A Tiny Little Mouse

Observed while on my morning walk –

A tiny little mouse

Went scampering out in the street,

A plan I’d not espouse.

 

For he ran willy-nilly

With no destination set,

Approaching several buildings

But no access could he get.

 

He darted back to whence he came,

A pile of curbside trash,

Then turned around and to

Another building he did dash.

 

A fellow walker witnessed this

When I said, “Look at that!”

He laughed and answered, New York style,

“At least it’s not a rat!”

After the Slap

Everybody’s seen it

And discussed it to no end,

Wondering what repercussions

It may yet portend.

 

But to have a welcome chuckle,

Go check out James Corden’s song.

If will guarantee a grin and likely,

You will sing along.

 

For the writer took the Bruno tune,

Which most of us now know,

And just substituted Jada,

Making it so apropos.

 

How it blows my mind when talent

Takes an item in the news

And creates a little magic,

Well-deserving of our views.

Entitlement

“Do you know who I am?” he cried

When showing up too late

To board his flight; Montana police

Were summoned to the gate.

 

United workers would not budge

Despite repeated threats

To call the corporate honchos,

Thinking they’d express regrets.

 

Instead, Ted Cruz was booked again

For later in the day

And lucky for us all

Entitlement was kept at bay.

Hanging Out

There’s a new style of gown

That’s begun to hold sway

In which boobs of all sizes

Are there on display.

 

I’m not talking of cleavage,

Attractive and chic,

Where the bosom’s tucked in

And you just get a peek.

 

No, the styles I refer to

Are cut to provide

Full exposures of breasts.

(Just the nipples can hide.)

 

So you stare and you wonder,

Since bras are in doubt,

What will happen if one

Or the other pops out.

 

Such a wardrobe malfunction

Would cause lips to purse

But the way these gowns look

It would not be much worse.

 

*inspired by the Academy Awards 

Curmudgeon

I’ve somehow become a curmudgeon.

Before you pooh-pooh and go judgin,’

Just wait ‘til your age

Hits the outmoded stage

Yet from all you believe you’re not budgin.’

 

I take note of the way people act

And don’t think that I overreact

When all manners have fled

Leaving, sadly, instead

Those who barrel through life without tact.

 

All the truths that I’ve harbored for years

Have gone rusty or somehow switched gears

But curmudgeons can growl,

Grumble, bellow or howl

Which feels better than sorrow or tears.

French Fries

A giant portion of French fries

Can make a meal auspicious,

So crisp and yum but, no surprise,

Not really too nutritious.

 

Of course, I have to recognize

This choice is not judicious

But it is worth ballooning thighs

For something so delicious.

Learning Chess

My grandson wants to teach me chess.

I’ll do my best, but I confess

That games and me don’t really mix,

Like dogs you cannot teach new tricks.

The pieces I’m supposed to learn

Move different ways when it’s my turn,

So somehow I’m required to know

Which ones move only in a row…

Or which can jump or else advance

Diagonally; it’s a dance

With steps I haven’t conquered yet

For once they’re taught, I soon forget.

Yet, we’ll continue, even though

I still have quite a ways to go.

My goal is not to be a master,

Just to not be a disaster!

Facebook

Those who share on Facebook

Must assume, though incorrectly,

That everyone will learn their news,

If even indirectly.

 

But that is not the case at times,

So pictures and events

Are missed by some who’d like to know,

To varying extents.

 

The Facebook fans can’t understand

Reluctance to belong,

Believing that not joining up

Is foolish, strange and wrong.

 

Thus many who have made the choice

To stay off Facebook’s site

Must hope that for important stuff

A friend will shed some light.

Explaining Complaining

It’s easy to complain about

The things we cannot change

And those who don’t complain at all

I think are mighty strange.

 

Yet trying to improve our lot

Is often way too hard

So many just get stuck in gear,

The path to progress barred.

 

Not wanting to be viewed

As doing nothing, we maintain

That nothing really can be done

And therefore, we complain.

Unsolicited

I like my poem the way it is

But thanks for your suggestion.

I do not plan to use it but

It brings to mind a question –

 

Is unsolicited advice

A help or just annoying?

Perhaps it’s good if someone’s spirits

Are in need of buoying.

 

Or in a case I read about,

An expert made a sighting

Of a mole on someone’s neck

Where cancer cells required fighting.

 

In certain cases, butting in

May help a situation

And those on the receiving end

May feel appreciation…

 

But in a poem, a typo’s

A correction that it's needing

Yet all advice beyond that

Many poets won’t be heeding.

Spring

We spring into action

Or spring into step,

For springing means filling

Your movements with pep.

 

When winter is over

And sunshine takes wing,

Spring chickens (and others like me!)

Welcome spring.

Three Pregnant Women

Three pregnant women on the block

Gave birth a week apart.

March 20^th, a Monday then,

Was how it all did start.

