Seesaws in the City

In the 30’s, right on Broadway,
For a temporary stay,
Are a dozen lit-up seesaws
Meant for passers-by to play.

Once a staple of each playground,
Now a seesaw is so rare 
Many people never saw one
‘Til they spied them waiting there.

But they just can’t be resisted 
So each duo, taking turns,
Shrieks with laughter as they rise,
No thoughts of safety-type concerns.

Oh, the simple joys of childhood
Brought to life as a surprise - 
Head to Broadway, hop on board
And try a seesaw on for size!

Easy

It’s easy to stick to what you know
And go to where you always go
Without those question marks, although
Your world stays rather small.

Yet many are content that way,
Preferring life to always stay
Familiar to them; who’s to say
They’ve made a lesser call?

For as I age, I like that more
But still, I clamor to explore
The lands that wait beyond my door;
There’s no right way for all.

Tiebreaks

A tennis match can go for hours
So what the rules require
Is something called a “tiebreak”
When it gets down to the wire.

When tied 6-6, to end the set
One final game is played,
The players alternating serves
‘Til 7 points are made.

I guess it’s fair; it makes the match
A quicker one to play 
And for the ones who watch, it makes
A shorter time to stay.

Yet in the Aussie Open, Rafa,
Who’s my favorite guy,
Lost 3 sets, all in tiebreaks,
And I’m sure he’s wond’ring why.

If he and Thiem kept playing
And no tiebreaks were allowed 
Rafa might have pulled it off
Before a very tired crowd.

Coyotes in the City

Here’s advice that we’ve received
In case we have a sighting
Of wild coyotes in the park;
The fear has been igniting.

Just raise your arms and stand up tall,
Pretending to be bigger,
For apprehension such behavior
In these beasts may trigger.

Then hopefully they’ll trot away
But if somehow they linger,
Keep pets real close but otherwise
Don’t run or lift a finger.

In Central Park you’ll likely see
A host of squirrels scurry.
A rare coyote sighting, though,
Means wave your arms and worry.

The 2020 Grammys

I almost skipped the Grammys
Thinking nothing would appeal,
But there were some performances
That somehow did reveal

That my mind should still be open
To the possibility
That what I call “thuggy” music
Might sound really good to me.

With Alicia Keyes as host, her smile
Just lighting up the room,
The vibes were so inclusive
Joy had no choice but to bloom.

And the dancers were amazing,
So much energy on stage
That the audience got into it,
No matter what their age.

Though I didn’t relish everything,
I’m glad I had the chance
To experience surprise at what
I’ve always viewed askance.

The Good Side

To some, there is a “good side”
When you’re posing for a pic
And people show their “good sides”
Sometimes trying to be slick.

But if somewhere in Manhattan
Is the place from whence you hark
Then you know the “good side” means one thing –
The side where you can park.

For streets are cleaned 6 days a week
On alternating sides
With posted signs reminding us
To move away our rides.

So for an hour and a half
One side of every street
Is free of cars so sweep machines
Can make their work complete.

Most drivers sit inside their cars
Until the sweepers pass
Then quickly move back to their spots
So fines they won’t amass.

You’re lucky, though, if when you park
You snag a “good side” spot
For then a small reprieve, worth more than gold,
Is what you’ve got.

Black Magic Woman

Listen to the way it starts
For more than any song,
It brings me to the 60’s
Where my young self did belong.

I’m with my friends, a Friday night;
The joint is being passed,
With not a thought inside our heads
Our lifestyle wouldn’t last.

The years fly by, those days are gone,
The memory still sweet
Yet it comes front and center
When I hear those notes and beat.

Santana’s on the stage,
“Black Magic Woman” being played
And I am years away from being
Nana, old and grayed.

Home Sick with My Grandson

Lots of reading, dot to dots,
Gatorade and soup;
Writing lots of lists, at which
I’m not allowed to snoop.

Fruit and snacks with music on,
Mini screen-time break;
Singing made-up songs so there
Is never a mistake.

Energy I didn’t think 
A sick day would include,
But what a joy to spend the day
With this delicious dude!

One Vote Shy

Last year Mariano
Made the Baseball Hall of Fame,
Unanimously, it turned out,
To thunderous acclaim.

This year is Derek Jeter’s turn,
Another Yankee star
And everyone expected him
To reach Rivera’s bar.

But no such luck, for Jeter,
With so many wins and hits,
Got elected with no problem
(Or the fans would throw some fits!)

Yet the vote was not unanimous,
For it was one vote shy
And I’d love to ask the holdout
Just one simple question – why?

If There Were No Poetry

If there were no poetry
Here’s what I think –
The world would flow over
With rivers of…that stuff you put
     in pens and printers.

If poetry somehow
Did cease to exist
The thoughts of all rhymers
Would surely be…just floating around
     in the air with no place to go.

