She sits inside the coffee shop,
Each morning, when I pass,
Right up in front, the seat the same;
I see her through the glass.

Her hair is short and silver white
And sometimes she’s alone,
Her laptop on the table
Or she’s talking on the phone.

At other times, companions
Share her table and they chat
In animated fashion,
I suppose of this or that.

I’ve got to give her credit
For she’s there most every day,
Her special place awaiting her
From where she’ll hold her sway.

I wonder what would happen
If somebody claimed her seat.
I have a strong suspicion
The usurper would retreat.

The Last Half Hour

A long long day of ups and downs,
Of tension laced with smiles and frowns
Including, too, a birthday bash
(Six years flown by, like in a flash).

The children climbed and raced around;
Exhilaration did abound.
In conversations I engaged
As stress and agita assuaged.

The hours ticked by, the pizza served;
The candles blown, good-byes observed.
We helped bring home the food and cake
But just before we made our break

A small request to stay outside
At dusk just couldn’t be denied –
A game of tag with varied rules;
We circled ‘round like crazy fools.

The last half hour made the day
For such delight infused the play
Of nana and the birthday boy,
Connecting with unfettered joy.

Debatable

In one straight line across the stage,
Of varied temperament and age,
The Democratic hopefuls spoke
To rouse supporters or provoke.

They disagreed in certain ways
And rarely gave each other praise 
But tried to prove, to all who heard,
That they could get the country stirred.

By turns dynamic and laid-back 
Each other's views they did attack 
While all who watched were left to wonder
Who would rise and who would blunder.

Still, one or two will hit the stump
With just one goal - defeating Trump.

Walking to School

I watch the children walk to school
With parents at their sides,
Engaged in conversation
As they march with matching strides.

But when those offspring say goodbye
And leave their parents’ realm,
They step into a world with
Someone different at the helm.

They’ll be exposed to rules and thoughts
Unlike the ones they know,
Contributing to who they’ll be
As they mature and grow.

That morning walk is bittersweet
For it’s the very start
Of heading towards the future
When their paths will have to part.

This Date

This date is seared upon the brain
And there it always will remain.
No matter what you’d like to bet,
You won’t (and never should) forget.

The ceremonies on TV
No longer feel required to see
And yet, the mind can’t help relive
An act so many can’t forgive.

The bright blue sky today reminds
Us of the fact that sorrow binds
For whether we were there or not,
Our hearts all share an empty spot.

An Afternoon with Friends

The weather gods were smiling
As we five old friends did meet,
Providing us with catch-up hours
To stroll, to schmooze, to eat.

We sat outside for lunch
And had a lovely river view,
Exchanging news and photos
Of the grandkids, one brand-new.

A leisurely meander
Followed all along the shore,
With flowers blooming better
Than they ever have before.

The beauty of the city
And some time with friends combined
To create an afternoon that seemed
Quite magically designed.

Topless

On a public beach, they sat,
An ordinary pair
Of middle age, content, it seemed,
To soak some sunshine there.

Her rolls of flab revealed the fact
That half of her was nude,
Her breasts quite unencumbered,
Though her reasons did elude.

Was tanning her objective
Or perhaps a cooling breeze
Which a bathing suit would hinder
Or did digging straps displease?

Or just maybe she went topless
‘Cause her body made her proud
Or, most likely, just because the law
Says that it is allowed.

Needles and Pins

Watching your fave
In the closest of matches
Feels like having an itch
With no way to make scratches.

You sit there on needles
And pins on your seat
Hoping that his opponent
Will suffer defeat.

The crowd starts to cheer
As the underdog inches
Much closer to winning;
They hope that he clinches.

Yet you cling to hope
With your stomach in knots.
If your fave doesn’t win
You believe you will plotz.*

The minutes tick by
And you can’t comprehend
That the match may not go
How you want it to end.

*to be overcome by strong emotion (Yiddish)

PS - My fave, Rafael Nadal, made my night by
winning the US Open Tennis tournament in 5 sets!

Walking in Someone's Shoes

Other people's problems
May be worse than yours or not,
A question of perspective
Which those outside haven't got.

It really isn't possible
To walk in someone's shoes 
Because the paths they follow
Wouldn't be the ones you'd choose.

We're stuck with our own hurdles 
Which we'll either crash or clear,
Struggles harder to surmount
Than how to others they appear.

The Bug Carousel

Henry picked a ladybug;
Hadley chose a fly.
Mine was striped but not a bug
I could identify.

Up and down and round and round,
With music jangling on,
We rode the carousel until
The time we had was gone.

Grandpa took the photos;
Nana thought up rhymes
And had to ride, on different bugs,
With Hadley two more times.

Closed

So many local stores have closed
It’s not the way that I supposed
The neighborhood would look today;
It feels more like I went away

And landed in a different place
Where unseen beings did erase
Familiar shops and theaters, too,
Replacing them, at least a few,

With chains you can find anywhere.
The local flavor isn’t there,
Yet brand-new tenants in the ‘hood
Will flock, as builders knew they would,

To shop there, spending endless hours
Furnishing their tall glass towers.
Time flies on, but more and more
I miss the way things were before.

New York Fast

I go to bed early;
Can’t drink too much wine.
They offer me seats on the bus.
(I decline.)

But when I’m out walking
I am unsurpassed
And proud that my gait
Still remains New York fast.

I zigzag past tourists
And step off the curb
When someone’s slow pace
Right in front does perturb.

I’m not in a rush
But the way that I move
Is how New Yorkers do it
When they’re in the groove.

So outta my way
And prepare to be passed
For as long as I’m able,
I’ll be New York fast!

Tuesday Evening

The barbershop is buzzing;
My guy is running late.
At home, my dinner’s waiting;
I am hungry, which I hate.

The traffic out the window
Zips by quickly, heading home.
I sit and watch the city breathe
And write my daily poem.

Grandiose Ideas

In the middle of the night
When I can’t get back to sleep
All these grandiose ideas
In my wired brain do creep.

I will clean out all my closets.
I will rearrange each drawer.
I will freshen up the furniture
And spiff up the décor.

I will organize my poetry
To fit into a book
And the children’s tale I’ve started
Will get more than just a look.

I will sit and read the travel guides
I’ve purchased for a trip.
I will self-impose some discipline
And really crack the whip

In the morning, though, reality
Comes crashing with a thwack.
The enthusiasm 2 a.m.
Inspires won’t come back.

This Isn't the Poem

This isn’t the poem that I wanted to post –
I wrote that one while in a huff.
I meant every word of it, held nothing back
But there’s no need to hear all my guff.

Perhaps “oversensitive” is how I am
Though as years pile on up I’m convinced
That the way that I feel is so rightfully real
That describing words need not be minced.

We all have our own methods of blowing off steam
And some happenings seem to ignite
Deep inside me the need to explode just a bit
In the way I know best – so I write.