 

That’s Robin’s birthday; next to come

Was Mark, by just a week.

The 27^th was the date

His folks got their first peek.

 

Another Monday followed and

The final baby came.

Her birthday’s April 3^rd and maybe

You can guess her name.

 

If not, I’ll tell you – I’m the third

And though we once were friends,

We grew apart, for oftentimes,

That’s how the story ends.

 

But still, I wish a happy day

To pals I knew from birth,

In honor of our childhood,

For whatever it is worth.

In My Neighborhood

Walking outside and the streets are all hopping;

People are strolling or eating or shopping.

Maskers are few and their numbers are dropping

As Covid recedes from the news.

 

Diners and bars are all crowded and busy;

Sidewalk cafes feature drinks tall and fizzy.

Traffic and bicycles pass in a tizzy

As new storefronts make their debuts.

 

Out in Ukraine there are bombs that are flying;

People are hiding or fighting or dying,

Yet in Manhattan there is no denying

That Covid and war are taboos.

Year of the Cat

There’s a song you might know -

It’s called “Year of the Cat.”

It’s an oldie, but really quite good.

It was co-written by

A once-neighbor of mine,

A cool Englishman named Peter Wood.

With his wife and dog Bill

He lived on the 9th floor

Blasting music well into the night

But he soundproofed his walls

And helped tune our guitar

So we got along really all right.

I’m not sure if we knew 

At the time that he had

Earned some musical praise and acclaim

But the time Cyndi Lauper

Appeared on our floor

Then we knew he had some kind of fame.

Sadly, Peter is gone,

Dying by his own hand,

But I hear his big hit now and then

And I’m proud I can say,

Thinking back to that time,

That I really did know Peter when…

Joint Celebration

It’s Purim and St. Patrick’s Day

And if you’re up for noshin’,

Have corned beef, cabbage and dessert –

Some bright green hamantaschen.

 

For those of you who do not know,

This pastry, always eaten

By Jews on Purim represents

The man who had them beaten.

 

His name was Haman and when he

Was finally defeated,

The bakers made a special treat,

Fruit-filled or poppy-seeded.

 

These sweets are shaped like Haman’s hat,

3-sided (and delicious!)

But since today’s St. Patrick’s Day,

It would be most judicious…

 

To make them green to honor both

The Irish and the Jews

And washed down with a Guinness,

I’d give 5-star-plus reviews!

Fields of Words

In the middle of the night

When I can’t get back to sleep,

I gaze out at fields of words

Just to see what I can reap.

 

They are swaying in the wind

In the moonlight so sublime,

Waiting calmly to be gathered,

Sorted out and set to rhyme.

 

I write limericks, cinquains

Or plain couplets from the crop

And I glean and thresh and winnow

‘Til exhaustion makes me stop.

 

Then I drift off back to dreams.

When I wake I do not know

Where my harvest’s gone; a wisp

Of rhyme is all I have to show.

Negative

In medicine, a negative

Is what you hope to hear.

At work, though, it can signal

The demise of your career.

 

A positive review of movies,

Theater, books or art

Negates all insecurities

That pans may thus impart.

 

Of one thing I am positive,

As sure as I can be,

That a Covid test that’s negative

Is what we’d want to see.

Life is Short

Life is short and time goes fast

And so, before you know it,

The future waits to join the past –

At least, if we don’t blow it.

 

It’s hard to leap into a place

Where different ways await us

And we may struggle keeping pace

With habits that may date us.

 

So grow or stagnate, that’s the choice,

Though change might make us queasy,

Yet all our doubts should have a voice,

For aging isn’t easy.

Twice-a-Year Chore

I woke up at 6

But it really was 5;

Now it’s 5

But it really is 4.

Every time that we change

All the clocks, I know I’ve

Been confused

By this twice-a-year chore.

 

It was dark when I woke;

Now it’s still very light

And might be

When I’m ready for bed.

Yet I follow the rules

Though I know that I might

Never get this

All straight in my head.

No Ifs, Ands or Butts

An A.P.* who was filling in

To read aloud on Zoom

Just grabbed a book his own kids faved

And thereby met his doom.

 

The second graders loved it

But it didn’t make the cut

With his boss, because the title talked

Of needing a new butt.

 

The humor’s aimed at children

And describes, in certain parts,

The different types of derrieres

And also talks of farts.

 

Reluctant readers sometimes need

Such talk to be inspired

But still, the one who read it

Found out he had gotten fired.

 

This happened while America

Was celebrating reading

And surely censorship like this

Is not what kids are needing.

 

*Assistant principal

Recycling Bins

In the suburbs, once a week,

Recycling bins go out

And wait there, curbside, for the trucks

To pass by on their route.

A glance inside can give a hint

About the different things

The neighbors choose to purchase

And the refuse that it brings.