If poems weren’t written
I haven’t a clue
About how I’d express
What I’m feeling…does anyone?

Late

One thing that I really do hate
Is when people are constantly late
For it isn’t a crime
To arrive right on time -
Even early, so no one must wait.

Yet some folks have a glitch in their genes;
Thus, they’re tardy in all their routines.
I have learned to prepare
So when I arrive where
We’re to meet, I won’t make any scenes.

Variety

A meal with lots of choices
Is the kind I like to serve
For everyone will find,
Right from the very first hors d’oeuvre

At least one food that’s tasty
Since variety allows
Some tidbits to remain untouched
While others earn some Wows!

It’s hard to hide displeasure
If the items on your plate
Comprise a gastric palette
Made of victuals you hate.

The choices on my table
All are geared, though, to my taste
So whatever guests don’t finish
Surely will not go to waste.

Reading!

I’ve always read to Henry
From the time he came to be
And 6 years later, I am thrilled
‘Cause now he reads to me!

Waiting for the Snow

According to my phone, the snow 
Is set to start at one, 
Well, 70% the chance 
That it will have begun.

I look outside and wonder
Just how accurate that is.
Predictions sometimes fizzle out 
Despite a weather wiz.

Yet plans get readjusted 
And cancellations spike
All based on when predictors 
Say a storm will likely strike.

It’s probably a foolish thing 
Depending on your phone 
To figure out activities
You maybe should postpone.

Dismissal

We stand outside, in heat or cold 
And one by one, each class
Is marched outside to reunite
With we who wait, en masse.

The teachers watch to match each child 
With parent, sitter or
A nana or a grandpa
Huddled near the exit door.

The children run to give a hug
To those who stand and wait,
The teachers glad their obligations 
They can abdicate.

A Scarf

I always thought a scarf was simply
Meant to warm your neck
And wore one only when I set out
On a winter trek.

But one day, having left mine home,
Just walking several blocks
I shivered from my turtleneck
Right to my woolen socks.

I tried that walk again that day,
My scarf, though, wrapped ‘round tight
And coziness enveloped me;
The wind just couldn’t bite.

So whether yours is store-bought
Or hand-knit by Aunt Sydelle,
A scarf worn on a winter’s day
Will surely serve you well.

Memorial at the Carousel

My brother works at a carousel
In a tiny mountain town
And riders come from near and far
Because of its renown.

It mostly brings out smiles
And occasionally tears
But when the music starts, all trace
Of sadness disappears.

Except at a memorial
When someone local’s died.
The ride begins in silence,
Not a single soul astride.

The mourners stand outside the gate
And watch without a sound
As the animals go up and down
And ‘round and ‘round and ‘round.

Harry and Meghan

Though Harry did marry
The girl of his dreams
That move was contrary
In some ways, it seems.

For royals are loyal
To country and Queen,
Yet tensions did boil;
Life wasn’t serene.

Some trouble did bubble
‘Tween Harry and Will
And Meghan found royalty
Less than a thrill.

Reporters, on orders,
Too, gave them no peace.
Despite their supporters,
Their angst did increase.

In rebuke, both the duke
And the duchess agreed
That the limelight was something
They just didn’t need.

So to cope, what they hope
Is to step down and move
To Toronto, though Buckingham
Might not approve.

There’s debate so we wait
To see how this all ends,
For this “Megxit,” like “Brexit”
Our own lives transcends.

                                  

Curtains

Curtains and Venetian blinds
Or shades of any kind
Block out the sunshine, sometimes
Leaving only gloom behind.

Of course, they offer privacy
To keep out prying eyes
But when they’re shut, they might,
To those inside, demoralize.

In daytime, I want all the light
It’s possible to bring
To fill the rooms where I reside
And shine on everything.

I understand at nighttime,
When some coziness holds sway,
People like to draw their curtains
But I never will, by day.

Empty Nest

My empty nest is filled with stuff
The little birdies left behind.
My friends all think I’m nuts
But for the most part, I don’t really mind.

Without their toys, mementos, books,
Of course, I’d have a lot more space
But cleaning house would mean
That all those memories I would erase.

My nest is small and I could use
The shelves and drawers for other things
Yet what they didn’t take
Reminds me of their youth – what joy it brings!

Kookie

In memory, I stand outside
My parents’ bedroom door
To peek at their TV to see
An actor I adore.

It’s Kookie (Edd Byrnes in real life)
On “Sunset Strip” at night,
Way past my bedtime, which is why
I stood there, out of sight.

He died this week at 86;
The obit with his name
Says he was a “TV heartthrob”
And what brought him instant fame

Were his looks and famous head of hair
Which he would always comb,
Inspiring a song with
Connie Stevens and this poem.

So Kookie, rest in peace.
You’ll never lend your comb again,
Though you were sure “the ginchiest”
Of all the TV men.