The water bottles, magazines,

The papers, boxes, cans,

Perhaps the same as yours or ones

Of which you aren’t fans.

The bins provide a service

All communities do seek

While also giving people

Into other’s lives a peek.

A Couple of Ducks

In front of a building I pass every day,

A couple of ducks do reside.

There’s a trough filled with water and fountains and plants

So there’s room both to swim and to hide.

 

Most mornings, they’re sleeping, their heads nestled down

With their beaks neatly tucked ‘neath their wings,

Maybe dreaming of places less urban to live

Or just waiting for what the day brings.

 

Few passersby notice or give them a glance

But each time that they come into view,

I can’t help it – I smile at the lovely surprise

That two ducks live on York Avenue.

Don't Say Gay

Don’t say, if you’re in Florida,

You’ve had a gay old time.

To anybody listening,

Such talk might be a crime.

 

Especially, if you’re in school,

Don’t wave a rainbow flag

For you may get suspended,

Which would really be a drag.

 

For certain students, legislation’s

Really falling short.

The “Don’t Say Gay” bill’s failing

Those who need the most support.

Transfusion

I visited the Met* today

And came to this conclusion –

My spirits were revived as if

I’d had a blood transfusion.

 

For two long years I’ve stayed away

And all of my seclusion

Has weighed me down and filled me with

The sadness of exclusion.

 

But walking through the galleries,

Enjoying my inclusion,

I feel prepared to join the world

And shed my disillusion.

 

*Metropolitan Museum of Art

$6.50

$6.50 for an ice cream cone,

A rip-off, that’s for sure,

But once spring fever hits, I know

There is no better cure.

There’s ice cream in my freezer;

I could scoop myself a bowl,

But in the outside air, a cone

Is soothing to the soul.

Today’s was coconut with hunks

Of chocolate mixed inside

And almonds to accentuate 

No pleasure was denied.

$6.50 for an ice cream cone

I’m glad I can afford,

For after so much time indoors

I’ve earned this sweet reward.

Signs of Spring

Hocus pocus! Look, a crocus

Poking through the ground!

Weather’s warm so I should focus -

Flowers might be found.

Buds are blooming; I’m assuming

Petals will appear.

Time to stop my indoor Zooming;

Signs of spring are here.

Joggers baring legs and wearing

Shorts and tees or tanks.

Not me yet, but I’m preparing

Soon to join their ranks.

What a President Does

My granddaughter asked what a president does;

I thought it a really great query.

She’d heard talk of war and amidst all the buzz

She was feeling a little bit feary.

 

It’s hard to explain to a child who is six

What a president’s job is because

Each example I gave she would somehow just nix

Since she’d no understanding of laws.

 

But I did what I could to make some of it clear

Though she couldn’t grasp onto it fully

Yet of presidents, one thing I know she did hear

Was that one, but not ours, is a bully.

The Pacific Spiny Lumpsucker

With suction cups on its body,

It clings to rocks and such

So tidal currents really do not

Bother it too much.

Its teeth, as sharp as needles,

Line the rims of bulbous lips 

And spiky studs, like armor,

Fend off anything that grips.

If this awful-sounding creature

Makes you frightened, you’d be wrong

For this lumpy little sucker’s

Just a mere 3 inches long!

Rat-a-tat-tat

When a jackhammer’s outside your door

It’s a sound that you cannot ignore.

You can’t focus or think

And your brain’s on the brink

Of a meltdown, like never before.

 

For the rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat noise

Is a sound that not merely annoys.

It gets under your skin

‘Til it seems like it’s been

Always there, as your mind it destroys.

 

Now a city existence has quirks

And though quiet’s not one of its perks,

There are limits to what

We can take, but it’s not

Constant rat-a-tat-tatting that irks!

Not Sitting Well

Certain foods you used to love

Don’t sit well any more.

Our stomachs can’t digest, with ease,

Some things they did before.

 

So it is best avoiding them

And sticking with each meal

Or snack which to your taste buds

And digestive tract appeal.

 

The same applies to friendships.

Some relationships, once good,

No longer make us feel the way

You’d hope a friendship would.

 

Eliminating foods or friends

Means that much less to choose

But if we love what we have left

We don’t have much to lose.

More Important

“You think you’re more important

Than you are,” my husband said,

Responding to a sadness that was

Floating in my head.

 

“Most people simply do not care

If you’re around or not.

It doesn’t matter if you give

As much as you have got.”

 

I started to object but then

I couldn’t disagree.

“Who reads your poems” he asked.

I said, “I write them just for me.”

 

“And yet you post them. Do you get

Much feedback from your friends?”

“I do at times,” I answered.

“But not often – it depends.”

 

Of course, we all get wrapped up

In our lives and don’t have time

To reach out to our kith and kin

For updates or for rhyme.

 

I understood his point but it

Did not improve my mood.

To put it in a poem, at least’s

A better way to brood.