The Pre-School Crowd

By the age of 3 or 4
Some traits are set in stone.
Who will be a leader,
Who will spend more time alone.

Who’ll be bossy, who’ll be shy,
Who confident and cool;
Who will linger, who will be
The first one in the pool.

Watch a while the pre-school crowd - 
It’s not like throwing dice -
For you can tell, in life, who will
And won’t be very nice.

City Starlings

Waiting for the light to change
(A busy urban street),
I noticed quite a gathering
Not far from my two feet.

Upon a sewer grate I saw
Some starlings pecking ‘round
Although I didn’t even
See a crumb upon the ground.

Their beaks dipped down, oblivious
To passersby or wheels,
Intent on filling up on what,
To them, comprises meals.

A couple flew away, replaced
By new ones in a flash,
Not plentiful as pigeons but
On city streets, as brash.

Sew What?

My new quilting teacher’s a guy
Which proves why you cannot get by
With presuming you know
Just which person will show
If the course list does not specify.

He’s delightful and knows all his stuff
And his skills appear quite up to snuff.
In his class I can grow
Since this teacher’s a pro
And that knowledge is more than enough.

Hanging Out Clothes

When staying at home hanging out
You’ll find me, without any doubt,
In special attire
Which all should require
When lazing is what it’s about.

Why bother with getting all dressed
When no one will then be impressed?
To be comfy is key
And, if one would ask me,
I’d say sweat pants and t-shirts work best.

Relaxing looks effortless, though,
Here’s a tip one should take from a pro:
Ditch all clothes that constrict
And then all can predict
That good feelings will flourish and flow.

Sirens of Manhattan

The sirens of Manhattan
Make a sound we always hear,
Alerting all pedestrians
And traffic to stay clear.

It’s background noise that city folk
Don’t pay attention to,
The urban version of a field
Of cows all saying, “Moo.”

It doesn’t matter if the sound’s
From ambulance or police
Or fire engine; in a minute,
Urgency will cease.

New Yorkers will not raise their heads
To note the siren’s screech
Unless it stops right where they are,
A safety zone-type breach.

Then curiosity kicks in
And nosiness runs riot
Although, by then, the sirens have
Quite naturally, gone quiet.

At the Helm

It’s comforting to me to know
I always can depend
On something to replace whatever’s
Gotten to the end.

For each liquid soap or tissue box
Or butter, ketchup, bread,
There’s a new one waiting on the shelf
To take its place instead.

When growing up, what I’ve described
Was not the normal case.
If we squeezed out all the toothpaste,
There was none to take its place.

So I guarantee when my supplies
Are getting kind of low,
To the market or the pharmacy
Or stationer’s I’ll go.

We may repeat the lapses
Of our parents in their realm
Or correct what most annoyed us
When at last we’re at the helm.

Perfect Game

World Series, back in '56,
Against the Brooklyn Dodgers,
Will always be remembered
And not just by some old codgers.

For the Yankee pitcher did what none
Had ever done before 
Or since - a perfect game,
With 2 to zip the final score.

Don Larsen was that pitcher
And, at 90, he just died.
His feat's not been repeated
Though some aces surely tried.

The ending, made immortal
In an image that still charms,
Shows the catcher, Yogi Berra,
Leaping into Larsen's arms.

I hope that record always stands,
Indelible in baseball lore -
Perfection in a Series game;
What fan could wish for any more?

Tumbleweeds

A sight that no one really needs 
Is piles and piles of tumbleweeds
But that is what I do believe
Was seen out west on New Year's Eve.

Along a stretch of highway there
Were tumbleweeds beyond compare.
The road was closed for 20 miles, 
The drivers stuck not sporting smiles.

It took the crews 10 hours or more
To make the highway like before.
Though New York City has its faults,
Our weeds do not do somersaults!

Old-Fashioned

I perk my Joe old-fashioned style
In a pot atop the stove,
My percolator ancient,
Like a pirate’s treasure trove.

I measure out the coffee
And a timer lets me know
When 8 minutes have elapsed and then
My brew’s all set to go.

It’s French roast, strong and most important,
It is really hot,
The only way that it should be
So it will hit the spot.

I toyed with going modern –
The Nespresso had appeal,
But to change what’s tried and true seemed
Like too much of a big deal.

So I’ll stick with perking coffee
Like the dinosaur I am
For each morning sip allows me
To be happy as a clam.

2020 Vision

Here’s my 2020 vision:
Nothing much will change.
Yet, like every new year
I feel hopeful, which is strange.

All the talk of starting fresh,
The so-called wiped-clean slate,
For most is like a huge balloon
Just waiting to deflate.

The resolutions that we vow
This time will really stick
Will probably not last a month,
Or fizzle much more quick.

Still, there’s a chance determination
Might just persevere
For in 2020, vision
Should be smooth and crystal-clear.